Venomous

CHAPTER TEN

IS THERE ANYTHING more satisfying than taking a shower in the bathroom of the girl who you just had a whole lot of noisy sex with? Unfamiliar showers are a pet peeve of mine, so this moment of bliss is less common. I never know how to operate the shower, what knobs to turn where, and what buttons to push this way or that. The water pressure always sucks, the floor feels strange and slippery, and, of course, there’s the pressing ethical question of whether or not you’re allowed to pee on the floor. The shower is one of those private, personal spaces that, through constant daily routine and observant familiarity, you know as your own. Cleaning yourself in someone else’s shower is like being the Jewish friend who was brought along to Sunday mass. This morning, however, was different. Walk in, turn on the water, and do my thing.

Midway through washing my hair, the curtain gets pulled back and I jump. It’s probably Renée, right, but it could be Andrew or Aunt Marie-no glasses means constant paranoia (think Velma from Scooby-Doo). Fortunately it is Renée, naked and giving me a smile that I’m pretty sure is reserved just for my lanky ass. Without a word, our bodies mesh together, her breasts slippery against my chest, her lips hot and full and pillowy. As if on cue, everything besides Renée Tomas is gone. Nothing could make me happier than her and here and this.

After we, ahem, wash up for a while, our arms curl around each other and just stand there in the steam, her head cradled under my chin.

“Hey, you,” she says.

“Mmm.”

“So, last night…That was your first time, I take it.”

“Mmm.”

She giggles and runs her index finger back and forth along my skin. God in heaven, yes. “Is that an affirming or denying mumble?”

“Affirming.”

“Right.”

After some silence, I have to ask Stupid Guy Question Number One. “How’d you know?”

She makes a noise in her throat that means that she was expecting this. “There was just that little amount of…unfamiliarity with the procedure, I guess. Don’t worry. You’re a bit of a natural in the first place, and I had fun teaching you new things in the second.” She chuckles. “Corrupting you is kickass.”

And Number Two, of course: “How was I?”

“Good,” she says. “Really good. For your first time, stellar.”

“Really?”

“You just learned as you went along, y’know, placement and such. You were drunk, too…but man. You’re just on the ball when it comes to the little things.”

“Hrm?”

“You were good to my ears. Things like that.”

“Just…reciprocating.”

“You’ll be reciprocating a whole lot if I get my say from now on.”

We take some more silence, occasionally rocking back and forth in each other’s arms. I feel her head twitch, and she stares straight up at me with a reluctant, miserable look.

“Anyone told you about my folks yet?”

The question catches me off guard, and I can’t be clever. “Yeah. I heard about it at school.”

She nods. “I figured.” A pause, then: “It’s okay, you know. We can talk about it, or not, but I just want you to know it’s okay if we do. It’s not forbidden.”

“Okay.”

She keeps her eyes locked into mine. “I don’t sleep with a lot of boys.”

I nod. “Okay.”

“I mean, I have slept with some boys,” she says way too fast. “And some girls. And some of them were for fun, but most of them were only if I really, really cared about them.”

All this is doing is making me think about my girlfriend with other guys, which is the most uncomfortable thing I can imagine, and girls, which is embarrassingly much less so. The venom stirs, mumbling low in its throat. She can feel the change in my body too and holds me out at arm’s length.

“Look, this has a point.”

“What’s that?”

She puts her hand under my chin and guides my eyes to hers.

“That I know last night was a little sudden,” she whispers, and then laughs. “And a little drunken, yeah. But I want you to know…that this isn’t just…I’m not…”

The venom retreats like a wounded animal, and my heart feels like it’s going to burst. I lean forward and kiss her. It’s a Dawson’s Creek kiss, an interrupting kiss that lets the other person know that you understand what they’re going to say before you do. Her response is frantic; her hand finds the back of my head and presses. We kiss as if I’m going off to war.

When we come up for air, she looks at me hard. “I’m going to be a bitch now.”

“How so?”

“Are you in love with me, Locke?”

“Oh, you fucking bitch.”

“I’m serious.”

No matter what I answer, I’ll think it’s the wrong thing. Either I take the clingy, emotional path or the totally superficial path. So I go with what I feel. Which is something I rarely do, seeing as going with what I feel usually results in me standing over someone, cackling and sobbing in the same breath, while they rethink why they were fucking with me in the first place. This time, I feel something random and unprovoked and strange and utterly fantastic lying in the depths of my heart. The Great Truth, the Engine of Survival, the Fifth Element.

“Yeah,” I whisper, “I’m pretty sure I am, Renée.”

She looks at me for a bit more and then says, “Yeah, me too.”

We grab each other tight, fearless.

