36

---

The taxi’s rumbling as we cross the Ben Franklin Bridge, and I’m gripping the seat like it’s a lifeline. I’ve always hated suspension bridges. There’s just something about being suspended in mid-air, high above the water, that feels so unnatural. My stomach’s churning, and my teeth feel a little too sharp in my mouth. I glance over at Jamila, who’s staring out the window, taking in the view.

“Uh, Jami, I gotta confess something. I have this sorta phobia of suspension bridges,” I say, my voice tinged with embarrassment. It sounds silly when I say it out loud, but I can’t help it. “I saw that one movie where, like, it got hit with a missile and all the cars on the bridge fell off. Effed me up for a while.”

Jamila turns to look at me, her eyes meeting mine. “Hey, it’s okay. Everyone’s afraid of something. Just hold on a bit longer, we’re almost across. You know I’m not a fan of heights either.”

And she takes my hand, her fingers interlocking with mine, warm and reassuring. My heart still feels like it’s doing somersaults, but somehow it’s a little less terrifying with her hand in mine. I squeeze back, feeling a bit of the tension leak out of me.

Finally, the bridge ends, and I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. We’re now on the New Jersey side, and the taxi winds its way through the streets of Camden. We’re not in the central part; we head down a couple of side streets, each one looking more deserted than the last. Everything’s a blur of faded paint and crumbling brick, of graffiti and broken streetlights, a city abandoned by its municipality.

It’s like we’ve crossed over into a different world, one that’s harsher, rawer. My grip on Jamila’s hand tightens unconsciously as the taxi slows down and pulls up in front of the bar. It’s the kind of place that you’d miss if you blinked while passing by, hidden away like some kind of secret.

The taxi drops us off in front of “The Lonesome Dove,” a place that looks like the love child of a pirate ship and an old Western saloon. It’s set off by itself, isolated on an almost empty block, with dim streetlights flickering in the twilight. I pay the driver, throw Jamila a glance that probably screams, “Are you sure about this?”, and cautiously step out. The wooden façade of the building is chipped and faded, like the paint gave up a long time ago. Neon lights attempt to buzz to life over the entrance, spelling out the bar’s name, but the ‘O’ and ‘V’ are unlit, making it read more like “The Lnesome De.”

There are people hanging out front, metalheads draped in studded leather jackets, vintage band shirts, and combat boots. A couple of them have instruments in beat-up cases; one guy is lazily strumming a guitar. They’re all chatting, smoking, or looking at their phones as the sky above turns a deeper shade of blue. A girl with a jet-black Mohawk tosses a cigarette butt onto the street, stomping it out with her steel-toed boot. She catches my eye and nods, a brief acknowledgement, as if to say, “Yeah, you’re in the right place, but don’t get too comfortable.”

The sun is starting to set, casting long, spindly shadows that seem to crawl along the cracked pavement, and everyone outside seems to be savoring these last moments of freedom before heading into the dim cave of the bar. It’s like they’re all part of a tribe I never knew existed, and now that I’m here, right at the entrance of their lair, I’m not sure what the initiation rites are. Or if I’d pass them.

Jamila looks excited, though, her eyes sparkling as she takes in the surroundings. “This is where the magic happens,” she says, looking at me with a smile, but I can’t tell if she’s joking or if she really means it.

I sort of hope she’s joking, because the place is giving me vibes. And not the good kind.

The bar above ground feels like a buffer zone, a purgatory where people are deciding whether they’re ready to descend into the subterranean world below. It’s not any less grungy, though; the floors still have a tacky resistance when I lift my foot, like it’s questioning whether I should go any further. Band posters wallpaper the walls, some curling at the edges, some so faded they’re practically ghosts of what they used to be.

The smell here is a cocktail of odors—stale beer, sweat, cigarette smoke, and an underlying tang of metal, like blood. Is that my imagination? No, it can’t be; my blood sense isn’t picking up anything but the usual random signals. Still, it feels eerie. Jamila leads me by the hand down a set of low concrete stairs, tucked away in the corner – I’m not sure if they’re even part of the building, or if the building just sort of… grew around them with further additions.

Compared to the chaos above, the basement is practically barren. A narrow, dimly lit stretch of space with a low ceiling that makes me wonder how Jamila’s brothers and their bandmates are going to avoid knocking their heads on something. The band is just setting up—guitars, drums, amps, all looking like relics that have seen better days. It’s as if everyone upstairs is too wrapped up in their drinks and conversations to realize that the real event is down here.

