The First Male (16 page)

The end of Franklin's mesmerizing first set was met with thunderous applause from the audience and his cool, laconic reply when he leaned into the microphone and simply said, “See y'all in half an hour.” His voice was confident and smooth; he was the reigning king of the room and the audience, his eager subjects. He dipped off the side of the stage with a proud smile on his face and disappeared.

“Wow,” Simon said. The music of the club blared through the speakers. The crowd didn't stop their dancing; they simply changed their rhythm. Simon grabbed Brooke's hand and led her through the crowd toward the back bar. He wanted to use the restroom and to get a bottle of water

“Can you get me some water?” he asked Brooke, making sure that he handed her money to pay for it. “I'll be right back.” Simon walked down the dimly lit hallway toward the bathroom. He had walked this walk many times in the past, during Franklin's many shows, but the distance to the restroom seemed much longer this time. Maybe he was in a hurry to pee. He moved around a couple that was grinding against the wall. Usually, he'd watch for a few minutes, but he feared any delay now would cause him to urinate on himself.

As he continued the long march, the overhead lights flickered and the hallway itself seemed to shift out of focus. Simon rubbed his eyes with his hands and pushed opened the door to the john. Surprisingly, it was empty. Immediately, he rushed over to the
urinal, ignoring that sour smell of urine and alcohol that permeated the thick air in the tiny room. He unzipped his jeans and exhaled with relief as he released the liquid that had built up in his bladder.

The lights flickered again.

“Ssssss-Simon
.”

Simon spun around in a panic, spraying the wall with urine. The lights flickered rapidly and the room itself seemed to be changing shape, as if the walls were malleable. Quickly, Simon finished, buttoned his pants and turned around. The lights went out completely, covering the room in a dense black. He couldn't see anything, not even light seeping under the door from the other room.

“Ssssss-Simon
.”

“Leave me the fuck alone!”

Don't be afraid. Don't be afraid
. The familiar command came in a voice that contradicted the one hissing his name. This hissing voice harshly grated on his ears while this one offered—or at least attempted to—a peculiar kind of peace; a dichotomy that his present fear couldn't reconcile.

Suddenly, a white light flickered like a strobe light in the corner. A shape of a man was being carved out from the shadows in the room. Simon held his breath and watched. He was too terrified to even move. The shadows gathered and created a hooded man that must have been eight feet tall. The man had no face; only yellow eyes inside of a dark hood. The shadows that made up the man moved like flames in a strong wind, giving the giant Shadowman the macabre appearance of black fire.

“Come to me.”

The room shifted in and out of focus, as if Simon was looking at an image through the broken lens of a camera. Then, the smell
of rotting meat overtook the scent of hot piss and beer. The smell held a tight grip around his neck, choking the breath out of his body.

He felt unsteady, wobbly. He pushed his body against the sink for leverage just as the Shadowman raised his arm. His long, bony finger reached out across the flashing light toward Simon, who watched helplessly as the finger curved close to his face. Simon's eyes bulged and the stench of decay lodged in his throat.

“Go away!” Simon screamed. He gripped the sink tightly and closed his eyes.

“Fuck you, man. I gotta piss.” Simon opened his eyes in time to see a wiry black-haired man stumble to the urinal. Simon watched him, almost expecting him to morph into a ball of shadows. He looked around the room and there was no sign or trace of the Shadowman. Gone were the shadows and the flickering lights and the bitter smell of decomposing flesh. Simon remained at the sink, looking around the room.

“Get the fuck outta here. This ain't no peepshow!” Simon didn't have to be told twice to leave that room. Hurriedly, he moved toward the door. He couldn't have gotten out of that room faster if he had been an Olympic sprinter. In that room, he had felt unfettered evil.

As he burst through the door and wobbled into the dark hallway, he clutched the black wall for support, pressing his back firmly against it as his chest heaved. His heartbeat pumped furiously against his ribcage. With his head held low, he took a few jagged steps down the long hallway, barely avoiding collisions with a few people scattered about the space. His balance was off kilter, thrown by something so wretched that he'd have difficulty articulating it.

When he entered the main area, he saw Brooke at the end of
the bar with her fingers wrapped around a bottle of water. He bulldozed his way through the crowd and made his way over to her and practically snatched the bottle from her grip. Eagerly, he poured the liquid down his bone-dry throat, hoping that the water would drown out a thought even more disturbing than the image of the Shadowman and the smell of dead flesh.

Undoubtedly, he knew that he had been in the presence of wickedness, of death. Even more troubling, there was a part of him that liked it.

C
HAPTER
11

S
imon stood at the water's edge absentmindedly tossing pebbles into the Mississippi River. When it was warm, families came out in full force to enjoy the water, but not today. There were people around, but fewer than he had expected. Simon tossed another pebble. He watched the waves ripple throughout the murky water, and every few seconds or so, he'd look up and gaze into the horizon, hoping divine intervention would show him the way, or, at least, provide him some answers to the questions that he could not shake.

It was an unseasonably cool day in December and the wind skimming across the water cut through his light jacket. The squawking sound from a group of birds that flew overhead temporarily stole his attention. A wounded bird, no doubt a part of their flock, struggled on the ground to take flight. Simon watched the tremendous effort of the bird, which took a few ragged steps and flapped its wings forcefully, only to fall flat. The bird meandered near Simon, who noticed a tear in its left wing. The bird struggled and struggled to take flight, but its efforts were pointless. Simon, watching the other birds soaring above, felt sorry for the damaged one. The bird reminded him so much of himself; they were kindred spirits.