Renée has made it readily apparent that she’s not so adept in the cooking department, and I can make a mean batch of cream-cheese scrambled eggs (hey, you have a little brother, you learn to cook some fabulous platters that Mom wouldn’t tolerate if she was around). But as I come through the hallway into the glaring daylight of the kitchen, I realize that I’m in trouble.

Because Andrew’s sitting there reading the funnies. The thin newspaper is bunched in his clenched-white hands. He looks like a big, mean, stupid, and thoroughly pissed-off gorilla who likes the Wu-Tang Clan. He looks like someone who’s just found the guy who fucks his sister in their kitchen.

I freeze and let cold wash over me and come to rest in the pit of my stomach. A voice in the back of my mind reminds me of something I heard on the Discovery Channel: If a bear attacks, make yourself as big and loud as possible to chase it off. But before I can lift my arms and yell, “GO! AWAY!” Andrew takes a sip of his orange juice and mumbles, “Sid-down, Vinetti.”

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!

This is really, REALLY not the time.

Say “make me”! That’d be awesome! Just try it. “Make me, Andrew.” It’d be like you’re in a Robert Rodriguez movie!

I sit slowly, clasping my hands in front of me and regulating my breathing. The venom crouches calmly on its haunches, preparing to launch if necessary. There’s a good chance I’m going to bleed furiously at the end of the conversation, and I have to be ready for that. In the meantime, I can just pray that Renée stays in her room-or is wearing headphones.

Andrew dramatically folds the paper in front of him and gives me a good, long exhale. “You spent the night here, I see.”

I nod. Well, glad we got that out of the way.

“You know about my parents, don’t you? Someone must’ve told you, if not Renée.”

Change of direction much? I look up into his eyes, which are still hard, but now with prepared stoniness rather than anger or pride. There’s no right way to go about this, is there? How the fuck can I answer that? Why does this big fucking monkey have to bring that shit up to me? The venom spins inside me, like a top, frustrated, backed into a corner. After last night, after that shower just now, I can’t fight Andrew.

“Yeah,” I croak through a mouthful of the venom. “I’m really sorry.”

“I don’t want to hear it.” His eyes flitter like those of a trapped animal, like he can’t focus on anything for too long or else it becomes his parents. “I’m incredibly territorial about my sister, Locke. Don’t know what you heard, but my parents died ’cause of me, so I tend to think of myself as her protector.”

“They…It wasn’t your fault, Andrew.”

“You SHUT UP!” he screams. There’s no drama or facade to this statement; it’s a primal scream, an uncontrolled blast. I’ve never seen someone get angry and go pale at the same time. The screaming stops as abruptly as it began. “Shut up. You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Vinetti, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try to have an opinion on the matter. I made a mistake and they died because of it, simple as that. Have you ever lost a parent, Locke?”

“My dad left us, and I…think it’s ’cause I’m such a spaz.” Jesus. I’ve never said that out loud before. “But it’s not the same thing.”

“Damn right it isn’t,” he snaps. “You don’t know shit. You don’t have any fucking idea. My dad left a long time ago, and it wasn’t because of a choice, it was because he was addicted to crystal, and we couldn’t get him to stop pawning off about seventy percent of everything we owned. You can’t-you can’t comprehend what the fuck this family has been through just ’cause your dad left… It’s not even the same species.”

I shut my eyes tight as the venom brays for blood. Before I can stop myself, the heat behind my eyes gets too high and I blurt out, “Well, what I went through was pretty fucking bad, so how about you watch your mouth, okay?”

He sneers for a second and then says, “Fair enough. My apologies.”

The venom is shifting like an eel in a coffee can. Andrew’s still being an asshole, and the urge to smash his face in is incredible, but something’s off here. He’s articulate. He’s giving me an inch, for once. What’s the fucking deal?

“I am very territorial of my sister,” he repeats, “no matter what kind of psycho shit she’s into. She’s my family. And she…” I can see the words arranging themselves in his head. “Renée hasn’t done too good since it happened. She’s not happy a lot. She’s full of fucking pills most of the time, but they keep her pretty cohesive and carefree, so I don’t say nothing about it, but I’ll tell you that I don’t like it, and I hate these freaks she surrounds herself with. I hate that mincing queer buddy of yours, I hate the tall Mohawked black kid, but most of all, I’m beside myself that she’s ended up with you.”

“Tough shit, she’s my girlfriend.” Again, the venom seems to speak for me, standing up when I don’t have the spine to.

“Watch yourself, Vinetti.”

“Thanks for the advice, Andrew. There a fucking point to this?”

His eyes harden on me, and I can feel his anger in the air between us. “The pills keep her okay,” he seethes, ignoring my statement. “And so do you. Apparently.”