I feel out of place, like I’ve wandered into some secluded, secret society meeting and the demon summoning ritual is about to begin. It’s a gathering of die-hards, people who are here for the music, not just the social spectacle. They’ve got a different energy, simmering, like they’re in on a secret that the crowd upstairs isn’t privy to. Me? I feel like a shark that accidentally swam into a cave and found it full of electric eels—fascinating but potentially dangerous.

Jamila seems to be in her element, though. She’s chatting away with people she knows, introducing me as her friend Sam. “Friend” is such a weird word. We’re more than that, but I guess it’s still new, so new it hasn’t even really had time to sink in. And this isn’t really the time or place to explore those feelings, because we’re here for her brothers’ band, “Demon Core.”

I take a deep breath, trying to get comfortable in the surroundings. My fingers tap against the side of my leg, not really to any beat, just because they want to move. They always want to move. Jamila’s off getting drinks, and I’m leaning against a table that wobbles if I put too much weight on it. The dim lighting in the room casts weird shadows on the floor, and as the place fills up, people begin bumping into me.

One thing’s for sure, though. I’m out of my comfort zone. And I don’t know if that’s good or bad. But I’m here for Jamila. And if this is the kind of place she likes, then maybe it’s the kind of place I could like too. Maybe.

I just wish it were a little less… whatever this is. Because right now, all the weird smells and the noise and the people—it’s a lot. I’m trying to not get overwhelmed, but I’ve got this gnawing feeling in my gut, and it’s not just because I haven’t eaten yet. It’s something else, something I can’t quite put my finger on. Like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Jamila comes back, handing me a soda. “You okay?” she asks, looking at me like she can see right through all my layers of “I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” I answer. “Just taking it all in.” And I am. I’m taking it all in, the good, the bad, the absolutely bizarre, because this is part of Jamila’s world, and I want to understand it. Even if it scares the shit out of me.

So I stand there, soda in hand, trying to acclimate to this strange new environment like it’s some kind of deep-sea trench and I’m the new species trying to survive. And who knows, maybe by the end of the night, I’ll have adapted enough to call this place, this strange, weird, terrifying place, a part of my world too.

Jamila leads me by the hand up to the front of the stage, where her brothers (I assume) are busy setting up. I’m not exactly sure what soda I have. It definitely doesn’t taste like alcohol, though. I realize as she’s getting their attention that I haven’t actually given a ticket to anyone.

We end up at the front, right by the stage platform. Jamila shouts something in my ear, but it’s drowned out by someone testing the mic with an ear-piercing screech. I can see her lips moving, forming words, “These are my brothers,” and she’s pointing to each guy on stage, fiddling with instruments and sound equipment.

“Ahmed, Tariq, Ibrahim—guys, this is Sam. Sam, these are my brothers, Ahmed, Tariq, Ibrahim. Oh, and Uncle Nasir over there on the drums.” I wave awkwardly, not sure if they can even hear or see me over the chaos. But Ahmed, the one with a buzzcut and a big bushy mustache, notices and waves back.

“Hey there, Sam! Nice to meet you. You’re the girl my sister won’t shut up about, huh?” Ahmed shouts, strumming a quick riff on his guitar.

“You talk about me? Like, outside of, you know, our stuff?” I ask Jamila.

She looks at me and winks. I feel a shiver run through my entire body and my face goes beet red.

Tariq, bald and all smiles, joins in. “Oh, so you’re the mystery girl. We were starting to think you were just a figment of Jamila’s imagination.”

I roll my eyes. “Nope, real as it gets.”

Jamila laughs, her hand still wrapped around mine. “See, I told you she’s awesome.”

Ibrahim, who has a curtain of long hair and a lot of piercings, gives a small nod while fiddling with a rack of pedals. It’s like he’s got his own little tech command center back there. I try to read what the buttons say, but I’m lost. They all look like they’ve been welded together, and have single word orders etched into them, “FALL”, “SCREAM”, “VIOLENCE”, “PUSH BUTTON” – okay, that one’s two words.

“Is he the silent type?” I ask Jamila, trying to shout in her ear.

She nods, shouting back, “Yeah, but wait till you hear him play!”

