Marcel Winatschek

The Call, the Scream, the Silence

The club is just a black nothing—flickering dull lights, shadows nodding sadly to the beat. Zombies of the night, of the early morning, of consumption. By this hour money means nothing; what counts is new thoughts, new experiences, the willingness of body and soul, the hunger for human skin and what it tastes like.

I’m standing in the middle of all this and I can’t take it anymore. I want out—the beat, the shadows, the lights, the nothing. I call out. Nobody hears me. I scream. Nobody hears me. I go quiet. Nobody hears me. Eyes closed, crying, and then Yumi And The Weather, Lulu James, and HAIM take me by the hand and walk me outside, out into the air—the sky, the warming first light, everything fine. I wrap my arms around myself, find the nearest swing, push off into the high arc. Free. Finally. Actually free.