He brought his fist down once, twice…until a trickle of blood ran from the shattered temple, over what had been Ash’s face, which stared aimlessly into the darkness, shunted into an alien, upward angle impossible for anyone still alive.
He threw the knife into the darkness and backed away from the broken corpse. He could no longer see its grim eyes, only the shadow of the open throat he’d destroyed. He averted his gaze, which landed on the crumpled form of the hobo, felled by his own bottle.
The man’s toenails were pink.
He squinted, casting what he was seeing into marked doubt. He hadn’t seen it before, but now, caught in the dim back entrance light of the warehouse, there was nothing natural about that color. The poor bastard had met his end on the edge of a broken liquor bottle, feet naked all except for ten perfectly buffed, vivid pink toes.
Fucking crazy bastard. A bastard he’d killed by… accident? Like Ash’s ‘accident’ with the Dutch guy? Fuck!
He hadn’t noticed the fog return until the cold damp had shrouded his hands. The pavement felt like ice, even in the warm summer rain and crushing humidity. The fog washed over his lap and crossed his belly with a faint sigh that felt so strange, he barely noticed it envelop the bodies of the hobo and the murderer.
He shivered as it rose higher, steadily increasing in density as it crept up his arms and chest, until he could no longer see a damn thing, not even a hand held up inches from his face. The black fog grew denser still, starting to tickle against his skin. Then itch. It felt like… Damn it! It felt as if he’d been covered with goddamn cockroaches, all running up and down his skin, laying tiny eggs in his pores and hatching them just as fast. Each effort he made to scratch himself met only the sensation of plunging his fingers into the crawling mass, unable to get a grip on his own flesh. Then, it began to burn, and he began to scream, and scream, and scream, knowing nobody could hear.
He couldn’t even hear himself.
KYLE
Kyle tried to open his eyes, but even the dim glow of the nearest streetlight stung them. Instead he lay there, letting the cold, soothing rain drops bounce off his face and body until he was at last able to move. His head felt like it had been filled up with rocks. His legs weren’t faring much better, protesting every inch of movement as he dragged one over the other and tried to right himself on his knees. When at last he succeeded, ignoring the sting of wet gravel that dug into them, staying up on all fours took all his energy.
The taste in his mouth was a rancid mix of blood, semen, vomit, and cigarettes. He coughed violently to clear his throat, grateful for the rush of fresh, if humid, air that filled his lungs. As the turning in his stomach slowed and his breathing regained its steady rhythm, he felt the cold drops bouncing off his exposed back and butt. He arched them into the air before bending back, turning his face to the sky and sticking out his tongue. He couldn’t remember water ever tasting so good. He wished the rain were heavier. That it’d pour down in one almighty torrent that… Fuck that. Kyle wanted a bath. Badly.
Kyle.
His name was Kyle.
“Kyle,” he murmured under his breath. “Kyle. Kyle. My name is Kyle. Kyle. My name is…”
He rolled over, pressing the wet gravel into his back. A stupid grin crossed his face as he silently mouthed the words over and over. It was done. Oh, god! What had it been? Almost a year? It didn’t matter. He was himself again.
He finally opened his eyes, letting the gentle rain splash his eyelids and lashes. The light, the street signs, the trees, the buildings, even the yellow moon blurred almost beyond recognition. Fuck. What had he just been through? He carefully rolled onto his side, trying to focus on the dark shape a few feet away. He could just make out its slim shoulders, long, powerful legs, and the darkness of a full head of short, tightly curled black hair.
His grin spread wider still, until he broke into a quiet laugh.
The figure didn’t move. Little by little, Kyle edged his way toward it until he closed his hand over its shoulder. Antoine. He’d known it. He’d fucking known it was him, instantly recognizing the warmth, texture, and smell of his skin and hair. Kyle grinned as his hands rediscovered every familiar bump and ripple of Antoine’s body. When he wrapped his arm around his lover’s chest, he could no longer contain his tears. Warm drops of joy and relief ran down his face, mingling with the rain on the skin of the man that bastard had stolen. And where was that bastard now? Keeping company with the dead and damned? Kyle had no way, nor any desire to know.