Uncle Nasir, big like a weightlifter and bubbling with energy, swings his drumstick in a wave, “Hope you’re ready for this, Sam!”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply. To be honest, I’m not even sure what I’m ready for.

“So what’s your music like?” I manage to ask, really pushing my vocal cords to overcome the ambient noise.

Ahmed takes this one, “Think of us as a poor man’s System of a Down!”

I make a face. “Uh, sure, if I knew who that was.”

Jamila giggles. “Don’t worry about it. Just get ready to have your mind blown.”

Ahmed goes back to his guitar, Tariq steps up to the mic, Ibrahim resumes his place behind the fortress of pedals, and Nasir takes his seat at the drums. They start doing a sound check, and even that’s loud enough to vibrate through my entire body. My heart’s thumping hard, like it’s trying to escape from my ribcage or something. And I realize, as I watch them all get in sync, each in their own world but part of something bigger, that this is Jamila’s family, her world.

And she’s brought me into it.

“So, this is what a metal concert looks like, huh?” I try to smile at Jamila. She looks thrilled, her eyes shining in a way that makes me want to be part of this world, even just for tonight. Her hijab is snug around her face, a pattern of deep reds and blacks that somehow seems perfectly in place in this underground cavern of noise.

“Yep! Isn’t it awesome?” She beams, her hands dancing in the air, mimicking the beat of the background music that’s playing as the crowd waits for the main act. “My brothers are gonna kill it tonight.”

She’s so into this, and I can’t help but want to be into it too, for her. Still, I’m a fish out of water—no pun intended. These aren’t my people, this isn’t my scene, and yet… here I am. Trying to make it mine, at least for a little bit. Because of Jamila. I fold my thumb under my palm, then unfold it again. Maybe I should keep it folded.

The basement fills up even more. How many people can even fit in this place? Fire hazard much? But nobody seems to care. They’re all here for the same reason, lost in anticipation, a pulsing mass of black t-shirts and band logos I don’t recognize. I can feel the vibrations of bass tests through the soles of my shoes, like the growling of some dormant beast.

A man next to us starts headbanging to no music in particular. He’s so into it that I’m afraid his head might actually detach. That would be messy. I’ve seen enough blood for one lifetime. My fingers tap involuntarily on my thigh again. Jamila catches it and takes my hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“You okay, Sam?” she asks, leaning closer so I can hear her over the ever-growing noise.

“Yeah,” I lie. I mean, it’s not a total lie. “Just new to this whole thing, you know? But I’m excited to see your brothers perform.”

“I promise, it’s an experience,” she says, and I believe her. Because she makes everything feel like an experience. Like something worth diving into, even if you don’t know how to swim. And that’s kind of amazing, even if it’s terrifying.

An emcee or something—I can’t tell, he’s just another bearded guy with a microphone—announces that the band will be out in five minutes. The crowd roars, and I jump, not expecting the volume. It’s like a wave, crashing over everyone and leaving us soaked in sheer, unadulterated enthusiasm.

Jamila’s face lights up, and she squeezes my hand again, tighter this time, like she’s anchoring herself to the Earth, or maybe she’s anchoring me. We’re both grinning like idiots, even though for entirely different reasons. Hers is pure excitement, mine is a cocktail of anxiety, affection, and the overwhelming urge to be part of whatever makes her so happy.

It’s a long five minutes. People keep shifting, bumping, jostling like hyper atoms, and I can almost hear the clock ticking in my head, each second stretching just a bit longer than the last. My thumb folds and unfolds under my palm, restless.

And then the lights dim.

---

The walls of the basement bar vibrate as the first notes rip through the air, and it’s like, holy crap, where did this come from? Demon Core takes the stage, and the crowd — this screaming mass of humanity — goes absolutely ballistic. The air gets thick, heavy with sweat and excitement, and I’m pretty sure the room’s temperature spikes up five degrees just because of the collective body heat.

Rivers once flowed, life was sustained
(Dead! And! Buried!)
Now deserts reclaim, what was the cradle
(Burn it down, tear it apart!)

Jamila’s hand is wrapped around mine, our fingers interlaced, and I can feel her energy surging through me. Not like, superpower energy, but that excitement, the feeling that she’s exactly where she wants to be. It pulls at me, tugs me closer to the churning whirlpool that is the swirling mass up front. I can’t tell if it’s her doing the pulling, or if the crowd itself is dragging us in like we’re caught in a rip current.

