Page 10 of Neon Pestilence
My makeup is simple today, a smoky eye with silver sparkles and rhinestones placed to perfection. I look like the Devil’s favorite dark angel, and fuck, I’m hot.
I pack up my fanny, throwing the usual vapes and weed in there as well as a tab of acid. The best way to feel better the day after tripping is to take more. Grabbing my portable electric bong and some concentrates, I have one last smoke sesh before making my way to the market.
As I’m walking up, the smell of barbecue and fried food assaults my nose. Fuck. I’m hungry. I might have forgotten to eat last night with all the weird shit that was happening.
I make a hard left and beeline for the pizza vendor. Cheese-coated bread is always my safe food at these festivals, and maybe the occasional chicken strip. Anything else, hard pass. I’m not willing to spend all night in a porta-potty.
After downing two slices and a bottle of water, I gather my trash and toss it in a bin before making my way to the festival grounds.
Once inside, I crack open my cigarette container and pop a joint in my mouth. I make my way to the center stage for Excision’s set.
I dance until I can’t anymore, the music filling my veins more than any drugs I could take. I scream, I cry, and rage. Managing to make it into the mosh pit on more than one occasion has my heart pounding and my body sweating, so I take a quick break to use the restroom and grab some water before continuing.
The sun is setting now, clouds sprinkling the orange and pink skyline, with the beginnings of the laser shows starting. It’s my favorite kind of sunset. The one that only happens at these festivals, when everyone is happy and free.
I smile to myself, wrapping my pashmina tighter around my body. For comfort, or for warmth, I’m not quite sure.
I’m two Beat Boxes in and buzzing as I make my way toward one of the smaller stages. YOOKiE is playing tonight, and I wouldn’t miss it for anything. The YOOKiE brothers are one of my favorite dual DJs apart from ATLiens.
I make it just as they’re starting their set, so I dance my way through the already large crowd that’s formed.
One of the bonuses of attending these festivals alone is that I can always use the ‘oh, excuse me, I’m so sorry, but my friends are up there and I need to get to them’excuse. More often than not, it gets me right at the rail, headbanging in front of the pit. My favorite spot.
The fast-paced sound of hardstyle flows around me before falling into a heavy dubstep mix. One of the beats makes you feel like you need to run with the wolves. Fast and deep, running through your bones, like something you would hear while running from a dinosaur or something. The type of beat that gives you a wicked bass face and has you throwing shapes in the air.
After another hour of sticky smoke and sweaty bodies, I need some fresh air. I make my way to a nearby chill spot and take a breather. Popping a tab of acid, then taking a sip of my water. I people-watch for a while, puffing on my Nic vape. My eyes flutter between girls in the cutest outfits, cool flow artists, and a couple of really drunk people as they roll down the hill like we did when we were young.
Then I see them, the familiar dark cloak and pointed mask. A ghost hiding in the shadows. My head begins to throb, palms shaking.
There you are, angel.
I move so quickly, I nearly fall face-first into the grass. Cascada’sEverytime We Touchmix is blasting around me as I rush to the spot where they are. But I’m not quick enough. They’re gone.
Glancing around frantically, eyes wide and searching, I try to catch any glimpse of them. Almost positive that I catch them turning a corner. I follow them, dancing my way through the crowd as the music melts into Pusha by Creed, fueling my search.
I turn the same corner, skidding to a halt as I try to find them, again.
Warmer.
Their voice radiates through my skull, smooth and rough like silk lying over gravel. My heart pounds so fast I can feel it next to my ear.
Another glimpse of black. Another corner.
Almost there, little raver.
They dip behind an Asian food vendor’s tent, and I follow as my wing bumps something on their table. Queue the questionable looks from its owner.
“I’m so sorry, excuse me,” I say, breathless. My body is running on anxiety and acid, a diabolical mixture.
You’re burning up now.
Their whisper sounds like it's right behind me, so close I swear I can feel their breath on my neck. Goosebumps ripple across my skin.
Then, I see it, an obsidian tent. It stands at least ten feet tall, a towering rectangle that rises to a point on each end. On top of each sharpened piece is a blood red flag, decorated with a raven skull and wings. There’s a sword running vertically through the raven’s head with snakes climbing up it.
The Doctor’s tent.
I can hear the beginning of Wooli’s set in the background. A metronome ticking in the background.
