vampire cinderella

"what the fuck have I gotten myself into?" 

The self posed question was more articulate and prominent than the usual half thought cacophony  that filled my internal monologue as I considered the door leading down, down, down... (I am my own white rabbit). 

My coat had fluttered behind me as I walked down the pavement at twilight, heavy booted with an appealing shadow. I removed my headphones, figuring I should at least be semi-aware of my surroundings before clambering into the dark and unknown. A modern crypt of mystery initiates, a catacomb belonging to an order who's name vaguely sounded like the oracle of Greece. A knighthood that congregated to preform their rites within the sanctity of the underground, I found it appropriate enough that it had been described to me as a dungeon. 

The sonorous, plucky goth song stopped as I repocketed my phone, keeping the clamor from my doc Martens to a minimum as I clunked down the metal stairway. A man in the doorway carrying an indistinguishable box grinned, exclaiming with approval at my attire. He, as did most of the attendees, wore their ordinary clothes. High waisted fatigued jeans and golf shirts populated much of the room. The record store owner jostled my shoulder approvingly, no doubt getting a good handful of foam or whatever It was that people in the 80s crested their shoulders with. The coat was much too oversized and much too heavy to suit me on a night besides this. I'd opted instead to drape it over my shoulders to avoid looking like a different sort of basement dweller. 

The room was sparse but finished, not cobblestoned or dank. Projector screens, red lights, two hulking inflatable dragons. I caught the eye of someone standing to my right, looking away quickly. He was middle aged and dressed in the way someone would imagine a listener of dad-rock; fitted t-shirt over naturally toned arms, jeans faded by natural fatigue, a baseball cap turned backwards. But more notably he was strikingly Lokean with black hair to his shoulders, an angular face and eyes that must have been pale, their exact pigment indiscernible in the red light. I imagined my bashfulness had seemed more affronted than I meant it; my shyness had barbs. But it was what you would expect from someone dressed as I was, I could entertain the notion that my social awkwardness was now contextually framed as brooding and vampiric. I flashed the girl at my table my ticket, situating myself in the back row. Loki sat nearby, an empty chair beside him. I entertained approaching him, but my scarred schemas regarding such interactions paralyzed me, instead feigning stretches and stealing glances. I regretted the decision when an old man in a sweatshirt that had probably known the 90s sat there instead, the dark haired stranger quickly engaging him. He seemed friendly, earnest. Deep seated regret filled me about opportunities missed out of shyness. There was a smiths song about that, I had been sure. 

I saw the group of long haired, lanky youths that had been straddling the crowd make their way centerstage, onlooking mild surprise as my leg bounced in anticipation. I had expected someone older, maybe more classical horror than metalhead on account of the audience demographic. The frontman, a man with long, tawny blonde hair and a face I attributed to being around 29 in the dim lighting, took the mic. British, to my further surprise. I managed a glance at Loki, seeking some sort of explanation as to why a Svenghoulie lookalike donned the screen.