by Clara Capp
“Like BDSM or roleplay. Hopefully nothing illegal, but I can work with it.” He shoots me a smile that makes my skin crawl.
The darkness I encountered when I entered the club is creeping in again. My stomach churns as his cheap cologne invades my nostrils. I need to get away from him. Worst case scenario, he’ll take me in the alley and kill me, best case I’ll vomit my dinner on his shirt.
“I-I need to go,” I mumble. “Sorry.”
Why am I apologizing when he’s the one being creepy?
I scan the club for my two friends as I stumble towards the bar. They’re lost in the throng of people. My chest heaves up and down as I try to suppress my nausea—I don’t have time to wait for them. I want out of this club now.
It is so dark that I don’t know where the exit is. I scan what little I can see, looking for a way out. A door to what presumably is the bathroom is twenty feet or so away from me. I’ll splash some water on my face, compose myself, then text Michaela I’m sick and need to leave.
I can’t tell how fast I’m moving. My brain is telling my body to sprint towards the bathroom, but everything moves in slow motion as I walk towards it. It feels like an eternity before I reach the door. I slam it shut and lean against it, with Michaela’s directions playing through my head. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. I need to repeat it thirty times before I can open my eyes.
I’m not in a bathroom. There’s a set of stairs leading to a nicely decorated underground area. I get the feeling I’m not supposed to be down here, and my stomach starts to churn. Would it be better to go back to the club floor, or risk going down these stairs? The memory of the man’s disgusting cologne fills my nose and I decide that the stairs are the best option.
I walk down them and there are four different paths to take. There’s noise coming from the end of the hall for three of them, and I exhale in relief. This is obviously the VIP area. The guard must have been foolish and stepped away from his post.
I choose the quiet path—which is obviously the path to the restroom—and make my way down the hall. The décor here is different than upstairs. The club area is trendy, with its flashing lights and neon signs, but downstairs can be mistake for a five-star hotel.
There are endless doors in this hallway, and none have a bathroom sign. Each have a coding system, but I don’t understand it. I see one with a female symbol and decide that must be a girl’s restroom. At least I hope.
I exhale in relief at what I find. It’s a powder room—this place really is upscale. There is a closet, sofa, sink, and mirror. I shut the door and flop on the sofa. Vertigo is appropriately named—my head is spinning from how overwhelmed I am. I’ll just rest here until I can compose myself, and then I’ll leave.
I see movement from the corner of my eye.
* * *
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