Bunker party (I don't feel sorry for her)

It's the weekend and I decide to go to the big announced festival of Goths, Gothics or whatever they call themselves. No need to dress up, it'll look good, I think. Outside the town there is a large bunker, bought and renovated by the Council at some point and used for extraordinary events. It should be fine for me, there'll be a lot going on, that's for sure.

I know these people with their old-fashioned clothes and strange hairstyles, and I like them. They have a strange sense of reality, moving between the fashions of different eras. In a truly authentic encounter, historians could gain a whole new perspective – as long as they look beyond appearances. Pseudo-medieval meets baroque, you might say – I've seen practically everything but the Stone Age.

It's boring, actually. None of this is new to me anymore, but the atmosphere there suits my purposes very well. When I arrive, I am surprised at how professionally the organisers have prepared the rooms. The insult to my delicate ears comes from one of the most popular bands in the genre. Black candles everywhere, in niches, on cloths and so on. There are firemen hanging around, which is obligatory and probably necessary for this candle orgy. It smells like incense from the mail-order house, and my delicate nose also detects the faint scent of grass – but that's nothing, that's all that's going on with the coat and cape fans. I don't know how long some of the girls spend in front of the mirror trying to look as dead as possible, but it must be half the afternoon. That's why I love hanging out in places like this, where pale skin and shadows around the eyes are a must.

I can take my time, I'm still completely relaxed in the evening and the possibilities are endless. Here and there, a few long-skirted girlies stagger off the dance floor, where they probably wanted to stage a torture victim under highly embarrassing questioning – I can't describe this kind of dancing any other way. Occasionally a rosy cheek peeps out from under the white make-up, but the runny eye make-up actually hides this hint of freshness. It's hot in here, people are crowded together and some of the hair sculptures are a little flattened. Despite my rather typical clothes, I attract a few stares – but I'm used to that. Pale AND ethereal are the order of the day here – and I just can't do the latter. My curves are too pronounced to pass as a walking advertisement for 'movement'.

Maybe the horn-rimmed glasses help – but I can't wear contact lenses. You don't see many people wearing glasses here; most people probably have those little things stuck in their eyes because there are hardly any glasses to match the style. You do see people with strange eye colours, which confirms my suspicion that the glasses are left in their suitcases for the night. Golden yellow or bilious green... well. Here and there you also see people wearing sunglasses, which I find a bit dangerous in the dim light here. I don't mind too much, my short-sightedness doesn't affect my ability to find my way in the dark.

It's getting late and I'm starting to feel a bit shaky. Many groups are stuck in the dimly lit niches, trying to stare disorientatedly at their fake skull trophies – but here and there you can hear something in the strong colouring of the local dialect. It destroys the illusion far more than the flaking white on their cheeks, but the later it gets, the less it bothers the little people. The dance floor is still packed so tightly that no one can fall over if they faint, which is quite possible in the air here. I pushed my way past the cliques and couples, gasping for breath and feeling uncomfortable. In the artificially lit mirrors with the fake Victorian ornaments, I see myself out of the corner of my eye, breaking through the crowd like a steamer – a medium-sized fat guy with horn-rimmed glasses and sandy thin hair, wrapped in lots of black fabric. I hear a few comments, but that's not my problem now – I have to look after my physical well-being. In the background, I can almost hear one of the Graces saying: "That cape is really great."

There are many emergency exits, and people use them to get some fresh air before diving back into the giant tomb. It must be just after midnight, I feel as I stand outside wiping the sweat from my brow. The area outside is large and lined with bushes and trees, there are almost as many people outside as there are inside. I concentrate and immerse myself in the nocturnal shadows, relying entirely on my senses. "Hey, there's the fat guy in the fancy cape", someone caws in front of me, and I recognise the girl who hissed at me earlier. She is standing a little uncertainly next to a fallen tree trunk, over which a boy had thrown himself and probably fallen asleep throwing up.

The girl wears a black velvet dress. Her hair, probably dyed, is the same dull colour as the fabric. A plunging neckline, a tarnished copper necklace with some kind of stupid pendant. I can't stand the sight of that stuff anymore. But no matter, I've found what I'm looking for. Her dude is snoring away – ecstatically and rhythmically, he doesn't want to disturb her. The colour of her decollete contrasts sharply with that of her neck and face, shimmering rosy in the moonlight. I could go lyrical at this sight, but now I approach her slowly, very slowly. I don't really want to, but I can't resist the urge. Her dialect takes on a very rich tone when she asks me what foundation I use – her make-up has run in a beastly way.

With a flirtatious glance at the frilly cape I'm wearing, she asks me where I got it. She has no instinct, the beauty of the night. Not only does she let me get close, she strokes the frills and smiles condescendingly. I don't feel sorry for her. Her stupidity is provocative. Although overweight vampires with thick glasses are not what you expect, especially at a gothic festival. I think of nothing else as I sink my vampire fangs into her.

© "Bunker party (I don't feel sorry for her)": A vampire story by Pressenet (translated by Izabel Comati), 05/2025. Image credit: Air raid shelter, CC0 (Public Domain Licence).