Music sand-blasted its way through all those layers of anger, confusion, frustration it blew the hate right out of you, stripped you of all your petty failures, the endless disappointments and hurts that choked you the rest of your waking hours. The music was so loud up there by the speakers, it beat through our chests, moved blood to its rhythm. We worked our way to the stage, taking out everyone on the way. She grabbed me in a bear hug and lifted me up, up. My adrenaline soared with the screaming guitars and I slammed into her. She was yelling out lyrics like everyone else. So one more body check and I landed almost beside Cherry. If you went flying too far back into the rows of people behind the pit, the standing-around-and-rocking-out-but-not-moshing people, they'd just give you a little push, back into the fray. A crash and a body check in there was like a smile and handshake at the office water cooler for other people. The heat from all those thrashing bodies washed over me and I pogoed around, taking hits on all sides - not in a bad way, mind.

I pushed my way into the pit, got shoved into a mass of bone and leather, caught a glimpse of her, then lost it. Every now and then I'd see her ripped leather vest with the giant glittery cherries on the back, before it melded with the rest of the punx.

Partway into set, I noticed Cherry in the middle of the pit, slamming and sweating away to the onslaught of drums and guitars.

Mosh Pit by Kristyn Dunnion