Something catches in my throat. The venom stops in its tracks, somewhere between infuriated and confused. ”Go on.”

“She talks about you quite a bit. She’s had little pep talks about you with me, which is why I don’t destroy your ass regularly for touching her, though I will say, the desire to kill you has been somewhat overwhelming.” He sneers, disgusted. “And it pisses me off that you get your spastic little hands on her whenever you feel like it. It…incenses me. Fancy word, you like that? I didn’t get into our school ’cause of Mommy and Daddy or basketball or any corner-cutting bullshit-I studied my ass off and got the grades I deserve. You think you’re King Shit because you’re all fucking tragic, but you’re no smarter or classier than me.” I feel his eyes skim me up and down. Planning on where he could break me. “But you keep her okay. She’s happy a lot. She sings fucking Joy Division in the shower again and can get out of bed on her own. And if that’s the case, maybe she’ll be okay…y’know, finally. So I want to make a deal with you. Set some things straight.”

He stares, waiting for me to reply, but all I’m doing is focusing on not going on a rampage. Think of Renée. He’s doing this for her, and so are you.

“Keep her happy,” he rasps out. “Don’t hurt her, don’t treat her like a piece of meat, and we’ll be okay. I don’t like you, Vinetti, but if you make her happy enough to forget what happened, then I can stand you. And I think that’s all we both want.”

“So basically, you’re telling me that if I act like an asshole, you’re going to kill me.”

“Yeah. But if you keep yourself in check, I’ll leave you alone. And…” He sighs, resigned. “She asked me to do this part a week or two ago-I’ll start calling you Locke now.” He stares for a bit longer, and then says, “You have a little brother, right? So you get where I’m at.”

I want to be angry. I want to go on a rampage of pure hatred. But the last words kill me, and all the hot, rebellious anger behind the venom deflates, leaving me with just the horrible black depression. He’s right. I think of Lon and I know exactly where he’s at. As much as I want to hate, empathy wins this round.

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, okay.”

Before I can sputter out more brilliant insight, Renée walks into the room singing, “I don’t hear eggs cooking!” and then halts at the doorway with her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open. Andrew looks up at her with a mixture of pride and fear and whispers, “Hey.”

“Hey,” she says back, her eyes darting to my downturned face and back to Andrew’s. “Should I leave?”

“No, but I should,” he grunts as he rises. “I’m meeting George to smoke out in about half an hour. I gotta get dressed.” As he walks past, he takes the time to stop and put his hand on her shoulder and squeeze. Her hand shoots up to his and squeezes it back, and her eyes and mouth go tight.

“Wanna go see Mom this weekend? I got some time free.”

She nods. “I’d like that,” she says.

“All right, well…just let me know when. I’ll get someone to give us a ride.”

“Okay.”

And then he’s gone, his door slamming shut and his music blasting.

Renée runs a hand through my hair. “You okay, hon?”

I sigh, trying to breathe out my anger. “Got any chocolate milk?”

As I’m sliding my key into the lock of my apartment, it dawns on me that I forgot to call my mom. Between consummating my relationship and breaking bread with a heartbroken behemoth, I totally forgot to call home.

I open the door just enough that I can slip through it by turning sideways. Every board in the house creaks and moans as I tiptoe my way to my bedroom. The plan is simple: get undressed, get under the covers, and pretend like she just didn’t hear me get in.

As I’m reaching the door to my room, I take one last momentary glance around the house. No sign of Mom. Maybe she’s out. Booyah. I slide the door open and slither into my room without so much as a click.

“You’re in deep shit,” says my mom as she folds my under-pants.

“Hi!” God hates me. At least, more than usual.

“First off, I don’t pay a cell phone bill for you to turn the thing off.” Her folding grows more and more frantic. Socks are being balled at sound-barrier speeds. “And second, with how you’ve been acting the last couple of months, I would hope you understand that I’m a little concerned about you.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, putting my hands up in defense. “That was totally my bad.”

She finally stops folding and looks at me. “I know you have new friends, and I’m really happy for you, but you can’t leave me in the dark like this, okay? I spent most of the night thinking you were dead in a ditch. I almost called the cops.”

The venom shivers, but I ignore it. She’s right. “Again, sorry. I’ll call next time.”

“Okay,” she says, even though it’s obviously not. “So how was the party?”

“It was great. We danced and partied, and I got a tarot card from the group, which, like, makes me one of them now.”

“Sounds sort of like Lord of the Flies.”

The venom flickers out into my speech. “Yeah, we chased some fat kid around and chanted for his blood. It was killer.”

“Well, I’m glad you had a good time. So whose house did you sleep at?”

I’ve had this answer primed on my lips from the moment I walked into this apartment. “Randall’s.”

