Disco Biscuit Gone Stale

She stood in the limelight of the club against a pounding speaker with her water bottle and cigarette soaking the music through her 120 Lb glittered body. She swayed back and forth nodding her head as she inhaled deeply while watching the flashes of light cast random frozen images of dance moves on the floor while the DJ threw down his groovalicious set and thre crowd honoured him like a God.

Her friends had all gone to the washroom to snort some coke and some special k. She decided to hang back this round and let the buzz from her previous session kick in. She opened her compact to check her lipstick, when she noticed a trickle of blood slowly emerging from her left nostril.  She panicked and ran in the direction of the washrooms with her hands covering her face.

Her 3 friends were just coming out of the stall laughing and being less-than-covert when she walked in:

“What’s wrong Alison, is everything okay? You seem freaked out.”

“Look at my fucking nose… It’s bleeding!”

“Oh… that. It’s not that bad sweetie. Just blow your nose. I have some Dristan too if you want.”

“Do I look like I need some fucking Dristan Krista? What I need is for my fucking nose to NOT bleed!”

Her oblivious friends gave her a sympathetic sorry-we-have-to-dance-to-this-track-but-feel-better glance before leaving the washroom and she slumped down on the floor underneath the mirror with tissues in her nose, and adrenalin pumping through her veins sketching alone. She could hear the sounds of filtered base in the background with occasional louder clarity when someone swung open the washroom door.

For the first time ever, she realized, that she wasn’t having fun. She wasn’t happy being high, she wasn’t happy being at the club, and she wasn’t enjoying her extreme altered states of being anymore. She stood up and looked in the mirror with a look of disgust. She stood so close to the mirror that fog formed on the mirror from her breath.

“THIS IS NOT YOU” she whispered to herself as a tear strolled down her cheek. She stood and really looked at herself for a long time. Other chicks coming into the washroom thought she was sorta odd, but she stood there, and really looked herself in the eyes, until she felt remorse for the person she had become. She had lost herself to the club scene and become a glittery little disco biscuit, and a slave to coke and clubs. She thought about her dream to be a photographer, and how she hadn’t taken a photograph in over a year. She thought about how she kept promising her friend in Vancouver that she would visit, but she always spent her money on partying instead. She thought about the numerous times she let her family down for Sunday brunch, because she was still tweaked from doing coke until dawn the night before.

Suddenly, a smile graced her face, as she looked in the mirror one last time and danced her way out the washroom door.

She joined her friends on the dancefloor and danced her soul out that night, it was liberating, soul-cleansing, and empowering. And it was the last night that she ever gave up her power.


One thought on “Disco Biscuit Gone Stale

  1. Beautiful piece.

    Empowerment is such a motivating factor in realizing and conquering our denials. I loved this piece because it shows that the beginning of empowerment doesn’t always require a major life crisis, even something as simple as a nose bleed can trigger it.

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