Venomous (17 page)

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.”