“Oh, did he meet up with you? He called here pretty late, looking for you.”

GodDAMMIT. Come on, Locke, recovery. “Yeah, we found each other.”

“Good. Don’t forget you have Dr. Yeski later today.”

“I had sex last night.”

FUCK. How’d that come out? All during my way here, I’d told myself that I wouldn’t bring this up in my session, that this was for Renée and me, no one else. And then it’s the first thing I say after I sit down. It’s been hard-I’ve wanted to scream it from the rooftops and sing it into the breeze.

Dr. Yeski nods thoughtfully, as if analyzing the concept of the idea of the notion of me getting busy. It’s like talking carnal pleasures with Professor X. “With whom?”

“With my girlfriend. Who else?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t have to be your girlfriend who you slept with.”

“But then I’d just be a scumbag.”

“No, you wouldn’t, you’d be imperfect. There’s a big difference, Locke.”

“I’d like to think that sleeping with someone else when you have a girlfriend makes you a scumbag as well as imperfect.”

“Well, that’s your opinion.”

“Yeah, it really is.” I start to pick at the arm of the couch, not quite sure what to say to that. Is this supposed to be a form of progressive new therapy, being okay with asshole behavior? It’s like a lack of warmth is a job requirement.

“Well. Anyway. There. I had sex with my girlfriend.”

“Was this your first time having sex?”

“Oh. Yeah. That’s sort of the point.”

“Uh-huh. How’d it make you feel?”

“Amazing.”

“What does that mean?”

How else is sex supposed to make you feel? “It means that orgasms create a pleasurable feeling that I’m sure is biological encouragement for reproduction-”

She laughs out loud, and I feel victorious. “Emotionally. Are you glad it happened? Was it what you had envisioned?”

This question I actually threw around in my head a few times. I mean, I love Renée and last night was incredible, but did it live up to my expectations? Sex had always been this looming, crucial thing in the background. Now that it was over, where do I stand?

Finally I look at her and smile. “Y’know what? I regret nothing about last night. It was perfect. It wasn’t at all how I envisioned it, but it was even better because of that. I feel like a million bucks.”

She smiles. “Good for you. But back to what you just said-how had you envisioned it?”

Tender area, that. “I mean…honestly? I had sort of envisioned it being really awkward and bad,” I say softly, throwing a little laugh in there to try and prove that this didn’t make me really fucking uncomfortable. “I thought that I’d be too nervous, and she’d get tired of me, and I wouldn’t be able to find…it, and-”

“The clitoris.”

GYAH. Come on, lady. “…yeah. And also, I always was afraid…” The tension builds, and it’s as though my jaw won’t work.

“I’m listening.”

I squeeze and shove until it pops like a mental zit. “I was afraid something would happen with the venom. That things wouldn’t work, and I’d get frustrated, and maybe even violent. I think it’s why I’ve always been kind of freaked out by sex, because I was scared it would open up some sort of gateway into the worst part of the venom, and someone would get hurt, and my pride would…well, you get the picture.”

“And what happened to it?”

“It disappeared the minute she touched me.” As I say it, it registers as real, true. “And when we were alone, it ceased to exist. Not just the feeling of it, but any memory of it. The venom didn’t matter.”

“Very good. I think we’re making progress,” she says softly.

“What, because the venom doesn’t show up during sex?”

“Well, sure.”

“What if it does?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” She scribbles something on her notepad. “And how’s the venom now? How has it been lately?”

“I’m…it’s changing,” I say, trying to assign words to the whirlwind of emotions I’ve dealt with the past couple of weeks. “Recently, it’s been there constantly, this pestering voice in the back of my head, at all times. Like it’s becoming less and less localized. I don’t feel like I’m having as many attacks, but the poisonous side, the hurtful side, seems to have come up to the surface.”

“Mmm-hmm. How has that affected you?”

“Actually, it’s been sort of helpful. At times. It’s as though, when I get a little angry, instead of blowing up or just taking it and swallowing the anger, the venom takes over and makes me sort of…dangerous, you know? I feel risky and tough, but confident. Sharp. Does that make sense?”

She nods, cradling her chin. “The venom is, if I may, your Mr. Hyde. It can do things you can’t, go places you’re too scared to.”

“Not the analogy I’d use, but sure. Just, now it’s less of an explosion. Like it’s in my hands.”

“You sure about that?”

I eye her nervously. “Wow, what does that mean?”

“From what I’ve seen, you’re coming to terms with your anger,” she says, scribbling another note. “Whether or not you’re in control of it is an entirely different issue all together.”

“You make it sound really terrifying.”

“No,” she says in her stupid fucking shrink voice. “I’m expressing my opinion. If it’s terrifying, then you’re the one who’s making it so.”

