I was in ninth grade the first time my head was shoved into a toilet. My soaked hair swirled like a soft-serve ice cream. Mean girls who never wasted a chance to torture me all through high school. I hadn’t thought about my bullies in years but my therapist made me talk about them. I can still remember the tingling sensation behind my eyes when the water flowed up my nose. The foul taste of fecal grime and watered down piss always lingered in my mouth the rest of the day no matter how many times I brushed my teeth. Therapy has reignited my rage towards my tormentors. Sure, I’ve matured since high school. I’m much more comfortable in my skin, confident and self-assured; but that doesn’t mean those girls are off the hook. Forgive and forget? Fuck that noise.

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     I wasn’t in the market for anything in particular when I spent an afternoon hopping from antique shop to antique shop. That is, until I laid my eyes on a vintage 1975 MCA Records belt buckle. The brass rectangle had etched leaves along the perimeter and “MCA” at the bottom. Its center was an oval shape with a light blue sky and a partial rainbow that ended in a few white puffy clouds. It was the best five bucks I ever spent in my life.

     It was not an average belt buckle. I mean, not just its design, but it was otherworldly. I know how fucking stupid that sounds but hear me out: I was stood up for a blind date and the brass heated up. I thought it was my imagination at first, but I felt the warmth radiate through the denim of my jeans, like a sunburn puts off heat. My disappointment from the ruined night was forgotten about and the heat dissipated just as quickly.

     I was passed over for a promotion at work to a much less qualified nitwit who clearly didn’t deserve it. He had only been with the company for a few months, but of course his uncle was middle management. My supervisor didn’t even have the decency to tell me in person. My phone dinged on a Friday night and a company-wide email blast delivered the bad news. I was wearing the belt buckle, and it shot out a flash of sparks and fragments of fire, like an M80 firecracker. The discharge shattered the full-length mirror I was standing in front of as I got ready for a night out at the club. The violent crack and explosion of glass was alarming until I realized the belt was the source of the event. The buckle manifested a physical representation of the emotions of whoever possesses it, like a mood ring but with Care Bears vibes and the abilities of Captain Planet and the Planeteers. I tested this theory in private and wore the belt around the house whenever I could, and it responded anytime I felt an intense emotion. I practiced through trial and error to heighten or lower its output through controlling my inner feelings. It took a long time to understand and control its capabilities, but it was worth it.

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     I’m bopping down the street with a Walkman at my hip and the Skatt Bros in my ears. It’s disco night baby! Now this is therapy. I’m practicing self-care and taking myself out on a date.

     My Doc Martens splash in puddles, and my chunky, brass belt buckle reflects neon lights from bail bonds storefronts and strip clubs. It’s a seedy part of town, but I don’t mind. My leather jacket has spiked shoulders, like the Legion of Doom, a professional wrestling tag team duo. People tend to leave me alone. I’m dressed for dark disco even though it’s all about the classics tonight. I flip my purple, shoulder-length hair to shake off the droplets of rain and head into the discothèque located within the basement of an industrial warehouse.

🔮

     I drop my jacket off at the coat check and immediately dance-hop along the edge of the crowd and to the bar. I order a drink and take a first sip of a refreshing gin and tonic, the biting lime-tart a familiar taste. The club is packed with an eclectic, sweaty mob of people. My spirit is already buoyed from the depressed state that last week’s therapy session had left me in. The pulsing sounds of Kool and the Gang never fails to kick off an evening on the right foot.

     Celebrate good times, c’mon!

     I shuffle, shake, and spin in feverish intensity underneath the mirror ball for the next couple of hours, refilling my drink once. Bubbles float and shimmer above the dance floor. The strobing neon lights and fog from the smoke machine hammer my senses, along with an aromatic assault of sweat, perfumes, and alcohol.

     Some drunk girl slams an elbow into my back.

     “Sorry!” she squeals.

     It’s a group of about ten women wearing matching outfits. Bachelorette parties are the absolute fucking worst. The one who bumped into me is wearing a sash that says “Bride to Be”. I recognize her instantly even though it’s been ten years since we graduated high school. She’s my tormentor and nemesis.

     “Your name is Stephanie right?” I ask over the blaring music.

