Coming down to the basement

I slung open the basement door and we all bounced and pranced down the heavily cobwebbed, creaky, falling-down stairs. Various patterns of wellies and pink framed sunglasses were definitely the things to be wearing, the in thing, on this particular night. I had matched my cow print wellies fetchingly with pyjamas and a dressing gown, the pyjama bottoms stuffed into the top of the wellies and into my socks so that I could sleep in them much, much later without being irritated by basement floor wet.

I was usually scared of both spiders and basements and wouldn’t even poke my head round the door, but not tonight. Tonight, everything was funny and everyone was great. At least, I knew, for the next half an hour or so. I wouldn’t think about the next bit. We turned on the strobe lights, found the stacks left by the previous tenants and turned on the bassiest music that we could find, as loud as it could go. We thought that we were drum n bass experts, dancing and whooping, punctuated regularly with rolling cigarettes, trying and failing to piss, and being sick on the floor. We also hugged a lot spontaneously and boys kissed boys.

How must we have looked, five of us dancing as if we were at a packed rave, to the other students in the flats who stuck their heads round the basement door as they returned from their respective nights out. Neighbours who I didn’t even know the names of, but desperately at that moment in time wanted them to join us, dance, take drugs and all sleep in a room together with us. They all declined, some looking repulsed. I felt gutted, and had been sure that they had been recreational drug users too. They had looked the part with their long hair, arty clothes, and the fact that they were ‘in bands’. What’s the matter with them, fucking judgemental dickheads. One of them had actually said ‘I’m not into drugs’ with a look of complete disdain on his face whilst he walked backwards up the rickety staircase. He didn’t even look drunk and he’d just returned from a night out in the town centre.

That made us angry, and took the edge off our night. All of the adrenaline had started to ebb away and I no longer felt excited. Short blasts of non-happy thoughts were beginning to filter through my brain, with them bringing a sense of impending doom. The next bit would be alright, the next bit where we would all smoke weed and sit and talk and talk. The bit following that was unbearable and lasted the longest.

Ten spliffs were passed around before the conversation dried up. Everyone was starting to retreat into themselves, and this made me panic. Please don’t all go to sleep, please don’t go to sleep, just all keep talking. But of course, the silence quickly overtook the room, even with everyone so wide eyed and sat up straight. I wanted to talk but I couldn’t, I couldn’t watch telly or read, and I didn’t want to be sat up with my thoughts.

At some point there was a general consensus that we should all go and sit in the studio flat upstairs. The basement now felt chilly and I was scared of the dark corners and the maze of tiny pitch black rooms. I was seeing dark shadows flitting past in the corners of my eye, and occasionally flashes of fully formed faces. I didn’t trust any of the others, I knew that they all wanted to go to sleep really, and that I would be the last person awake all on my own.