Dr. Yeski’s full of shit. The next couple of weeks are a blur of happiness.

School is wonderful. Andrew leaves me alone and Randall seems like an even better friend than before, now that I’m part of the tarot (which is a little fucked-up, but I’m too ecstatic to care). Occasionally, when we go walking or go downtown, someone recognizes me as the new member and talks to me, makes me feel magical and important. Randall just acts as if it’s all old, if pleasant, news. He’s used to this kind of reception almost wherever he goes. For me, this is Shangri-la and Hollywood rolled into one. I feel like Madonna.

I am, as it turns out, a love machine. Renée and I spend more time having sex than we do eating. Whenever I see her for the first time that day and kiss, we both get a look in our eyes of pure hunger. She starts wearing clothes when I come over that I know are put on for the sole purpose of making me hot under the boxers-fishnet shirts, bondage skirts, low-cut pants, bras with studded straps. New concepts and practices enter my mental library, positions and sweet spots and condom brands. The best part is the reciprocation: I don’t just want her, we want each other. There’s energy in the air when we’re together-fiery, passionate, horny energy. It’s incredible to be in love with this girl, but it’s even more incredible to know that she wants me, wants my smell and my skin, wants my sweat and my hair and my butt. That’s a weird concept: a girl liking my butt. How the fuck does this happen?

And on top of all that, the venom only makes its entrances charmingly now. Occasionally I get those flashes, like the one time with Renée on the phone, when the venom seems to lace my comments and attitude with wit and power. Rage seems to melt on contact with me; I brush it off my shoulders and look on the bright side. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel totally in control. Every moment is like that first shower with Renée-I feel my venom alarms begin to light up, and then the sight and sound of her just make them go dead quiet before they even really start sounding off. No one is poisoned, including myself, and every day seems to push it farther and farther. Who knew that after all the soul-searching and despair, she was what I needed to fend the venom off?

Love was the cure all along. It’d be disgustingly predictable if it wasn’t so great.

Then there’s the party.

The door booms open, and the city skyline glows around me. My coat flutters in the rooftop breeze, but I barely notice.

“Where’d this…what is…”

Casey slaps me on the back. “Told you this’d be worth your while.”

The rooftop, lit by the harsh fluorescent glow of nearby Times Square, is covered with artists. Kids dressed like redneck circus performers scamper across the concrete, spraying tags and slathering canvases. Great swaths of poster paper have been laid out and thoroughly marked. Every place I look, someone is creating, illustrating, building. The whole process moves at a steady rhythm. No one takes a break; they just move from one strange emotional expression to another. The whole thing makes me think of an ant colony.

Off to the side stands a table covered with bottles. I ask Renée and Casey about it. When Casey informs me it’s the bar, Renée and I decide that we have our work cut out for us.

As we’re mixing up White Russians, Randall appears beside us and mumbles, “What’s up, guys?”

Renée gives him a huge bear hug. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in ages!”

Randall shrugs and says something about it only being a few weeks, which isn’t that long. There’s something wrong with him tonight, I can tell. He’s not in his normal master-of-ceremonies mode, but instead looks like I normally do at parties, shifting his weight constantly and glancing around with a severe look on his face. After a little small talk, Renée kisses me and excuses herself to hug and chatter with a massive raver-looking guy who has glowsticks somehow braided into his dreadlocks (classy). I turn to Randall and smile.

“Are you okay, man?”

He shakes himself off a bit and shrugs. “I’ll be fine.”

“That statement right there doesn’t make me think you’re okay.”

“Just a little-” Before he can finish, Casey shoves his way between us, grabs the bottle of Jim Beam on the table, and slugs down about two shots before disappearing into the crowd with a whoop.

“That why you’re worried?” I whisper, throwing a thumb at Casey.

“Yup.” He sighs and stares down into his drink.

There are a million things I want to do to help, but I have no clue what they might be. Randall’s the one who’s supposed to be on top of things, taking charge, keeping all his insane friends in check. Me, I can barely tie my shoes, much less control a herd of emotionally unstable teenagers with my very presence.

I open my mouth to say something, but then Renée is at my side. “SPRAY! PAINT! THE WALLS!”

Randall waves his hand in the air at me. “Go make art. I don’t want to ruin your night, anyway.”

“Randall, you’re not-”

Renée tugs at my arm. “IT FEELS GOOD TO SAY WHAT I WANT! IT FEELS GOOD TO KNOCK THINGS DOWN! SPRAY! PAINT! THE WALLS!”

Randall shoots me a vicious look. “Go have fun.” It’s an order. I’ll trust him tonight. I follow Renée, who keeps screaming “Black Flag” like it’s her fucking job.