     “Uhh yeah, do I know you?” Stephanie replies.

     “It’s me, Taylor. You used to give me swirlies in high school,” I reply.

     Stephanie looks a little rough around the edges. The dark bags under her eyes are enough luggage for a weekend getaway. Her bright make-up is not enough to hide the dull skin beneath its layers. The glow of teenage youthfulness is long gone. We are too young for these changes to be because of age alone. I give her a chance to apologize and atone for past transgressions.

     A moment passes. I almost think I see a sparkle of recognition in her eyes, like a wayward piece of glitter confetti that catches the light for just a moment before its shine is lost to a shadow.

     “I’m sorry I don’t remember you. I’m getting married!” Stephanie shrieks with enthusiasm and turns back to her friends. The conversation is clearly over from her perspective.

     I’m not sure what I expected but total obliviousness was not it. I can feel the belt buckle heating up through my banana-yellow pants and the skin beneath my waistband warms up. My face flushes a bright pink as wrath flares from deep within my chest. I take a few deep breaths to regain my composure.

     I track Stephanie and her pack of acolytes as they groove, hustle, and dance. I recognize a few other women in the group but can’t place their names. I let the rage build up inside of me thinking back to all the humiliation I experienced as a vulnerable adolescent just trying to survive. Each act of bullying or insult seared into my brain, like a cattle brand that leaves a scarred impression even after it’s healed.

     I waited for what seemed like an eternity until Stephanie was positioned right underneath the giant mirror ball that hangs above the middle of the dance floor. A myriad of bright colors streak in all directions as laser lights bounce off the rotating shiny sphere. I break out in a slick sweat as I consider my actions. My clammy hands tremble at my sides. There is still time to turn the other cheek and walk away before anyone gets hurt. The kernel of doubt pops into a newfound resolve to stop running and stand up for myself once and for all. I press forward and hope this will give me the closure that therapy has yet to provide.

     Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.

     My chest inflates and deflates as I take deep breaths and focus on the worst memories, like missing out on prom because I didn’t think I was good enough to attend; Or, when I walked home from school soaking wet for the umpteenth time and Mom or Dad were too distracted with their own problems to give me more than a passing comment.

     I take off my belt and use the leather strap to guard against the heat emanating from the brass buckle. I hold it in front of me like a Mighty Morphin Power Ranger, harnessing the object’s other dimensional powers. I channel all my pent-up rage and release it in a streak of white-hot lightning that hits the chain link that connects the mirror ball to the ceiling. It plummets through the air and crashes on Stephanie’s shoulder. The mirror ball shatters into a million pieces as glints of light flash off the silver fragments. I was aiming for her head and hoped to cave her skull in like a busted pinata. Instead, Stephanie’s flesh is sliced open and the bone-white of her clavicle is exposed and almost glows. The sizable gash splits the skin into a flap that reveals a sectional view of ligaments, tendons, and muscles like a bunch of red licorice strands. She writhes and whimpers on the ground in pain.

     Chaos erupts on the dance floor. People scatter like cockroaches scuttling toward darkness when exposed to light, including Stephanie’s bridal party which leaves her wounded and stranded.

     “You still don’t remember me?” I ask Stephanie, giving her one last chance to save herself and apologize.

     “Of course I do, you freak!” Stephanie yells in return as she attempts to flip the skin flap back in place and apply pressure to slow the bleeding. “Did you really think I’d acknowledge your existence? That I’d actually apologize? You are still a scuzzy slop bucket. Even after all these years you still smell like a dirty toilet." Some things never change.

     I’m staring down at Stephanie as her shoulder gushes bright, cherry-red blood making the dance floor slick. I hold the belt buckle right in front of her face and scream like a banshee. A bolt of blazing electricity leaps from the buckle and makes contact with Stephanie’s forehead. Her maw gapes open; her tongue lolls to the side. Her eyes roll back into her head as cooked brain sludge leaks out her nose and twin spurts of blood launch from her ears. She involuntarily twitches before stillness overcomes her body.

     A slow smile creeps onto my face. I turn away from the carnage and lose myself in the fleeing crowd. I exit through a side door and into the night as the music still pounds from within.

     Burn, baby, burn, Disco Inferno.