Wanna meet up?’ I read the words and grinned. I was adjusting a hard-on in my pants and smirking when Katy texted, ‘Are you free this afternoon? You live close to uni, don’t you? I’m chillin nearby. At one point the conversation got pretty hot. The exchange that followed represented a standard half-assed flirting routine, something that was good enough to keep me distracted. I replied, ‘Hello beautiful!’ and added a winking emoji. They all took my number and I had no idea which one of them was Katy. There were three of them: a hot blonde, a squat brunette with a cute face and a feline half-Filipino girl. How many girls were there at the pub yesterday? After a moment, I remembered.

I was deep in thought when my phone buzzed. Building notes, angry growls and thundering drums enraptured me as I slumped over the bed and took a long drag from my rollie. I put on the blackest Dimmu Borgirtrack I could think of nothing better than Satanic metal to drown my demons. I pushed away the bad thoughts but felt them clawing at the edges all the same. If I closed my eyes, I could see it morphing into a snare of dark roots that wormed out of a hole deep inside my chest. An irrational feeling, sure, but the motherfucker became a stubborn tension in my shoulders that would not leave. There was something about being alone in my empty house, soaked in sweat and fatigued, that unsettled me. I looked out the window through narrowed eyes the sun was beating on a familiar maple tree that knocked on the glass with its gnarled limbs. The silence made my bleary thoughts sound louder, and the summer heat choked me like a hand squeezing around my neck. A stillness haunted the familiar shape of my computer, mixer, synth and the posters on my wall. The smoke filled my lungs, white swirls escaped my lips and swam lazily towards the discoloured ceiling. Barely catching my breath, I rolled a cig on the desk with sweaty fingers and lit it with the feverish frenzy of a nicotine junkie. In the kitchen, I guzzled down a pint of orange squash before springing upstairs to my bedroom. I dashed all the way home from work, my throat parched and a heavy feeling in my stomach. Whatever illusion of enjoyment I’d created for myself, it was over. Kneeling alone on the damp ground, I could still hear the music, but I was no longer part of the gig.

The crowd had cast me out onto a filthy street. The shift came fast and sharp, like an elbow to the guts. Everything changed on an especially hot day at the end of summer. At one with chaos, I raved in the rough circle of a metaphorical moshpit. The bass, screams and heavy percussion were the only things that could drown the pained whines piercing through my head. I’d made a thrash metal concert out of my life.

Purple Stain by Nat Lewis