The can feels heavy but satisfying in my hand. Every shake gives me the clak-clak back-and-forth of the propellant-widget, and a mere touch of the head sends an invisible jet that shines black against the gray stone. I curve my arm, and a curve appears; I pull back, and the black breaks up, gets fuzzy. Renée and I dance with our spray cans, hooting and hollering as our hands shoot magical markings on the wall before us. Our nostrils burn with the deathly exhaust and our ears seem to vibrate with the thing, the KRRSSSH! of the art leaving the can, until the whole rooftop and skyline seem to be leaning in and watching us, mesmerized. From nothing it builds, growing larger, more intricate; it begins to have a point, a destined design. Finally our cans give their last pathetic aerosol whisper and fall from our hands with a metallic rattle.

We step back and observe, beaming. It’s a reaperlike figure, cloaked and hooded, rising from an ocean of black and red swirls. He hangs in a Christ pose, claws extended, with his heart glowing red, sending wisps of crimson out of his chest and like an aura, the bright red wheeling out of the blackness in his cold, dark center.

I’m the only one who knows his name. Blacklight.

“Whoa! Dudes, come here and look at this!”

The crowd takes me by surprise. Ten, fifteen kids, all beaming in awe at our spray-can creation. Renée and I lock eyes and share a smile. We rock.

“What’d you fucking say to me?”

The shout yanks the whole group out of our dumbstruck creative love and back to the party. Casey stands across the rooftop, swaying drunk, pointing at a couple of kids and laughing like a madman. I register the kids: Terry and Omar, friends of both Andrew and Randall, staring down at my friend as though he were an insect.

“It’s just that by the way you two’re whispering and talking,” slurs Casey, “you’d think that you’re playing on my team.”

Renée bursts through our onlookers and jumps between Casey and Terry. “Listen, guys,” she says, “there’s no reason-”

“Out of my way,” yells Terry, and-

– shoves her.

Knocks her on her ass with a good, hard shove.

Something familiar opens its eyes, and then rockets through my system.

Two minutes later, Randall is pulling me off Terry by my elbows as I wrench and pull. The noises coming out of my throat are primal, a mix between the shriek of some jungle bird, the snarl of a wolf, and the cackle of a hyena. Blood is everywhere, on my fists, on my shirt, all around Terry’s face that he’s now clutching as he rolls back and forth. There’s blood on my glasses. Spit runs off my lower lip, and tears course down my cheeks. Renée stands on the sidelines, her hands to her mouth, looking aghast. Omar is crouched by Terry, suddenly wishing he weren’t as drunk and stoned as he looks. From the wet sounds spurting out of Terry’s face, he owes Randall a thank-you before he heads home. The motherfucker’s still breathing.

By the time Randall gets me over to the one secluded corner of the roof, all eyes are on me. Not in artistic appreciation like before. Now it’s horror. My hand crosses my eyes, and the grainy touch reminds me that I’m covered in someone else’s blood.

Randall stands over me, eyes accusing. “I thought you were getting better.”

“It’s never…” I try to get the words out between quiet sobs, but my throat keeps spasming. Focus on each word before you say it. “It’s never happened like that before. I’ve never done anything that bad before. I’ve never wanted to hurt anyone like that before. It’s always been me losing control.”

His laugh is like the rattle of bones. “Oh yeah, and you weren’t losing control back there. Fuck, Locke, FUCK. What the fuck do you want us to do?”

“It-it was like-like I had a direction. I channeled it. As if the venom latched onto him like a grappling hook and pulled me in. It was all intentional. There was no regret or care or worry.”

“It was pure,” says Randall.

“Exactly.”

“Fantastic,” he spits. “A record low. I’m so proud, buddy, I’m-”

“Locke?”

My eyes come up on Renée. She’s holding her purse with both hands in front of her, her entire body turned into one rigid line. Her eye makeup is running down her face in inky black rivers, making her look even more Goth than usual, which breaks my heart and makes the venom laugh. The old familiar discomfort and guilt, the knowledge that anything bad about tonight came out of me, it’s all right there in front of me, staring at me like I’m a fearsome animal.

Randall shakes his head and makes his way past her, back across the roof. I immediately hear people inquiring about what happened, and his awkward responses. It’s of no concern, though. I’ve got my problems right in front of me.

“Hi,” I rasp.

“What…Why did you do that?”

“It was seeing him…he-”

“I KNOW what he did, Locke!” she bawls. “But WHY? Everything has been so nice lately, we’ve been doing so well, and then you did THIS!”