Unable to resist, he kissed Antoine’s shoulders and the back of his neck over and over and over, pressing his cheek to the man’s skin, unwilling to risk the brutality of a cruel joke. It was all real, down to the steady beat of his lover’s heart beneath the palm of Kyle’s hand as he pulled him closer. Realizing they were both naked, he tried to warm Antoine’s legs with what meager body heat he had to share. Were their clothes somewhere nearby? It didn’t matter. They’d be warm soon enough. Home, warm, safe, and most of all, together.
“Thank you,” he murmured in between kisses, unsure of what to call the spirit, or even if it could hear. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Antoine stirred in his arms, releasing a faint and all too familiar sigh, followed by a petulant whine that in that moment was the sweetest sound Kyle had ever heard.
“Shhh,” he said, squeezing gently. “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”
He had expected more pain. More fear. Screaming. Crying. A horrible distortion or perversion of his lover’s form. But it was all his Antoine., exactly as he remembered, sleeping peacefully in the cold rain as if the street were his very own bed.
Their own bed. Kyle grinned again, brushing the back of Antoine’s neck with his lips.
“Stop it,” the man whispered, shifting his shoulders.
As Antoine’s eyes flew open, he knitted his dark eyebrows and pushed out of Kyle’s grasp.
“It’s okay. There’s…” Kyle trailed off, not knowing where to begin his explanation.
Antoine eased himself up, face turned away from Kyle as he straightened his back. He flinched, shielding his eyes from the stinging streetlight.
Kyle watched the steady rise and fall of his lover’s back as the simple act of breathing returned. He dived forward as Antoine coughed violently, putting a steady hand on his back. “It’s all right. It’s all right. Take it slow.” He could see Antoine’s lips moving, but the sound refused to come. Questions silenced by their own ridiculousness. In time. They had to give it time.
He remembered it all. What if Antoine didn’t? What if he remembered only some of what had happened or had forgotten Kyle entirely? Worse, what if he remembered everything?
“We need to get you inside,” he said, rubbing his hand over Antoine’s shoulder.
With a swallow that seemed to pain him, Antoine agreed with a determined nod. Memory or no memory, Kyle couldn’t expect Antoine to feel himself again in the pouring rain, now so heavy, he could barely make out the man’s quiet sobs.
“Hey,” he said, wrapping his arms around the man’s chest. “I’ve got you. I’m never letting you go again. You hear me? Not ever.”
Cold fingers closed around his wrist, falling perfectly still. Then, Antoine began to shake.
“Hey,” Kyle said. “Hey, what’s wrong? Anto—”
Antoine caught his jaw with the back of a closed fist before he could finish. Kyle bit back a scream as Antoine twisted the wrist he’d taken hold of and pushed it back so far he thought it might break, only letting him go with a hard shove that sent him sprawling to the ground.
Kyle swore as the loose gravel grazed his knees and hands. He’d pushed him. Antoine had thrown him off into the dirt like garbage. He watched, eyes wide as his lover staggered to his feet, tottering as he managed to right himself, before turning his fury on Kyle once more.
“What…what the…?” Kyle stammered. “Hey, it’s me! It’s just—”
Antoine was on him in an in
stant, teeth bared, fingers like talons, reaching for his neck as Kyle tried to throw him off. Unable to reach his target, Antoine instead settled for using his fists. Over and over, Kyle felt the punches find their mark on his cheek. But it was the words that hurt more.
“Stay away from me! Come near me again and I’ll beat the shit out of you, you evil cunt!”
The words caught in Kyle’s throat, but what was there to say? This wasn’t his Antoine. It couldn’t be. Not like this. Not with so much rage and hate. Something had gone wrong. Something had changed.
“P…pl…please?” he murmured through a mess of blood. He tried mouthing Antoine’s name, but nothing would come. The man just stared back at him, his dark eyes colder than the rain. Colder than anything he’d ever felt as they pierced him.
“Motherfucker...” The man hissed, rising to his full height. “Motherfucker!”
