Venomous (3 page)

O
H GOD, STAY AWAY FROM ME!”
screamed the kid, skittering nervously across the filthy concrete.

Fear. Music to my ears.

Thugs and criminals had some strange theory that since they’re morally reprehensible, they’re the prime specimen of humanity this side of the planet. They assume that they live in a state of invincibility, because they’re twisted enough to be horrible. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Being tough is one thing—anyone can be tough, so long as they have enough time to go to the gym and enough gall to act like they’re God. But being invincible is an entirely different beast altogether. And when a person proves himself unworthy of their humanity, they assume it’s a triumph and revel in their so-called victory, right until the power of true justice wraps its steely blue fingers around their scrawny necks.

“Nowhere to go,” I said to him, walking calmly down the alleyway toward him. His victim, some poor girl with a swollen wallet and a little red dress, huddled crying next to a Dumpster by my side, her wide eyes focused on my wraithlike form. “Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Just admit it, scum. This is a long time coming. Take it like a man.” My footsteps echoed through the alley like the ticking of Satan’s clock. I loved my job.

“BACK OFF!” he shrieked. He waved his knife at my face, a little silver thing that glittered like tinsel. “YOU HEAR ME?! I’LL CUT YOU! I’M NOT AFRAID OF YOU! DO YOU HEAR ME?! I’VE HEARD ABOUT YOU, AND I’M NOT AFRAID OF—”

I flickered out my claw, and in a crackle of black lightning, the switch flew from his fingers into mine. I clenched my hand together, and the knife was scrap. The kid made a noise, like a kitten, in the back of his throat.

“You could have fooled me.”

“Oh Jesus.” He shuffled backward on his ass, clawing his way behind him until his back pressed against the brick wall at the alley’s dead end, newspapers and food wrappers bunching up behind him. “Oh Jesus. Please, no. I didn’t mean it. I really didn’t want to hurt anybody, man, please, you gotta understand—”

“I understand you’re a liar,” I said. “I can feel your lies. They give me power, they make my soul burn darkly with your weakness and pain. So don’t tell me you didn’t mean to harm anyone tonight. Because that pain is my strength, and your dishonesty…Well, that just adds
flavor.”
I reached out my hand again, letting the dark energies I controlled whirl in my palm, blazing diabolically in the alley’s shadows. “Your time has come. Take it like a man. It’ll all be over shortly.”

Before I could wreak vengeance, a strip of flesh, a tentacle of dripping black, descended from the rooftops above, wrapped around the thug’s neck, and yanked him upward. His hands went to his throat as his face turned gray and his eyes bugged out, and for a while I watched as he twitched at the end of the tendril. His face bloated, his tongue swelled, and with one final gurgle, he hung limp. The tentacle loosened from his neck, and his body dropped with a crash back into the refuse that filled the alleyway.

From the roof above me, something slithered into the night with the sounds of scales and slime.

Well. It appeared I had a cohort.

W
E GET HOME,
and Lon beelines it for his room while I sit down on the couch in the living room and let my head drop, like it was made of steel. Mom steps out of the kitchen and smiles. “Got everything you needed?”

“Yeah,” says Lon with a sigh.

Mom’s ears seem to twitch as her Mother radar picks up the vibe in the room. “What’s wrong?”

Lon shakes his head and tries to say something nice, but finally just throws his arms out at his sides. He’s like a little adult when he’s angry. It’s almost cute. “Locke flipped out. I’m never going to be able to shop there again.”

“Hey, Lon, I’m really sorry.” I am, too. He’s the last person in the world I want to hurt. But what the hell was I supposed to do, with that woman pulling shit like that? Should I have just shrugged and told him that we’d have to get his books later? How else
could
I react?

“Whatever,” he says, slamming the door.

My mom slowly ambles over to me and sits. “Dare I ask?”

I shake my head, catching a sob in my throat while I take off my glasses and begin to rub my eyes furiously. I will not cry. I’m a big kid. I will not cry.

She pats my back with the hand that still has the wedding ring on it. “Want to talk?”

I nod, and then whisper, “Um, can I have some chocolate milk?”

Chocolate milk is the antivenom. I have no idea why.

My mom goes to the kitchen and comes back with a big glass of Nesquik, and I toss it down my throat like it could save the world. The cool settles in my stomach, pervades my being, until I’m feeling fit as an athletic fiddle.

Seriously, I have no clue how it works, but it does.

“I’m just really upset about losing it in front of him,” I gasp after swallowing. “He shouldn’t have to deal with that.”

She nods in agreement. “I know, kidlet,” she says, “and I know sometimes the bad stuff just forces its way to the surface, and it’s hard to stay in control. But it’s not just him, y’know? You should be trying not to blow up like you do in front of anybody. It doesn’t help at all. Nothing improves.”

