The Mosh Pit
He watched her. The petite brunette several feet in front of him. She stood in line, tapping the toe of her black Converse low tops. His eyes ran up those tan slender legs of hers, followed the contours of her thighs until they disappeared into a pair of devilishly short cut-offs. She turned around for a second, her long brown hair flipping into her face as she looked back. With a raised brow, her amber eyes looked around her for a moment before turning back to the line. Had she known he was watching? Probably not. There was so many people in line, he was sure he blended in just fine.
She must be here alone, he thought to himself. Unlike most the other festival-goers she wasn’t talking to anyone, just waiting for the gates to open. He could tell she was getting antsy. She couldn’t seem to sit still as she waited; exuding the impatience of a child being dragged along while their mother shopped. She stretched, arching her back, and he couldn’t help letting his attention fall to those two twin peaks on her chest. Pert little mounds hidden under a Ramones t-shirt. A visible shiver made its way up his spine. He looked away in an attempt to recompose himself.
The metal gates clanked loudly as they were pulled open by security, the crowd of people moved in a sea of anxious concert-goers. His eyes moved back to where she had been standing. She was gone, mixed in with the crowd as they were corralled into the gated expanse of field just outside of Midtown University. He felt his pulse quicken as his eyes eagerly searched the crowd for her. She had pushed her way further toward the front of the crowd, and from the looks of it was headed toward the main stage. All the bigger name bands were going to be performing over there throughout the day, and undoubtedly a girl like her wanted to be front and center for most of them.
Dillan’s excitement grew as she watched the roadies on stage performing sound-checks on the equipment. One last check before the first band came out to kick off MidFest. The reverberations of a guitar chord hummed loudly through the speakers on either side of the stage, sending a tingling of excitement through her body. She’d been mad at her friend Kay for not coming with her, but found she’d soon forgotten about the initial disappointment. The crowd roared at the sight of the members of Dropkick Murphys taking the stage.
From the first moment the music started, the crowd began to swell and swirl. College students flailed and moshed with the music, lost in the moment. Dillan found herself pushed and pulled with the tide of the crowd, barely in control of her own movement as she shouted the words along with the band. Adrenaline coursed through her veins from sheer exhilaration. Few things could match the rush she got whenever she went to a live show. As suspected, the mosh pit grew larger with each song in their set, until Dillan found herself in the thick of it. She let her limbs flail as she danced, bodies hitting against one another like some sort of human version of bumper cars. She loved the mosh pit. It was liberating, at times it was violent. The Irish punk music surged on, willing the crowd to do the same.
Dillan was thrown back and forth, back and forth, roughly between others as the sea of chaos churned on like a hurricane. She’d lost her footing several times, yanked roughly in the opposite direction before she could fall. A few concert-goers were starting to crowd-surf, climbing the barricades and throwing themselves back onto the crowd. Dillan always got wary when people started doing that. Too many times she had seen someone dropped on their heads or worse yet on top of someone else’s. Unfortunately, today it was Dillan that would fall victim to crowd surfing’s cruel enemy… gravity. If she had seen the redheaded girl that looked more like a linebacker, she would have moved far away from her trajectory.
He was lounged against a wooden picnic table, when he saw her again. A bulky security officer held her arm as she walked unsteadily toward the first aid tent, her other hand on her head. A little blood trickled down from her forehead as she sat down on a folding chair under the tent. A paramedic gave her a quick exam, checked her pupils, and then handed her an ice pack.
She stood up a few minutes later and walked toward where he was currently sitting. A smile played over his lips as he watched her. She sat down at the picnic table next to his, unaware of his voyeuristic gaze. Go talk to her, he urged himself. No, she’ll probably reject you, they always do. He was unable to force himself from his seat, his mind indecisive. He’d never had very good self-esteem.
So he sat, infatuated with this girl, his eyes trailing over her body once more as she laid back against the table. Her muscles relaxed as she held the ice pack to her head, stretching out her legs in front of her as she attempted to gain comfort from the hard picnic table. He salivated at the thought of touching her sun-kissed skin. He couldn’t take it. He needed to talk to her, needed to get her alone.
A small wave of panic hit him as he watched her stand, heading back toward the main stage. He couldn’t afford to lose track of her again. He stood, following her. His pace quickened in attempt to close the gap between them. As she mixed into the edges of the crowd, it got harder to keep sight of her. He pushed through the throng of concert-goers, his eyes catching her brown hair swishing behind her as she made her way toward the mosh pit. He was close, if only these morons would move out of his way. His anger flared as the distance between them grew.
She had to know she was doing this to him, torturing him like this. If she was unaware, he intended to make it crystal clear. His fingers gripped the rosewood handle of the switchblade that rested in the pocket of his jeans as he roughly shoved a few people aside. Where was she? Why did she have to ignore him like the others? His stomach twisted in discomfort as he spotted her. What is she doing? Who is he?
Too far away to hear or intervene, he could only watch the exchange between the two. She had an apologetic look on her face as the other guy held his shirt to his nose, blood dribbling over his hand. Any glimmer of hope he had held onto dissipated as the two made their way away from the crowd. She was too far out of reach for him now and his grip on his restraint was slipping. His eyes frantically searched for someone, anyone that he could pretend was her. The blonde in the black tank top would have to do.
Two strides forward and he was standing only inches behind her. In one smooth motion he held her back against him and the blade sank into the smooth taut flesh of her abdomen. She gasped in shock, unable to cry out as the blade twisted into her. He breathed in her scent, her anguish; his hunger satiated as he felt her firm body weakening against his. Before anyone could realize what he’d done, he slipped away as the dying blonde stumbled helplessly through the oblivious crowd.