“Renée, you don’t understand, he-”

“He what? Shoved me, knocked me over? I can HANDLE THAT, Locke! And yeah, yeah, it’s really nice to know you’re protective of me, but for Christ’s sake, there’s a limit! A FUCKING LIMIT!” Black tears are spattering off her face, onto her hands and the roof. They remind me of blood. “You can’t pulp someone’s face every time they do something obnoxious to me! I KNOW Terry, Locke; he’s a pig and an asshole, but he’s not a bad person! What he did was stupid, but it’s a party and he was wasted and provoked, and there was no reason to DO THAT!”

“He deserved it.” I try to say something else, something to make her happy, but the venom speaks for me, and I have to agree with it. It was Terry’s own damn fault.

“He deserved a TALKING-TO!” she screams. “Not a beating! Andrew would’ve talked to him, and the whole thing would’ve been settled! He would’ve apologized to me and that would be that!”

The idea that Andrew can take care of her in a way I can’t burns, and the venom rears up again. There’s no exhaustion, no limited supply, it’s just there, and it’s pissed. “You want me to just sit back like a dick and let that happen? Let some bastard-”

“I want you to GROW UP! That didn’t solve anything! Now all that’s going to happen is that Andrew’s going to find out that my boyfriend, the one he ALREADY DISAPPROVES OF, is not just a ‘spaz’ or whatever but a fucking monster! Did you SEE that kid’s face by the time you were done with it? What were you thinking? God, how can you do that, how can you rationalize hurting another person like that? What makes it possible that you can beat someone until they’re just BLOOD? You’re worse than Casey, you, you-” But then she can’t speak anymore, because she’s crying too hard, her voice dying in her throat as she puts her hands to her face and wipes violently at her eyes, and soon she’s just silent, racked with tears and making me wonder if I’ve just fought my way out of my one true saving grace.

“Do you hate me?”

“Never,” she whispers. “I could never hate you. Sometimes I want to so badly, and I just can’t. I love you more than anything in the world. It won’t change.”

I look up into her face, and she’s closer to me now, her one hand held out toward me, shivering slightly. I reach up and take it, pressing it against my face. I hear her breath come in sharply.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She moves suddenly, wrapping herself around me, her arms locked on my waist and her head on my shoulder. We shake and rock with weeping, as if every so often the venom gives off an electric shock that slams into our bodies. She feels it, absorbs it, swallows my pain when it’s too much for me to handle.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” I moan. “I’m fine for so long and then this happens, and it’s like I can never be free of it, like every time I start to feel normal or cured, it rears its head and laughs at me and lets me know that I’ll always be poisonous, and that anything I touch will just die…”

She tightens her grip on me, and I stop and wipe my nose. I want her to say something, to tell me I’m okay, but she stays quiet. We hold each other like that until she gets the phone call telling her to come home. She steps out of my arms too fast, and doesn’t even kiss me good-bye.

The roof clears off shortly afterward (surprise, surprise). There are comments, whistles, a couple of encouraging statements telling me to stay cool and wishing me a good night. Omar curses Randall out; Casey moans apologies through his hideous drunk, but soon they all leave. From my corner, I hear Randall talk to Alan, the gathering’s host, who tells him to let me stay up here as long as I need, we’re all tarot here.

It’s harder this time. It won’t speak or move or communicate with me, just sits there feeling pleased with itself and drumming its fingers. It isn’t asleep or drained, it’s just bored for now.

After a while, Randall comes over and joins me. His walks implies that he’s been drinking down the tension. With a slump, he’s next to me, back propped against the roof’s lip, and we stare out at the New York skyline in the growing morning light.

“God, that’s pretty,” he sighs, lighting a couple of smokes and handing me one.

I nod, and then look over at him, a lump rising in my throat again. “Thank you, Randall. Thank you so much for looking after me tonight.”

He shrugs and takes a drag. “Fuck you, Locke.”

The words land in my ears like a cold, heavy rock. He’s never said something that blatantly heartless to me before. Tonight was worse than I thought. “I’m sorry, Randall.”

“‘I’m sorry, Randall,’” he imitates in a plaintive little voice. “‘Didn’t mean it. It was the venom. You wouldn’t understand.’”

My sympathy begins to do combat with rage. “Hey, man, that’s a little unfair, isn’t it? Come on.”

“FUCK YOU, man!” he yells, leaning forward with the effort of the words. “Look at you, man! You’re sitting on a rooftop, caked in blood. I’m sick of having to pick up after you every time you get pissed off.”

You preppy little shit.

“It’s not like I’m TRYING to do this, Randall!”

“Are you sure of that?” he snaps. “Is there really ANY effort on your part not to go ballistic? Does the venom take over or do you LET IT FREE? Part of me wonders if you just enjoy this, Locke. Getting to be the dark hero and all-and don’t bullshit me, man, I can see that. Huh, I wonder who the guy with the spread arms and the bleeding heart’s supposed to represent. I wonder. Then again, you don’t tell me anything, because my puny mind couldn’t possibly grasp your unhappiness.”

