***TRIGGER WARNING***
Never thought it would happen.
Then it did. In the limelight of one moment under the starlight and lighting of the strobe lights, a body in momentum to rhythms, tempos of triumphantly loud entrancing music and in the sight of a crowd all, though not dancing in unison, are unison in dancing, it surely did happen.
A synthetic fog pumped from deep within the stage encompassing the arena. The fog stretched to hug its high ceiling, caressing the beams above as lasers illuminated their presence. The lasers in various colors darted, dancing themselves to the sound of the beat. Under such ecstatic circumstances where life is immersed in the joy of being amongst great friends, of dipping your soul into euphoria, and drowning yourself in that euphoric release, comes an adrenaline you seek to find but always end at barely getting the high. Under these kinds of circumstances, she never though it could happen.
She’d seen it in the news, read about it. It could never happen to me, her mind would cement as reality.
She was dancing beside the edge of the stage, barely making his frame. She stared into the glow of the one making the music that tantalized her essence into euphoria. Though she could see his face clearly on screen, a yearning to meet him eye-to-eye had her looking back and forth, as if that man on the pedestal was creating just for her. Some friends grabbed her elbow rocking her back into dancing. She was again lost in the ambiance of the sound.
The crowd was in the hundreds. The arena heard even from a few city blocks' distance.
“What do you say we go?” she read staring at a device. Looking up she nodded no to her friends.
“What? Already?” she responded.
“Don’t you have something to do tomorrow?” one of them replied.
“Life is but a chore,” Deccania responded again.
“Then, chores ought to be done,” another in the group replied.
“Can we just go already,” came a strident entry, making all chuckle with the eyes alone.
“Another fifteen minutes. Promise,” Deccania entered resuming to waving her hair, slapping it against the foggy air. She too wanted a breath of fresh air. Her need to self-indulge overwhelmed her need to ventilate. She secretly hoped the music would connect her to God.
No where in the expanse of all these women’s, indeed none in the arena's, mind would the thought have occurred: such a beautiful night, turned to tragedy.
It could never happen to them.
The artist was the first to react. Perched high above the audience, he had a bird’s eye view of the arena. From this vantage he could clearly mark the aisles, rows, exits of the arena. It was why he was the first to react. The first to seek escape.
At initial response, it seemed fireworks ignited in the arena. The artist startled, jumped back from his podium to process that it had not been fireworks but an explosion ricocheting, rippling a loud crack in the back of the arena. The sound of the explosion replaced the sound of music, and the artist surrendered, his panels abruptly silenced. His mind captured memories of the explosion, a sudden entrance of what was an army of anarchist storming the arena in military form. He saw many frantically run about with the instincts of survival, fight or flight, a tsunami of hormones flooding creases in their brains; all under a pressure to escape, none really able.
Upon the explosion, Deccania and friends, as they were unison in dancing, were then unison in shrieks of terror. They grabbed each other’s hands, jutting in multiple directions neither knowing where to run nor where to hide. She saw many running towards the exits, yet none cleared the space.
Within seconds of the explosion, gunfire sung of anarchy.
Amidst the commotion they managed to find a trap door near the stage, navigating through the halls to find themselves in a corridor of dressing rooms. Anarchist clad in black fatigues bombarded, filled the arena.
Deccanai had blocked the door behind her in the rush of fear thinking more of her friends, forgetting the other attendees of the concert. It wasn’t until she heard the distant yet loud sound of gunfire that she realized the regret of her mistake.
Her friends all huddled together and Deccania began sobbing.
“I am so sorry. This is my fault. We should have left then,” she managed to speak through her tears. It was guilt. It was regret. It was inevitable.
Unable to respond, her friends began sobbing in unison. A pounding on the floor of the corridor startled them to silence and rushing in was the artist whom Deccania admired.
“We need to hide,” he exclaimed.
“We tried. There is nowhere else to go,” she replied.
He quickly locked the door joining the huddle holding her and the her friends' hands with a vice-like grip. Soft whispers of unintelligible prayers murmured from his lips. To which God he summoned for mercy was anybody’s guess. They all joined him, neither caring for specific beliefs but more about the begging for mercy.
They heard it. The march of a thousand soldiers it seemed. Anarchists had made their way backstage. A sound they feared filed their ears.
They all wanted to be the shelves, lights and people in the pictures on the wall – anything but who they were.
Deccania turned as if building a wall of one in front of her friends and the artist. Her strength of sacrifice admired by the angles she will soon come to meet.
She was consumed by the helplessness of the moment. Her heart pounding with fury of protecting the friends she loved, the artist she could have.
The anarchist kicked their way in and stood in front of them. She felt her friends and him shiver, sobs filling the room. The anarchists stared for a heartbeat.
As she held out her hands in defense, the sound of cries and gunshots was the last thing she ever heard.