The statues of kings, the temples of gods
(Effigies of deceit!)
Melt in the sun, as if they never were
(Erase the past!)

And the music. Oh God, the music. It’s not like anything I’ve ever heard before. My dad used to play his stuff around the house — Deftones, Linkin Park, that kind of thing — but this? This is a whole different animal. Like, imagine taking all those bands and then tossing them into a blender with a handful of jagged rocks and then setting that blender on fire. That’s what Demon Core sounds like. The guitars screech, the drums are a thundering storm, and the vocals are raw screams that you can feel in your bones. It’s jarring, unsettling, it rattles my entire body.

War rages on, like a storm without end
(Bullets replace words!)
Invasions and drones, false liberators
(Imperial lies!)

Tariq stands in a power pose, his fingers gliding over the frets as if they’re an extension of himself. He belts out these long, prayer-like verses that reverberate in my chest, encompassing the entire range of possible notes, top to bottom, six strings going deeper than I imagined basses could go. Ahmed and Nasir alternate between growling and screaming. They’re like wild animals, the sound primal and untamed. The crowd loves it, their energy ramping up with each passing second, like they’re feeding off the sonic chaos.

The scrolls and the texts, the wisdom of ancients
(Forgotten, lost!)
Up in smoke and dust, with every blast
(Annihilation!)

Jamila? She’s lost in it, swaying and jumping, headbanging to the beat. Her eyes are closed, and she looks so free, so in her element, and I love seeing her like this. But then I start to worry. What if her hijab comes undone with all the vigorous movement? I mean, it’s one thing for a random jerk in the crowd to mess with it, but for it to come undone on its own? But then I see the bobby pins and safety pins holding the cloth securely in place, and nightmare visions end. It’s not going anywhere.

(Ashes!)
(Ashes!)
(Ashes!)
(Ashes!)

I’m paralyzed but not in the ‘oh crap, I can’t move’ sort of way. It’s overstimulation to the max. The crowd, the music, the screaming, the loudness—it’s all so intense, crashing into me in waves, and I don’t know if I’m enjoying it or hating it.

(Ashes!)
(Ashes!)
(Ashes!)
(Ashes!)

The last note of whatever-the-song-is-called hits like a hammer on an anvil, and just when I think maybe, just maybe, I’m getting the hang of this head-bobbing, foot-tapping metal scene, everything goes haywire. Like, the song goes into a weird slow-down, but also not? And the crowd goes absolutely insane. They’re like synchronized swimmers in a pool of chaos, jumping up and down, and everything’s pounding and thumping and holy shit, what is even happening?

I press myself against one of the concrete walls, as far from the human earthquake as I can get. I let go of Jamila’s hand for just a millisecond, regretting it instantly because what if I lose her in this mess? But then I grab onto her other hand, sort of like a lifeline. Don’t want to drift away and get swallowed up by this crazy sea of people, after all.

Jamila smiles at me, her face all sweaty but glowing, looking like she just had the time of her life. She’s clearly into this, and that makes one of us. But then I have this… Moment. With a capital ‘M’. I look at her, and I realize that despite the pounding eardrums, despite the unfamiliarity, despite the slightly uncomfortable tingling in my limbs from all the jumping and pushing, I’m sorta kinda happy. Because she’s happy.

Ahmed grabs his mic like he’s choking it, like he’s killing a phantom person, and screams out in a voice that’s positively inhuman. “This next song’s called Nuke ‘Em All!” he snarls.

Then, he starts screaming.

Push the button, fire’s free,
Commanders grin from ear to ear.
No remorse, no empathy,
Only death rains from the sky.
(Fuck ’em all to death, and go let God sort out the rest!)

---

I’m standing there, just a few feet away from the stage, my whole body vibrating from the roar of the guitar and the thump-thump-thump of the drums. It’s an assault on the senses, and I feel positively comatose, just squeezing Jamila’s hand so hard that I’m certain I’m about to bruise it while she hurls herself up and down. Frankly, if I didn’t know better, I would think she’s using her powers to lift herself higher – but there’s no breeze in this place, not even a single bit of wind, sweat-soaked or otherwise, to grab hold of.

But the crowd, man, it’s something else. Like a living thing, pushing and pulling. One song bleeds into another, and I feel a little less like I’m standing and a bit more like I’m floating in this sea of people. Jamila seems to be loving it, her arms lifted, her eyes closed, her head tilted back as if she’s absorbing the music right into her soul. I kind of envy that. But she’s holding my hand, and that’s grounding me, telling me that I’m not entirely lost in this craziness.