Kyle winced, arms flying up to protect his head as Antoine sent one final kick into his side. It wasn’t strong, but it might as well have sent him flying across the lake for the impact he felt. “Please?” he sobbed, almost silent in the rain. “Don’t leave me.”
“Where are my clothes? Fuck you, where are they, asshole?” Antoine screamed at him. “You’re fucking pathetic.” With a few steps into the shadows, he was gone.
Kyle lay sobbing and weeping silently into the street, ignoring the pain that consumed his face, his gut, and most of all, his heart. Slowly, he forced himself to move, staggering to his feet and out onto the open street. A car’s headlights blinded him as it trundled past.
“Hey, the strip joint’s that way, dumb ass!” jeered the driver.
There had to be someone he could stop. Someone he could beg for help, who could take him to a hospital. Hell, even the cops might be better at this point. The glow of Frenchman Street lay not two blocks ahead, and there seemed to be more streetlights now. He held up a hand to shield his eyes once more.
That wasn’t right. He stared the tattoo that ended on his wrist, then glanced down the length of his body before turning to catch a look at himself in the window of a parked car.
He shook his head, backing away slowly, unable to take his eyes off the reflection until he turned and ran. He didn’t stop until he was back where it had happened, an empty lot behind a warehouse like dozens of others all over the Bywater.
Once hidden in the dark, he put his head in his hands and screamed.
KYLE
Each morning he’d felt unable to tell when exactly his eyes had opened. When they’d at last caught up to the slow return of consciousness. Unable to remember when or how his dreams had surrendered to reality. The mattress seemed just as big as it had the first night he’d woken alone. The first night, then the second. He could no longer remember a night he’d slept soundly.
He swallowed, trying to dismiss the erection that taunted him beneath the sheet. Nothing seemed less appealing than sex just now. He barely noticed the smell of thin sheets that reeked with his sweat, nor could he tell where his own scent ended and the dead man’s began. All the nights they’d spent together. Nights of sex, fear, anger, and some strange state he could hardly call love. But it had been something, and meant something to the man he’d been. And like the smell of their bodies on his sheets, its meaning remained, clinging so tightly to him he could no longer make out the join between himself and the all too real and visceral illusion he’d lived for he didn’t know how long.
The thing had relieved him so cleanly of his memories the first time. Why not now? Wasn’t he owed at least that kindness for the risk he’d taken? For all he’d lost?
Now, as he rolled in his own dried sweat, he understood he was owed nothing.
He staggered wearily to his feet, kicking the sheets away and trying to catch a breeze across his naked chest. The air was still and thick, as it had been all summer, tainted by the faint, putrid smell of rot and sick. He crossed the room and nudged open the shutters, staring down at the Quarter street slowly stirring to life, catching a fresh whiff of that aroma so particular to Bourbon Street before noon on a weekend.
He lazily scooped up his phone, checking the message that flashed on and off.
Back on the bar tonight or you’re done. Last chance.
He groaned, tossing the phone back down on the table and leaning against the shutters with a loud clatter, trying to block the smell of the street beneath him and the sounds of the couple arguing in the apartment next door. She’d yell first, then he’d scream back. It had been the same every morning, every weekend.
Fuck. Why was there no breeze in here? He winced as the foul morning air of Bourbon Street found his nose, though he knew he couldn’t have smelled much better. The cool tiles in the bathroom were almost a relief as he turned on the shower, hard and cold as it would go. It wasn’t near cold enough. He let the tepid water pummel him clean for five, maybe ten minutes, leaning back and letting it hit his face. That face. Maybe if he let the water run long enough, it would tear away. He rested his head against the shower tiles, his tears, long exhausted. His cock shriveled under the cool water. Again, he ignored it, turning off the faucet and letting the water drip from his body as the thick air merged with it, congealing on his flesh.
Feeling nowhere near clean, he mopped away what moisture he could, tossed the towel to the wooden floor and stared at his phone once more.
His phone? He felt the urge to laugh, cut short by a glimpse of his bathroom mirror. At the face that stared back at him, once handsome and beguiling, now drawn out and pale, like it had been trembling and weeping for days. Of course, he had.
