Entry Nine

I tried to tell myself that there was no reason to be sad; it was a party.  It was my party, and right now I had no reason to cry, even if I wanted to.  Still. I could feel the noose of my past mistakes tightening around my neck.  As a Downset cover shifted into a Death By Stereo cover I tried to lose my self in the music like I had in my care-free college days.  There was still something in me that wouldn’t let go.  There was still something in my that didn’t want to die.

I had a reason to live but it was just out of reach.  I walked through the crowd somberly, flowing with the people as they flowed with the music.  This was the path of least resistance, both in my life and in the basement traffic jam.  I got up right in front of the large stack amps I had bought during college so we could host bands that couldn’t afford their own.  The price had come out of my own pocket because the only other option for buying them was to start asking for money at the door.  But I didn’t want to do that, that wasn’t a precedent I wanted to set.  I wanted these shows to stay free and accepting of all.  Of course, after what that had cost me, there was no way I was going to just leave them.  That’s how they ended up in my basement on that night.

The calculated thrashing of the guitars, the heavy beat of the bass drum, drove away my waking thoughts and set me free and unthinking.  I was lost, lost in the moment.  With a newfound energy I dove into the jumping screaming crowd.  And the crowd, being a mass of people and not just a static object, reacted to me.  A mosh pit formed, the first of the night.  Inside it our cares were driven away by the pusle of adrenaline and the pumping waves of musical energy.

Like it always was, when we were to young to care, and yet again it was, a place to lose all of your cares and exist entirely in the moment.  There was something very zen about it all.  There was no past for us in the pit, no conceivable future to behold.  There was only that single glistening moment.  That was what we did it for.  Absolute release.

I couldn’t help but think that this disorganized ruckus was a proper memorial of Kathrynne’s death.  Which, after all had been exactly a year before, to the day.

The needle sank into my arm.  I could feel the ink black mixture inside me already, but I had to be sure, if I missed the vein the medicine would pool under my skin and be of little use to me.  I doubt even with a case as sad as mine I could get more of something like this.  I pulled back on the plunger lightly, feeling it tug gently at the open vein.  Crimson mingles with the black near the tip of the reservoir.  I was ready.  

I ram the plunger down, it sticks half way for a second because of the inconsistent thickness of the fluid.  Building pressure forces the blockage out and the remaining ink pours into my arm in a rush.

Looking down I can see the veins blacken, branching out from the shot.  It was not at all the way blood should be flowing.  It branched out into a spider web like pattern on my inner arm.  The center around the needle-tip of the syringe darkened in a spot.  I had left it in too long.  With haste I withdrew it.  A scarlet drop of my own blood formed at the center, where the pin-tip had been, and ran down my forearm, the droplet rolling slowly and sadly, end over end.

I held my arm up to my face yet it continued to climb, until it escaped the puddle to ink forming under my skin.  It climbed the web with its eight spindly, ink laden legs until it had escaped even the web itself and climbed to my wrist.  I could feel the pain as it sunk its teeth into a vein, sending black web through my palm and wrist.  I slung it from my arm and it landed with a splash on the floor.  

No, I was imagining this, I told myself, looking at the needle tip, just a last drop of inky black and blood from it.  I watched another fall from it.  It landed with the same small splash.  I bent down to examine them.  Each droplet had burst into nine runners, one always much bigger than the rest.  And in the center of each was a droplet of my crimson blood.  They reminded me of little black widows.

Forgetting the pen, I wiped at my eyes.  The needle tip pierced my temple slightly.  The pain of it opened my eyes.  The spider droplets were gone.

Then I saw the branching black webs as they began to cover my vision.  The very veins of my eyes had run black, until I could see no more; all was black.

Until a little red dot appeared.  A black widow, hidden in the darkness.