Incarnate

It was just before midnight when my girlfriend and I stood on one end of the club, anxiously awaiting the next song to play. We had taken a break from dancing and were caught up in conversation over God knows what – probably discussing the latest drama amongst our close knit circle of friends.

It always seems as though our lives would be less interesting or we’d have so much less to talk about if it wasn’t for re-occurrences of the classic “high-school” drama. It made for interesting discussions and debates as to whether or not we truly agreed with one side’s views on whether or not Beth was right in calling Marie a bitch for seemingly no other reason than it being her time of the month, but other facts included Beth recently being ditched at a bar one Friday night by her boyfriend of two years for a much younger, slightly prettier version of Beth.

It was as if at age twenty-four, Beth’s boyfriend was already starting to experience something of a mid-life crisis, and the only way to relive the glory days of his not-so-distant youth was to shack up with a replicate of your current love. But again, that was merely all up to speculation.

Suddenly in the midst of that interesting conversation, my eyes were quickly drawn to something in the right corner of my peripheral vision. A shady looking man no taller than 5 foot 9 wearing a black snakeskin suit jacket and a black fedora. His face was as blank as an empty text and as cold as a winter breeze, and his dark, beady black eyes seemed to cast a veil of anger onto something off in the distance, to which I couldn’t quite make out.

He stood perfectly still, leaning against a speaker about half the size of him that was blasting heavy club jams, while tightly gripping a bottle of Bud in his left hand, and casually raising his right to his chest, forming a strange hand gesture in the form of the rock salute pressed towards his heart. He sported two separate gold rings on both his index and ring fingers. His left hand that held the beer bottle was covered by a black glove with a faded skeletal pattern on the knuckles. His facial hair was trimmed down clean, with light brown hair in a chinstrap shaven form.

His presence sent shivers down my spine. He did not address any one particular presence in the room, but he continued to stare coldly toward one end of the club, never faltering or exchanging glances at the beautiful, young women that seemed to brush by him up and down the steps of the club dance floor.

I kept a close eye on him as he remained at an arms length from my girlfriend’s drink. A man wearing a glove in a club is a sure sign that he is looking to rape or sexually assault without a trace of evidence leading back to him. He could also be ready to spike my girlfriend’s drink when our backs were turned, so I kept a careful watch.

But the more I watched, the longer I felt uneasy, even sick to my stomach. I felt a sense of dread followed by the assumption that this was a guy who was not afraid to attack someone in public.

Not just someone, perhaps a full-on massacre, taking countless lives in an entire club scene without being brought down.

My girlfriend shook my shoulder and asked me what was wrong, and as I turned to meet her glance, I looked back towards the mysteriously dressed man, who was changing positions, and walking back up around the outside of the dance floor closest to the bar. He disappeared into the crowd like a ghost fading into a painting.  I kept watching the crowd, expecting to see him, hoping that he’d reveal himself. He was heading in the direction of whatever held his stern attention. I began to grow more frightened at the possibility that he was going to commence an attack on an innocent bystander who wronged him in some way.

My girlfriend reached for my cheek, turning my attention towards her. She asked me again what was wrong, and I asked her if she saw the guy I was fixated on.

She said no, to which I began to describe him, what he was doing, how he was dressed, the cold stare, the weird hand gesture and the uncomfortable sense of dread that I felt by just being near him.

She told me not to worry, and that he was gone now.

But he wasn’t.

Not even twenty minutes later, I spotted him again, standing within the crowd on the outside ring of the dance floor leaning over to watch the crowd. Standing ever so still with that same blank look of evil. It was as if death incarnate had appeared before my eyes.

No body else seemed to notice his presence but me, and I had this awful suspicion that his appearance to me was a sign of something sinister. Like when you step under a ladder or cross the path of a black cat, I felt as though seeing this man would bring about a terrible occurrence.

Maybe not tonight, but perhaps soon. And I didn’t know in what way he could possibly affect me. It didn’t seem as though he sensed that I was watching him, he didn’t even look at me once the whole night. But I felt that he must have known I was watching. But perhaps when he was making the strange hand gesture to his chest, he was signalling something to an associate at the other end of the club.

Maybe he wasn’t alone, maybe there was more of these figures of death. I had to get out. I felt like I was suffocating. Like the walls were closing in. I felt as though wherever I went, he would be there. Maybe not just him but maybe more of them. Perhaps a whole gang of these goons.

He didn’t feel human, and that was the strangest part. Anyway, I don’t know how I managed to sleep last night, but I did. I shook the man of death’s twisted image out of my head. But for how long?

I mean even as I write this journal, I can still feel the sense of dread and the horror from just standing a mere five feet from this him. This man? Demon? Whatever it was. I’ve never felt more in danger than I did that night, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m gonna see him again. Someday soon or perhaps not for a long time, who knows when.

And maybe then, he will complete his sinister mission…

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