I nod and keep my mouth shut, and it feels like lying. In the past, the venom has always been reliable when it hits me—controlled chaos, a limited outburst of pure rage. But lately there’s been a jagged edge to the venom. There’s no black-and-white anymore. The venom is present all the time; even when I’m feeling okay, there’s a persistent sense of hurt in the background, like a rash that won’t go away. Its voice is clearer and constant. The full-on attacks come closer to the surface every day. The little show I put on at the bookstore wouldn’t have happened a few months ago, but today the venom took over quickly, like it was the most reasonable solution in the world.

What worries me is that the venom is growing restless, like it’s tired of the passenger seat and wants to take the wheel for a while. It’s always been an impulse, but I’m beginning to wonder where Locke ends and the venom begins. This concept terrifies me, sure. But if my mother knows about it, there’ll be more therapy. More long talks, more warnings to my teachers. Plus, Mom might cry. I can’t let that happen.

“You haven’t had an angry in a while.” An “angry.” I used the term maybe once when I was nine or something, and it stuck. Moms. “How’d it feel?”

“Like it always does. Really good and then really, really bad.”

“You know, if you wanted to go back to seeing Dr. Reiner…,” she says softly. That’s a laugh. Dr. Reiner was a shrink I saw, who was convinced that the venom was a product of some sort of sexual repression, a projection of my inner kink. He’d ask me about what I liked “to do” to girls, and whether I ever wanted “to do” things to other boys. When I told him that I knew I was straight and that gay sex never appealed to me, he asked me why I wasted his time by closing my mind. Well, he didn’t say it quite like that, but I’m no moron, and he wasn’t the champion of subtlety. You can always tell with people like that, whose sole purpose in life is to explain away what’s wrong with other people. So I broke one of his windows, and we don’t talk anymore and everyone’s peachier for it.

“Dr. Reiner was a chump, Mom. I think I’ll be okay.”

“Honey, maybe you should just give him another chance—”

“I gave him a chance. It didn’t work.”

She pats my knee again and gets back up to continue fixing dinner. “Whatever you want, honey. I’m just worried about you, is all. No harm meant. Whenever you need me, I’m here.”

I love my mom and my brother more than life itself. It’s not fair that they have to deal with the utter fucking mess that is me. I’m not even sure I could put up with it.

I wake up to the sounds of the doorbell and realize that I’ve fallen asleep. I take a quick look at the clock. Shit. Eight thirty. Randall’s here.

“Mom, I’m going out, okay!” I yell as I yank on my coat. “I’ll make curfew!”

From somewhere in the apartment, there’s a muffled, “Have fun, sweetie!”

I throw open the door and there’s Randall, all spiky blond hair and vintage suit. He has his acoustic slung over his back and a big Cheshire cat smile on his face. He’s shabby but stylish, awkward yet handsome—the kind of boy most skater girls dream of. He could be playing either the owner of a casino or a punk rock troubadour. I envy the whole dichotomy of it all.

“Why do you always wear black, Stockenbarrel?” he asks. It’s a Chekhov line; our joke.

“I’m in mourning,” I say dramatically, “for my
life.
”

He throws his head back and brays, his face all squinting and teeth. I think that’s what gets Randall so much attention—even I can’t deny that smile. When he smiles at you, you feel chosen. “You ready to go?”

I nod and we walk slowly down the stairs and out onto the street. I give him a smoke and light one myself.

“I thought you were quitting.”

“What are you, my mom?” I sigh.

He shrugs. “Just wondering. Didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Sorry. Long day. So remind me of their names again.”

“They’ll be a bunch of folks there, but you’re thinking Casey and Renée. This’ll be nothing big, just hanging out. But they really want to meet you.”

“Well, I’ve heard the names enough, I guess. It’s totally okay that I’m coming, right?”

“A small gathering, dude, nothing more.” I know this tone of his. He’s making sure I don’t get scared away, thinking this is, God forbid, a
party
. It’s somewhere between sweet and infuriating, but I let it slide. I’ve flaked out on meeting Randall’s outside-of-school friends enough times for it to be unfair. I owe him one. “Anyway. Why was your day long?”

“I had a venom moment in front of Lon today.”

“Ah.” I know what that “Ah” means, too. It means,
Ah, you did what you always do, which is embarrass those around you by going apeshit.
Randall’s like that: He doesn’t hide how he feels when it comes to me or the venom, so I can’t blame him for expressing those opinions, even if he doesn’t just come out and say them. He knows I can read his tones and movements.

We get down to Riverside, around 84th Street, coming upon the massive rock right next to a playground, what could almost be called a crag if it was a little bigger and sharper. Tonight, the rock and the entire area by it are lined with kids, but not normal kids.
Circus
kids: punks, mods, Goths, metal heads, indie kids, emo rockers, rude boys, all of that kind of crowd. (Randall uses these terms as though he were compiling a hipster encyclopedia). A bunch of them have guitars out; one or two of them have bongos. Surrounding them are about a hundred candles, all waxed to the ground, lighting up the entire area like a cathedral. These kinds of kids don’t exist in my little Manhattan private school universe. Parents send their kids to my school, hoping we won’t fall in with this crowd, unaware that the rich preppy kids drink and do drugs more than anyone on the planet. Randall refuses to buy it, though. He’ll go to punk shows and the skate park and return with a hundred new friends from all over the city.