I can see it, though, up front, where the lights shine brightest and the crowd seems to churn like a stormy sea. People are just going nuts. Throwing elbows, shoulders colliding, legs kicking. It’s chaos, an outright battle, and all set to the pounding rhythm of my would-be brothers-in-law thrashing away on their instruments. I have no idea what that’s all about. Is this a concert or some kind of weird fight club? I have to assume this is normal behavior here given the way that nobody is interrupting it.

Then the unbelievable happens. Jamila lets go of my hand. And not just that, she actually moves forward, toward that swirling vortex of madness I’ve been quietly dreading the whole time. She steps in like she’s stepping into a dance, the layers of her dress floating around her like she’s some kind of rock and roll fairy. My hand feels cold all of a sudden, empty. And my brain is firing off a dozen questions a second. Where is she going? Why is she going? Should I follow?

My eyes dart around, catching glimpses of others in the crowd. They’re into it, lost in the music, the atmosphere, the shared frenzy. And here I am, feet glued to the floor, my empty hand making a fist, then opening, then a fist again. My stomach’s churning, not because I’m sick, but because I’m scared. And I feel dumb for being scared, because it’s just a concert, but everything inside me is screaming that it’s not ‘just a concert’. It’s a whirling gyre of death, and it looks like something you need to survive rather than enjoy.

Every person that gets whacked in the face hard enough to bleed just adds another layer of overstimulation to my stretched-to-its-limits brain. There must be at least fifteen, sixteen people here bleeding, but it’s hard enough to think, much less focus on however many vascular systems I can detect.

The band starts a new song, a crashing wave of sound that jolts me from my thoughts. It’s louder, faster, the screaming vocals barely words but pure emotion. Jamila is swallowed by the crowd, disappearing into that frenzied pit. My feet finally move, like they’ve been cut loose, but I don’t know whether to step forward or step back. My hands clench into fists at my sides.

I’m stuck, torn between the safety of distance and the terrifying unknown, between holding back and letting go. Because that’s what this is, right? It’s not just a concert, not just a night out. It’s a test. A test of bravery or stupidity, of letting myself be free or keeping myself caged. I’ve faced down criminals, taken hits that could crush a car, but this, this small decision, terrifies me.

And it sucks, it sucks so bad because I want to be there, right there in that mess of human emotion and catharsis. With her. Jamila’s somewhere in there, and I need to be there too. But I can’t make myself move, and that makes me feel even smaller. Smaller than small.

The song reaches its crescendo, the guitars wailing like the end of the world. And I’m still standing here. Outside. Alone. But then, as the last notes ring out and blend into the roar of applause and screams and thrown beer cans. I look around for Jamila, the crowd clearing a bit as one song ends and another begins. And then I see her, making her way back to me, her eyes shining, her lips parted in a breathless smile. And it’s like the world snaps back into focus. She reaches for my hand, and I grab it like it’s a lifeline. Because it is.

“Alright you fucking animals, this song is for a very special, dear friend of ours in the crowd tonight. It’s not something from our demo tape. It’s not even one of ours. And after this we’ve got one last song. No encores,” Tariq pants into the mic, totally out of breath.

Jamila squeezes my hand and pulls out of the spellbound crowd to get up close to my face, her entire body drenched in sweat. “Mosh with me,” she wheezes, just as out of breath as her body.

“I don’t know what that means!” I say, trying not to whimper.

“This song’s called Passenger!” Tariq whispers from the stage, booming through the concrete, reverberating in my bones. A chill of recognition goes through my spine.

“Come let out all that feral energy, Bee,” Jamila offers, grabbing my hand with her other, squeezing it between both of her palms. She looks down at me. I look up at her. “It’s catharsis.”

“Deftones Passenger?” I ask, grabbing her hands with my other. Now we’re both holding all hands together. One big finger tangle.

Jamila winks at me as the guitars roar to life, a familiar song played at twenty percent higher velocity. Nasir has added at least twice as many bass drum hits as I’m sure exist in this song I’ve listened to all my life on the way to school.

