Under the bridge where cars move quickly–BMW’s, Fiats, Yugos, etc, I watch Milan sell drugs to some rich kid. He’s ugly–marked viciously by acne scars and baby fat, and Milan is smiling because now he can afford his groceries and more importantly he can pay his boss back. I look around me but there’s no one I can sell my body to. I am saving up for some other place.
A bomb falls, we can hear it. We all scream with delight and horror. The ugly kid who bought the drugs shakes. Milan kisses my lips. I take a little bit of speed only because my brain hurts and I’m thinking about dying kids and my mother, who is also dying, of mental derangement. We move towards the other groups of people and there’s a DJ playing loud techno music.
The bomb won’t get us, so people keep dancing. Another bomb falls. When I look at the sky it’s bright orange. One kid taps me and I look at him with a fake, faraway smile. He asks me what I’m thinking about.
“Some other place,” I shout. He swallows a pill and laughs, makes a peace sign and says, “That’s a good idea. Which place?”
I tell him I don’t know. He says we spend all of our lives dreaming of something better but nothing ever happens. I shrug and leave the crowd, facing the Danube river, still hearing the loud music, the yelling and laughter. I could dip my foot into the river or just jump but I don’t–that is not the other place I want to go to. So I walk back and dance underneath the bombs.
Katja Vido is a writer from Toronto, Canada. Her work has appeared in the print issue of Style Circle’s “The Book,” as well as the Little Black Book. She was shortlisted for the Letter Review Prize in fiction. She is an editor for St. John’s Compassionate Mission’s upcoming book of Sunday reflections. She has lived between Belgrade and Toronto, and graduated from Toronto Metropolitan University in 2020.
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