The venom begins to take over. “What, you just decided to be a dick tonight? You’ve been acting pissy all evening, and now this. Grow up.”

“Oh, look who’s telling me to grow up.” He chortles. “Y’know, it’s not fucking fair, man. Renée falls for you. And Casey finds someone who understands the black. And all these people have gotten into this little tarot card club because I’ve brought ’em in and I’ve orchestrated it all…and Randall Elliot gets FUCKED. I’m just the Fool, y’know? You’re the Strength, and Casey’s the Emperor, and I’m the fucking jester who plays guitar and smiles. No one’s ever going to fall in love with me or worship me or even FIGHT me. No one’s ever going to think, ‘Wow, Randall, he was really something. I remember that kid.’ I’m your training wheels, Locke. I’m your fucking driver’s test, your gateway drug. Why? Because I’m not fucked-up? Because I try to be a nice, normal guy?”

Cry me a river. Consider this role reversal, asshole.

“It’s not like that, and you know it.”

“Yeah, well, you’re my best friend, of course you say that,” he murmurs. Something inspires him then, and he laughs. “But if I did what you do, it wouldn’t mean shit. You’re so charming in your rage, so broken and fragile and poetic about it all, and people see it as a part of who you are. But me, they see nothing special. You’re special in your dark little world, but me? Nah. I don’t have some deep, unexplainable thing inside me. I don’t beat people into blood pudding at parties. So I guess I don’t really matter, do I? Well, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I’m not bent and twisted to the point where violence is second nature to me. I’m sorry that, overall, I’m well-fucking-adjusted. It’s just in my nature, huh… I guess when the end of the day comes, I’m there alone. You’re with Renée and the venom, and I’m alone.”

“Casey thinks you’re-”

“HA. Casey? Everything that happened tonight, even that stupid little atrocity of yours, was his doing. Every time we hang out, he finds some way to ruin it. There’s always a fight to be had or inappropriate comments to be made for him. Man, he’s worse than you. At least you’re trying, or claiming you’re trying. Fuck both of you. Man, maybe you two should’ve gotten together in the first place. You’re made for each other.”

And I bite my cheek, because Randall’s my best friend in the world, and telling him this is going to destroy him, and maybe even ruin every good thing that’s happened to me recently, but the venom is pissed, the venom is bitter, and the venom doesn’t care.

“That’s cute,” I say stonily, “seeing as you’re the one he’s in love with.”

Randall shoots me an evil glare until he realizes I’m not joking.

Y OU DON’T want to do this!” I yelled while leaping away from another lunge by the monster as it tried to attack me. “This isn’t who you are! Fight it! I know you can!”

It raised its head and let loose such a deafening roar that I felt a spark of fear spread through my body. Whatever was standing before me now was cold and ruthless, a creature born from an exponential growth in the song of the city, the energy of darkness. It was huge, angry, and unspeakably heartless: Its insectoid eyes rolled grotesquely in its head as its mouth-tentacles twisted wormlike at me. This thing had all the ethics and morals of a scorpion.

“We just spoke! You’re not Blacklight! I’ll change who I am, rid myself of this poisonous power that lies inside me! There’s no need for us to fight! We-”

One clawed hand swung errantly outward and slammed me hard in the jaw. A flash of white, silence, air. I flew backward a couple of yards and skidded worryingly close to the rooftop’s edge. This thing was strong. Stronger than before. Better stick to the air.

As I rose to my feet and hovered calmly, my eyes narrowed. “Very well. You leave me no choice.”

The creature made a noise, like laughter, and lowered itself back on its haunches.

And then we were airborne, colliding, my cloak swooped out around me like great black wings, its huge body squirming and squishing in response. I reared back my hands, prayed this would work, and then thrust them both into the great black mass of mouth-tendrils that was splayed wide before me and rent it in opposite directions.

Deep within the mass of black gunk, his face lay, pale, stony, eyes filmed over with darkness.

“FIGHT IT!” I bellowed. “MAKE IT STOP! YOU NEED TO MAKE IT STOP!”

“Too late,” he spoke in someone else’s voice. Someone familiar. “Come too far. We must complete the mission.”

“WHAT MISSION? WHO ARE YOU?”

He coughed out a word-it sounded like “cover,” but I wasn’t sure-and then the fluid darkness’s power was too strong. Suddenly it was closing over his face, and the harder I tried to pull back, the tighter it grew. Slithering black tentacles pulled me inward, pulled me deep within the monster itself, while I struggled desperately to free my hands. The beast, unmoved, kept pulling.