Here I lay, still and breathless
Just like always; still, I want some more
Mirrors sideways, who cares what’s behind?
Just like always, still your passenger

The tug of her hands is irresistible. A magnetic pull that draws me closer, and it’s like a countdown in my head. Three, two, one, ignition. I follow her, because at this moment, I’d follow her anywhere. We plunge into the whirlpool of people, bodies crashing into one another like human bumper cars, each impact absorbed, welcomed. I’ve never felt anything like this. It’s controlled chaos. Everyone’s throwing themselves into each other, but it’s like, not in a mean way? They’re smiling, laughing, some even hugging it out after a particularly hard bash.

Chrome buttons, buckles, and leather surfaces
These and other lucky witnesses
Now to calm me, this time, won’t you, please?
Drive faster

And me, I know this song. When Tariq starts belting, I belt with him. I feel it in the back of my throat, rattling my teeth.

Roll the window down
This cool night air is curious
Let the whole world look in
Who cares who sees anything?

I still hesitate for a moment, all these instincts telling me to be careful, not to hurt anyone with my stupidly strong jaw or the teeth that could probably bite through a car door. But then Jamila, she’s right there next to me, slamming her shoulder against some massive dude who must be like, twice her size? And she’s laughing, wind whipping her hair around her face, and it’s like seeing her makes something click.

I’m your passenger
I’m your passenger

I’m a predator, a shark. Not a man-eater or anything, but like, you know, don’t mess with me. And this pit of writhing, flailing humans, it’s like an ocean of prey and other predators, and we’re all just trying to coexist in this messy, beautiful way. Like a feeding frenzy, but the only thing we’re devouring is the music and the adrenaline. I’m a tiny little 14 year old nothing but every time I slam into someone like a pinball I send them reeling. I demand space. I demand respect.

Drop these down, then put them on me
Nice, cool seats there to cushion your knees
Now to calm me, take me around again
Don’t pull over, this time, won’t you, please?

And so I let it go. All the fear, the hesitation, the nagging voice in the back of my head that tells me to play it safe, stay in the shallow end. I dive deep. I slam into someone on my right, put my weight into it, and they stumble back, laughing, their eyes wild and welcoming. And I’m laughing too, throwing my head back like I’ve just discovered something I never knew was missing. Like I’ve come home.

Drive faster

The music drowns out everything else, and it’s just this wall of sound that fills me up. I catch a glimpse of Jamila, and she’s still grinning at me, her eyes alive with this fiery light. She’s nodding, like she’s saying, “Yeah, that’s it. That’s you. Unleashed.”

Roll the window down
This cool night air is curious
Let the whole world look in
Who cares who sees what’s at night?

People start to recognize, giving me more room, which is kinda awesome because it means they’re acknowledging that I can hold my own. But also a little scary, because it’s like I’m spreading my territory, claiming more of this ocean for myself. And then I think, screw it, why shouldn’t I? So I keep going, keep slamming, keep roaring my defiance against, I don’t know, everything that holds me back, I guess.

Throw these misty windows down
To catch my breath and then
Go and
Go and
Go, just drive me home and back again

As the song hits the steady endpoint I’m so familiar with, I notice the rest of the crowd clearing out around me – or maybe I’m just in the eye of the hurricane, dragged into the center of this hell. Demon Core drags this part out, even going faster than the song normally goes. It doesn’t last this long, and it doesn’t have riffs like this, but the texture is the same, the way I just need to throw myself up and down until my lunch comes up with me.

Here I lay
Just like always
Don’t let me go, go, go, go
Go, go, go, go
Take me to the edge

And then, before I know it, the moment has ended. The song drags out in that final instrumental verse, that lingering bookend, and without a pianist, Ibrahim just plucks tinny, tiny notes out from the bottom of his guitar strings. Jamila looks back at me, nose bleeding, leaking over her lipstick, while her makeup is just smeared into a mess around her face. I’m sure mine looks just as bad. My nose is bleeding too, but I can’t remember when it happened.

It feels like… I don’t know. I can’t even say that. I can’t even think it. But it feels like it.

I’ve never felt such a need to devour someone before. My mouth fills with saliva. My body feels warm in uncomfortable places, but I don’t care.

Tariq leans down. He sits on the edge of the stage. He makes eye contact with Jamila, and then with me, and he smiles, and then he looks at the rest of the crowd, and he grins. “You know what this is. I better see all of you in the fucking pit or I’m banning you from the next show.”