Nothing big, indeed: To me this isn’t a party, it’s a fucking gala. The strings in the back of my brain get tightened and pulled; my whole body rides a wave of twitchy anticipation. My teeth chatter a bit. I’m not one of those Music People. Yes, I have my album collection and all that, but I’m not as dedicated as this crowd here. I know what I am when it comes down to it—an awkward, skinny dude with little to nothing in the ways of social skills. What the fuck am I supposed to say to this carnival of pop culture? Lots of people. Lots of activity and talking and necessary interaction. Not my forte.

The venom shifts and itches. It wraps an agitated hand around my nerves and gets ready to explode if it’s needed. An angry venom is bad, but a scared, nervous venom? I’m in trouble.

“I don’t have to be, like, a social butterfly or anything, do I?” I manage through a shaking jaw.

“No, of course not.”

“And I can leave whenever I want to? You won’t be offended?”

“Stockenbarrel,” he says, sighing, “just relax. You can do whatever. This is not a fancy dinner your parents are throwing. Have a drink. Decompress.”

“Of course I’m—No, I just planned on sitting around and trying to feel as miserable as possible.”

Randall raises an eyebrow and gives me another grin. “Yeah, well, it wouldn’t be the first time.” Touché.

We get to the rock and start climbing up the side. People are saying hi to Randall left and right; I know he has a lot of friends besides me, but it’s weird to see him in action, working the special handshakes and goofy nicknames (at one point he calls a guy “Brad the Rad” and I almost want to go home right then and there). Finally he gets to the top of the rock and pulls me up next to him, standing in front of everyone, illuminated by the candles as if we had flashlights pointed up at us. It’s actually a nice view of this mass of teenage insanity. This evening might not be so bad.

“Hey, guys!” he calls out.

An assortment of “Hey, Randall”s and “What’s up”s come from out of the crowd of kids.

He slaps a hand on my chest. “This is Locke!”

Randall, you sneaky son of a bitch. You dirty motherfucker.

“He’s new! Everyone say hi!”

A loud chorus of “HI, LOCKE!” shoots from the group.

“Locke, say hello!”

Shit.

I raise my hand as casually and say, “Hiya.” I sound puny and quiet and stupid. Well done, Locke. Fucking genius.

And that’s that. Randall and I sit down, and Randall starts talking to this girl next to him about Henry Rollins’s neck. I finish my cigarette and flick it over the edge of the rock and onto the curb a few yards away.

“Hey, watch it!”

I glance over the edge to see a tall, beautiful black kid with a Mohawk staring up at me. It suddenly dawns on me that I’d hit him in the head with my cigarette. He doesn’t look angry, just confused and a little hurt. Man, I just keep getting better and better at this making-a-complete-jackass-of-myself game.

“Oh God, I’m—I’m really sorry, I—”

“Don’t worry about it, Locke. Just be careful.”

I lean over and tap Randall on the shoulder. He looks over at me quizzically. “Who is that?” I say, pointing over the edge. “Tall black kid, Mohawk.”

“Oh, that’s Tollevin the Tower. He’s on lookout tonight.”

“Lookout.”

Randall shrugs. “We’ve had problems with the cops before. The lookout keeps an eye open for them.”

I nod. “And how does he know my name?”

Randall looks puzzled. “I just announced it.”

“And he knows it already?”

Randall slaps my back. “People catch on quickly here, and besides, they’ve heard of you,” he says, and goes back to his conversation before I can ask him what the hell
that
means. So, to review: Now everyone knows my name, and there’s a kid who’s casually referred to as “the Tower” watching out for the cops, who’ll probably make an appearance tonight. Fan
tastic.

As I’m sitting there trying to make sense of all of it, a voice beside me says, “Locke? You’re Locke?”

I turn around, and sitting there is an angel. A really, really inappropriate angel.

She’s a Goth girl with a spiky blue fairy cut, her face a light shade of pale with dark patches under her cheekbones and eyes. Her lips are flawless shining black with a single ring piercing her lower lip down the middle. She’s wearing a corsetlike top that pushes her breasts up and outward, vinyl pants, massive death-boots, and a spiked collar. From the bottom of her right eye, an upside-down cross curves down her cheekbone, as though she’s crying evil. She’s beautiful in a way that I can’t describe, but in a way that you can see under all the makeup and buckled-up leather. Her voice, her posture, the curve of her eyes, the way her lip ring makes her full lower lip puff up a little on either side…Jesus. I cannot take my eyes off this girl.

“Um,” I begin, “uh, I, um, yeah. That’s me.”

She bows with a bit of flourish. “Finally, we meet. Randall mentions you constantly, but it seems like every time you’re supposed to come out with us…Well, you tell me.” She smiles. “Sounds like you two are pretty good friends.”