He didn’t look away. Not this time. This time he approached the mirror, let the cracks, pocks and blemishes widen in his sight, his hollow cheeks deepen as he approached his reflection. He swallowed, an ugly lump forcing its way down his throat, into the pit of his stomach. He gently touched the death’s head that grinned below his navel. Then looked down at the snake that coiled around his arm, its vicious fangs buried deep in his wrist.
…lest you become the very monster you seek.
The loa’s words haunted his memory, mocking him with their unmistakable clarity. He shivered as he and the reflection made eye contact, just for an instant. Those eyes, he could not stand. Those frozen orbs that had looked on him with…disdain? Cruelty? Lust? Maybe even affection? The last eyes Antoine had seen before he’d died.
He refused to dramatize it. Those eyes were his now. There was no avoiding them. Nor the tattoos, nor the body, nor the dirty, sandy blonde hair that crowned the awful visage. All his own now.
He rested his hands against the sink, steadying himself against the tearing sensation that wracked his stomach, until eventually, he forced himself to look into the eyes once more.
Cold. Blue.
“It’s just skin,” he murmured, finally loosening his grip on the sink, releasing the tension that had gripped his toes and letting them settle on the tiles. “It’s just skin. It’s just skin. It’s just skin. It’s just skin. It’s just skin. It’s just skin…”
About the Author
Australian author Christian Baines has written on travel, theater, and various aspects of gay life. Some of his stranger thoughts have spawned novels, including The Arcadia Trust series, and Puppet Boy, which was a finalist for the 2016 Saints and Sinners Emerging Writer Award. He is also a four-time finalist in the Sydney Mardi Gras Short Story Competition.
He now lives, writes, and shivers in Toronto.
Books Available From Bold Strokes Books
Skin by Christian Baines. One man trapped with an abusive lover, the other mourning a lover lost. The layer between them is thinner than that between the living and the dead…or justice and revenge. (978-1-63555-083-2)
Club Arcana: Operation Janus by Jon Wilson. Wizards, demons, Elder Gods: Who knew the universe was so crowded, and that they'd all be out to get Angus McAslan? (978-162639-969-3)
Triad Soul by ’Nathan Burgoine. Luc, Anders, and Curtis—vampire, demon, and wizard—must
use their powers of blood, soul, and magic to defeat a murderer determined to turn their city into a battlefield. (978-1-62639-863-4)
Gatecrasher by Stephen Graham King. Aided by a high-tech thief, the Maverick Heart crew race against time to prevent a cadre of savage corporate mercenaries from seizing control of a revolutionary wormhole technology. (978-1-62639-936-5)
Wicked Frat Boy Ways by Todd Gregory. Beta Kappa brothers Brandon Benson and Phil Connor play an increasingly dangerous game of love, seduction, and emotional manipulation. (978-1-62639-671-5)
Death Goes Overboard by David S. Pederson. Heath Barrington and Alan Keyes are two sides of a steamy love triangle as they encounter gangsters, con men, murder, and more aboard an old lake steamer. (978-1-62639-907-5)
A Careful Heart by Ralph Josiah Bardsley. Be careful what you wish for…love changes everything. (978-1-62639-887-0)
Worms of Sin by Lyle Blake Smythers. A haunted mental asylum turned drug treatment facility exposes supernatural detective Finn M’Coul to an outbreak of murderous insanity, a strange parasite, and ghosts that seek sex with the living. (978-1-62639-823-8)
Tartarus by Eric Andrews-Katz. When Echidna, Mother of all Monsters, escapes from Tartarus and into the modern world, only an Olympian has the power to oppose her. (978-1-62639-746-0)
Rank by Richard Compson Sater. Rank means nothing to the heart, but the Air Force isn’t as impartial. Every airman learns that rank has its privileges. What about love? (978-1-62639-845-0)
The Grim Reaper’s Calling Card by Donald Webb. When Katsuro Tanaka begins investigating the disappearance of a young nurse, he discovers more missing persons, and they all have one thing in common: The Grim Reaper Tarot Card. (978-1-62639-748-4)
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