“He’s not serious, is he?” I ask Jamila, my throat raw and hoarse. She smiles and refuses to answer.

“This is Scarification. You’ve been a lovely crowd. Please tear this motherfucking building down.”

Jamila’s big, almond-shaped eyes meet mine, and she grins, a devilish twinkle in her eyes. Yeah, she’s not telling me if her brother is serious, but he doesn’t seem like he’s joking. I lean closer to her and shout, “He’s gotta be joking, right?” over the roar of the crowd.

“Wouldn’t count on it,” she shouts back, her smile widening. She takes a step back as a gap in the pit clears.

The drummer kicks off the next song with a heavy, pounding beat that you can feel in your bones. It’s not just loud; it’s a force, like a windstorm. I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a hurricane. A very loud, very metal hurricane. The guitars join in, and the crowd erupts. It’s not just a shift in the music; it’s a shift in energy, in atmosphere. You can taste it. Feel it. Like when a storm’s rolling in and the air turns heavy.

Jamila somehow manages to make this look graceful as she shoves into and is shoved into. She has a rhythm, not like me, where I’m all sharp elbows and staccato movements. She flows; I kind of jerk along to the beat. We’re different, but somehow it’s still so easy to get lost in the music, in the moment.

Until he steps in. And it’s like the way the air feels before a lightning bolt hits the ground. It’s like a ripple going through the crowd. I look over, and he’s got no hair on his head, just a sheen of sweat that catches the stage lights. His arms are like tree trunks covered in tattoos — geometric lines, skulls, plus sign shaped symbols I can’t make out in detail. His face is set in a scowl, like he’s pissed at the world and he’s gonna take it out on everyone here. Which is pretty much what starts happening.

He doesn’t just bump into people, you know? There’s this weird, intentional force to it. Like, he’s not flinging himself in a direction; he’s aiming. He’s got these balled-up fists and he starts swinging them like he’s in a street fight, making contact with shoulders, chests, faces. And people start to move, not like before where it’s just bodies bouncing against bodies. Now, they’re actively trying to put some distance between him and themselves. It’s like they’re all repelled, as if he’s got a magnetic field of pure jerk energy.

He’s not like the rest of us. Jamila and I were just trying to be part of the same electric current, the same flow. He wants to be the breaker, the disruptor. And I don’t know, maybe some people enjoy the chaos he’s causing, but not me. Definitely not me. Even if I don’t know what this is, what it’s supposed to be, I know that’s not it.

And then his eyes lock onto Jamila. Oh, no. I can feel my jaw tighten, my muscles coiling. I pull myself out, back into the crowd, but on the very first layer where I can keep an eye on things. I feel my entire body pulsing with adrenaline. I know this feeling in my bones. The feeling of being in a fight. I try to shout over the guitar and the screaming crowd, try to call for “Jamila!” but it’s useless.

My voice gets buried in the thick wall of sound as I try to shout, “Jamila!” It’s like trying to toss a pebble into a hurricane. Completely pointless.

Instead, I grab. My arms shoot out like they have minds of their own, and my hands find her shoulders, jerking her just a step back. Baldy’s fist swoops through the air where her face used to be, missing by inches. There’s a look in his eyes, something nasty, like sewage water. He turns and it’s different this time. His face contorts, lips pulling back in a snarl I can’t hear but definitely feel. He’s shouting something, words lost in the swirling chaos of noise, but it’s the intent that comes through, loud and clear. His hand reaches out, not to hit, but to grab — his fingers clawing at the fabric of her hijab, trying to yank it off her head.

And something inside me snaps.

He swings one more time, and I hear the tone of the crowd around me change. People starting to get fed up. I’ve noticed a sort of unspoken chivalry in the most chaotic hour and a half of my life – when someone falls in this hell, everyone stops at once and picks them up. Someone dropped their glasses and the entire thing came to a halt. And now, this guy trying to pick on a girl, and the entire crowd notices, already forming a barrier around him.

Too bad for the crowd I don’t need any backup.

I swing once, adrenaline singing through me while Tariq’s voice soaks every last inch of air. My fist, my knuckles that are harder than steel, my weeks of training punching form, my muscles that grow unfairly fast compared to everyone around me, my protective, killer urges, it all combines to let me punch way above the weight class of my size. Maybe if he saw me coming, it wouldn’t have hurt so much.