Lonely.

Damaged.

Struggling.

Unsure.

As he desired for himself, he wished the bird nothing but peace.

Fly away, little birdie
.

He noticed a tingling in his fingers and as the thought left his head, Simon watched the bird take a few confident steps and take flight. It soared!

Simon stared, completely mesmerized by the effortless flight of the bird. It flew proudly and Simon watched it join its group that had gathered atop a naked tree in the distance.

Did I do that?

With all that had happened, Simon wasn't surprised. He didn't take responsibility for the bird's recovery, nor did he discount his intervention, either. At this point, he thought anything was possible. He simply exhaled and moved away from the water and took a seat on the wooden stump a short distance away. He had more pressing issues than wounded birds.

He loved this spot. He had spent many days here staring at the water, people-watching and finding his inner peace. Something about the lapping sounds of the water and tranquility of the scene never failed to ease his mind, regardless of what was going on in his life at the time. It was here that he found his center. Whenever Brooke stressed him out, or when school became too burdensome, or when he didn't know where his next meal would come from, he'd come here and leave his troubles down by the riverside.

Simon tossed his last stone into the water and rubbed his face with his hands. For the first time in a long time, he truly felt afraid. He wasn't so much afraid of what was happening as he was of what he was becoming. He could feel a change coming. He thought back to the night he had the fight with Bryon at Starry Nights. He felt power surge through his veins in a way that simple adrenaline could not explain. He felt as if he had the strength of
ten men. He could have easily ripped Byron apart, limb by limb. He remembered the tingling in his fingers and the fire he felt in his fists when he balled them for combat. They felt heavy, like thick stone, but he wielded them easily and crushed his adversary. He knew Byron never stood a chance. Simon was grateful that he hadn't knocked his head off his shoulders. As odd as that thought sounded to him, he knew that on that night it was well within the realm of possibility.

What disturbed him more than the brutal beating he handed out was what he felt after it was done. After Bryon lay unconscious and Debbie pressed him to leave, it took all the strength Simon had left to contain his joy.

Joy. An unusual emotion to feel when someone was near death
, he thought.

How could I find pleasure in nearly beating a man to death?
That was the question that Simon had asked himself over and over and over again. The question stayed with him and drove him to distraction. It was like he was becoming someone else.

Then, there were the thugs. They're lucky they escaped with their lives.

And then the tasting of blood.

Simon huffed wearily and watched a few people move rapidly down the jogging trail. Some jogged; some ran, while others simply walked. In spite of the cooler than usual breeze coming from the river, it was a lovely Sunday afternoon to be outside near the water.

Simon tried to find peace. He hadn't told Brooke about Byron actually being in the hospital lying unconscious, at this very moment, because of his temper. Since that night they talked about it, he hadn't said anything more to her about Bryon, even after he received Debbie's text message, which proved the veracity of the events of that night. He chose instead to let her dwell in
the explanation that made sense to her. There was a part of him that was itching to tell her, to call the hospital and check on Byron, if for no other reason than to prove his sanity to her; but the words he needed simply would not form in his mouth.

He didn't tell her about the thugs outside of Starry Nights, either; nor did he mention the devil in the bathroom at The Black Cat. It was all too much to comprehend.

Simon stood up and moved back to the edge of the water. The breeze created a calm ripple effect that usually proved soothing. He looked down and was drawn to something shimmering in the shallow water. At first he thought it might have been a colorful fish whose scales simply reflected the sun's rays, but as he examined it closer, the golden light began to morph into something else. He looked closer and the light took shape and form. It was a face! The face of the woman who had been haunting him.

Simon was shocked and wanted to back away, but this time he didn't flee and neither was his heart flooded with dread. He was simply tired of being afraid. Instead, he felt a sense of wonderment. In order to figure out what was going on with him, he knew he'd have to confront everything that he saw, including this old woman and the yellow-eyed snake. Something deep inside him told him that she had the answers to his many questions.

He dropped to his knees and brought his face close to the water, close enough to stick his tongue out and taste it if he wanted. He watched her mouth move. She was trying to tell him something, but he wasn't able to discern her message. He concentrated on the movement of her lips, but, still, her words were lost to him.

Behind him he heard laughter. He looked up and saw a young woman and a small girl riding their bicycles on the sidewalk behind him.

When he looked back into the water, the face was gone.

“No, come back!” Simon shouted out loud, getting the attention of the woman and the small girl. They looked at him oddly and peddled faster to escape his madness.

“Who are you? What do you want from me?” Simon slapped the water with his hand out of frustration. He suddenly felt despondent. He needed answers and he knew this woman, this apparition—whoever she was—could provide them to him. He knew what he had to do: he had to find her, find out who she was and what she wanted to tell him.

“Simon, what are you doing?”

Simon looked up and standing behind him was Brooke, her facial expression peppered with worry.

Simon ignored her and refocused his attention on the ghost in the water, slapping it with his hands, hoping that his touch would bring her back.

“Simon. Simon! Do you hear me?”

“Brooke, what are you doing here? How did you find me?” he finally said, realizing the woman was lost to him.

“Baby, what are you doing down in the mud? Come on. Let me help you up.” She bent down and grabbed his arm, helping him to his feet.

Simon snatched away, visibly upset. “Brooke, I'm fine. I don't need help.”