This was no rave--this was a riot. What began as a common party, a debauched event of drink and dance, quickly evolved into a gang war that had been simmering for years. Violence provokes violence; it’s a sanguinary snowball that only swells and swells, nailing everything and everyone in its path. Soon enough, even the Acid Eaters of Avenue L (usually too zonked out on their journeys to the inner-cosmos of their minds to involve themselves in such carnal matters like gang-war strife) and the Hash Heads of Avenue M (naturally gentle by nature) were throwing fists and bashing heads. This raging conflict remained confined by the borders of the Warehouse for only a short time, until the onslaught escalated to such a level that the Warehouse’s walls trembled ominously, unable to contain the pressure of 500 bodies engaging in such vicious savagery. The doors were thrust open with such a force, a cluster of sweaty-bloody bodies spilled out to the sidewalk and, without a hindrance, they continued their warfare with new aggression, smashing skulls into sidewalk. I gripped Lucy’s slender arm and guided her and myself out the fire exit, awakening the fire alarm and adding a frantic new level of noise to the din that was already roaring. We emerged in an alley, breathless and astounded. We were not allowed to breathe yet, though: almost immediately, we spotted the familiar flare of red and blue police lights. As anyone does when faced with the glare of certain authority, guilty or not--we made a break for it. Sprinting out of the alley and across the street, we struggled to pave our way through the amplifying crowd--people poured out of apartment buildings and shops to see what the commotion was about and even embroiled themselves in the perpetual violence. We managed to slip through the deluge like ghosts, eventually reaching River Square. We took refuge behind the faceless, crumbling statue, struggling to catch our breaths. Lucy looked bewildered, gaping at the burgeoning brawl.

“What’s Gil doing?” she queried. The dark look in her eyes told me that she knew exactly what he was doing. The pensive frown curling her lips downward told me that, for the first time, she was worried for his safety, that maybe this was finally the scrape that Gil could not charm, fight, slip, or slide his way out of.

We watched from behind the statue, studying the two figures at the center of the tussle. A tall, muscular police officer held Gil roughly by the arms, attempting to seize him for arrest. However, Gil was not making this task easy for the man. Streams of blood surged sickeningly down Gil’s chin as he screamed and wailed unintelligibly. His eyes, blacked by fists, bulged out of his skull cartoonishly. All too suddenly, his shoulders slumped; his eyes fell closed. The officer looked surprised at this abrupt defeat. However, just as the officer relaxed his grip, Gil opened his eyes and swung a hard, brass-knuckle’d fist at the officer’s face.

“Fuck the police!” Gil hollered triumphantly to the crowd who had briefly paused their fervor to watch the exchange.

Gil basked in his short moment of victory before being overtaken by five more police officers, who beat him passionately with their batons, fists, and, once he had fallen to the cement, their boots. The crowd thundered with outrage and the fighting resumed with greater ferocity. I grabbed Lucy’s arm again and tore her away from the scene. More and more people joined the combat. Once the police officer went down, all notion of law or logic dissipated. Once the remaining police officers began lashing the renegade to a pulp, things stopped being personal and started being political. This night, this dreadful night, only the animalistic and fighting survival instinct ruled the streets. What began as a mere fist-fight turned into city-wide warfare, and we did not have enough power in our legs to propel us from the fray, that grew and multiplied like cancerous cells. A skinhead, a disgusting fellow with brown teeth and a spider-web tattoo etched across one half of his face, sprang out of one of the many dark pockets between buildings and caught Lucy’s tendrils in his fist. She yanked back with a yelp.

“Hey! Back the fuck up, man!” she spat with all the acerbity that only a girl who had been raised by the hard curbs and edges of the city could muster.

Skinhead Sid snarled, revealing missing teeth and a bloody sneer, and tugged on her hair more violently, his eyes red and watery and his fists bloodied, evidence that he had already tasted his fair share of blood and was thirsty for more. Before I could collect myself enough to at least attempt to act as a manly brute and defend her, she cocked her fist, glittering with the many stones that adorned her slim fingers. I felt the fury in her gaze, the fury that had begun boiling as she watched her boyfriend get beaten, perhaps to death, by the police. She swung a solid punch and hit the target with a repulsive crack. Both Skinhead Sid and Lucy groaned in pain, Skinhead Sid clutching his nose and Lucy rubbing her fighting fist with her bare, moon-white one. I took this moment of distraction to signal to Lucy that we should begun running again and she obliged, taking off after spitting defiantly in Skinhead Sid’s gory face.

We ran and ran, the heat of battle nipping at our heels. I could barely glimpse a hint of red and blue light reflecting off of Lucy’s leather jacket, the persistent light of authority that had finally come face-to-face with an angry community they had ignored for a decade. We finally reached our apartment building, the only place estranged from the violence. We were breathless and exhilarated and terrified. I began to go inside, seeking the safety and solitude of an empty building--though, who knew how long that would last?

Lucy, however, was staring strangely down the street. I snapped my fingers to grab her attention. She looked at me, a wondrous look in those deep-sea eyes, then began to step forward. She faltered, then continued to stare down the street. Abruptly, she turned on her heel and began walking towards the fracas from whence we came. She looked dazed, astonished--like she had been possessed, or had finally...snapped.

“Lucy? Lucy! Where are you going?” I yelled at her retreating back.

She looked over her shoulder with a grin. “I have something I have to take care of.”

“You’re not going back for Gil, are you?”

Her grin grew wider; her eyes crinkled with amusement. “I have something I have to take care of!”

She broke into a run, darting down the street towards the ensuing chaos, illuminated by those red and blue lights still blazing relentlessly. I watched her until all I could discern was her willowy silhouette withdrawing into the great, black mass of a war-torn night.