But he didn’t, and I feel his jaw buckle under my hook. His mouth immediately fills with blood – I can tell. He goes spinning into the crowd, and they bump him like a pinball, sending him onto the ground.

I know what to do now. I’m not even thinking about it. Zero thought has happened in the past thirty seconds and zero thought will continue to happen.

I climb on top of him and I bare my teeth. All of them. Blood drips from my face onto his unmarred, pale skin. I purse my lips out as I snarl, making sure he can read every word over the cacophany above me.

“Don’t. Touch. My. Girlfriend.”

He looks at me, undeterred. When he yells, he does it the same as me. Slowly. Deliberately. Ensuring he can be understood over the noise.

“Dyke. Bitch.”

My vision goes red.

My vision tunnels, and there’s nothing else in my entire world except for his face and my fist. I punch him again, this time in the chest, hoping to crack a rib. I want him to suffer, but I don’t want him to get brain damage. He lets out a groan that drowns in the echoing guitars and drums, his eyes squinting but not quite closing, and spits up blood. I grab him by the collar of his shirt. I want him to look at me. To know what’s happening to him. And why.

Just as I pull my arm back for another swing, two large hands grab my shoulders and yank me up, off the guy. I thrash, ready to fight whoever’s pulling me away from my prey. But the hands are steady, firm but not crushing, and a voice yells in my ear, “Kid, you proved your point. Let it go.”

I look around, panting, and see two burly guys holding the tough guy between them, lifting him off the ground like he’s a piece of trash they’re hauling out. The crowd parts for them, and no one tries to stop them. I’m breathing heavy, my fists clenched so tight they’re shaking.

Jamila rushes to my side, her eyes wide but relieved. “Are you okay?” She asks, but it’s a dumb question. Of course, I’m not okay. But I’m not going to say that to her. I throw her the shakiest thumbs up of my life.

She wraps her arms around me in a tight hug, and for the first time in what feels like forever, my muscles relax a little. “Thank you,” she whispers into my ear.

“You don’t ever have to thank me for that,” I reply, still shaky, still not quite believing that any of this is real.

The song finally ends, a crashing wave of cymbals and distorted guitars, and Tariq’s voice fills the space as the music fades. “Thank you, Camden! I’m sad that this basement is still standing but I’m glad y’all came out here tonight. Nadia up by the bar is selling shirts and demo CDs, remember to share that shit on LimeWire or I’m hunting you down.”

Just as the crowd starts to disperse, a figure practically leaps off the stage, guitar still slung over his back. Ibrahim makes his way through the thinning crowd, eyes scanning until they land on us.

“Hey,” he says, out of breath but clearly concerned, “you two okay?”

“Yeah,” Jamila answers before I can. “Thanks to Sam, here.”

Ibrahim looks at me and nods, relief clear on his face. “Saw what you did from the stage. Glad someone handled that crowdkiller before we had to call him out. Hate singling people out like that.”

“Crowdkiller?” I ask, the term tasting unfamiliar on my tongue.

“People who intentionally try to hurt others in the pit,” Ibrahim explains. “That guy you clocked? With those tattoos? Classic skinhead, probably came here just to start something. You’d be surprised how many of those guys show up to a band that’s 3 Pakistanis and a Palestinian.”

It’s like someone tossed a bucket of ice water over me. I just beat up a skinhead? That’s, like, a Nazi, right?

“I guess we owe you,” Ibrahim continues, unaware of my internal meltdown. “Why don’t you two come backstage? Or, well,” he gestures to a makeshift area behind some curtains and dividers at the back of the basement, “what we call backstage.”

Jamila grabs my hand and squeezes, blood smearing along my fingers.

It feels wet. Sticky. It gets under my nails.

Warm and wet. She smiles and talks for me. “We’d love to, Ibby.”

I grin dizzily, blood trickling down my teeth.

---

←Previous

Next→

Enter your email and click the below “Subscribe” button to subscribe to updates.

Chum will update every Wednesday, with sporadic extra updates as I feel fit. To stay up to date with Chum, consider joining the Official Discord™️. If clicking that link is difficult, you can manually access it with the following invite: https://discord.gg/QHy8YM99vC

Comments, feedback, theorizing, speculation, questions, etc. are all greatly appreciated. Additionally, if you enjoy Chum and would like to offer your financial support, you can find my Patreon at https://patreon.com/bearsharktopus, or donate a one-time donation at https://paypal.me/bstdev.