Venomous

by Christopher Krovatin

  “I don’t, really,” I say, “but a friend gave this to me. It’s really good.”

  “Spider-Man’s cool,” Lon says, smiling at me.

  “Yeah, but Venom’s cooler.”

  He nods thoughtfully, as though I’ve just stated a universal truth. “Yeah, Venom is really cool. Carnage is cooler, though.”

  This statement means nothing to me. “Nuh-uh.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Nuh-uh times infinity.”

  Lon looks at me funny and says in a diabolical voice, “You’ve won this round, boy.”

  I actually try not to laugh, but it’s no use. He’s such an amazing kid. He’s so witty and smart and prepared for anything; you can see the gears in his head working at all times. If the Rapture came down tomorrow, Lon would have his bags packed. If Godzilla attacked, he’d have his English subtitles organized and spell-checked. Like I said before, he’s basically the anti-me, a fact that I am grateful for every day of the week. There’s only enough room for one wretched fuckup in this house.

  But that’s not what’s really on my mind right now. Right now, I have something else to deal with.

  “Stay off the phone, okay?” I say, and saunter back to my lair.

  One ring. Two rings. Calm down. The scrap of paper begins to dampen in my palm from all the sweat. I’m trying to hold the phone steady with the other hand, but it’s kind of hard when you’re this nervous. The phone vibrates, like an angry fucking ferret.

  A click. Some music in the background. “Hello?”

  I gulp. “Hi, is Renée there?”

  “This is she.”

  Calm down. “Um, hi, it’s me.”

  Silence.

  “That really doesn’t help me much….”

  I AM A FUCKING IDIOT. “It’s Locke. From last night. Sorry. Locke here.”

  “Locke!” she chirps. “Locke, Locke, Locke. How are you, Locke?”

  “I’m fine. Sorry about, y’know, not saying my name when I first called, I was just thinking that maybe—”

  “Locke?”

  “Mmm-hmm?”

  “Breathe.”

  In. Close. Hold. Out. “Gyah. Sorry.”

  “Totally cool. ¿Qué pasa?”

  “How’re you?”

  “I’m great. I’m playing Scrabble with my cat.”

  “Are you, now?”

  “Word. He’s not very good. Lots of ‘meow’s and a ‘hiss’ once in a while. So, how was lunch with Casey?”

  “You know about that?”

  “I am the Hierophant. I hear all.”

  At some point, someone will be kind enough to tell me what that means. “Right. It went fine. He apologized, and I ate a burger, and it…was fine.”

  “Mmm, burger. Did he give you my comic book?”

  “The comic book is yours?”

  “Mmm-hmm. Y’know what? This whole phone conversation thing just doesn’t really work for me. I don’t get to see your eyes widen in terror, and what fun is that? You should come over.”

  Holy hell, I’ve never met a girl this forward. “Should I?”

  “Definitely. I’m sure you’ll be a better Scrabble player than Dupin here.”

  “Um…okay…Dupin? Like, ‘Murders in the Rue Morgue’?”

  “Impressive. Now get your ass over here.”

  When I show up at Renée’s place, she’s wearing a black T-shirt advertising something called BAKER STREET, with a picture of a straight razor on it, and black jeans. There’s less of the eye makeup, lipstick, and paler, making her look less Goth, but still considerably vampiric. Her smile, however, suggests anything but darkness and despair. Her apartment is smaller than mine but much better kept and massively better smelling. She leads me to her room, apologizing for the mess, or as she calls it, “the abattoir that is my life.” That’s a direct quote, by the way.

  Her room is just how I imagined it: covered in posters of bands and horror movies, filled with black candles, dripping with teenage pain. Her bed has a black veil around it, making it look like one big funeral shroud. All around the room are blinking Christmas lights in the shape of skulls. Incense burns in the corner. The place smells like a church. Clothes are strewn around the floor; the only white garments are socks.

  I’ve never really gotten the whole Goth thing. Maybe it’s just me, but I’ve always sort of felt that one’s dark side is just that: the part of themselves that they keep hidden for a reason. So the idea of purposefully reveling in the things that make you dismal and frightening just seems counterproductive to me, even a little ridiculous. I mean, people should be focused on making themselves better human beings, right? Renée seems different about it, though. She cracks jokes about herself and the gloom-and-doom motif, almost adoring the silliness of the entire Goth lifestyle. It’s as though the aesthetic is what drives her, not the feelings of inner pain. Which makes her sort of a poser, I guess. But I’d rather have a happy-go-lucky Goth wannabe than a kid stewing in some inner agony that doesn’t actually exist.

  In the center of the room sits a Scrabble board with a cat on one side, licking its paw and dragging it across its head.

  “That’s Dupin.”

  “I guessed.” Glancing down at the board, I notice a “MEOW,” a “ROWR,” one “HISS,” and a “HACK” in a row. The cat is staring with an intent expression, and for a second I wonder if it actually was playing.

  I look down at the words closest to me on the board. “TURN AROUND.”

  I do that, and there she is, standing about two inches away from me. Her breasts are actually just touching my chest.

  “You’re not a very social animal, are you?” she says slowly.

  I shake my head. I can barely breathe, much less speak.

  She cocks hers to one side. “Why? You’re cute enough. You seem nice.”

  “I’m not as cute and nice as you think,” I manage, trying not to sound too melodramatic. “I’m a bit of a bastard, when it comes down to it. Kind of a loser.”

  “Really? Then why haven’t I seen this bastard? Where does he live? What’s he into?”

  “Why are you asking me these questions?”

  “Because you puzzle me,” she murmurs. “You’re very puzzling.”

  “You’ve only known me for, like, a day. Of course I’m puzzling; who wouldn’t be?”

  She puts her index fingers by the sides of her head and twirls them, the international symbol for loco en la cabeza. “But I am the Hierophant, remember?”

  I shake my head again and wave her fingers away. “What does that mean, anyway? What’s a Hierophant?”

  “One of the Major Arcana—”

  “No, no, I get that,” I interrupt with a sigh, “but what is it?”

  By this time, I’m aware of the fact that we’re leaning incredibly close to each other. I’m staring into her eyes, can feel her breath on my lips. She smells a little like chocolate.

  “The interpreter of inner secrets and arcane knowledge,” she whispers.

  My voice begins to quaver. “And so you’re thinking,” I say softly, turning my head just a little to the side, “that you can interpret me.”

  Time slows and reality fades, and—

  Whoosh, she’s gone before I can say another word. There’s some masterful darting and leaping around the room, until she’s back in her place opposite Dupin and cleaning off the board. Dupin takes the cue that the game is over and hops up onto her bed, circling his place twice, and then hitting the sheets with an audible thud. “Come!” calls Renée. “Let us Scrabble!”

  As I sit there trying to figure out a word with both a Q and an X in it, I jump right into what’s been on my mind since I left the house. “Thanks for the comic book.”

  She keeps her eyes on the board. “Hmm?”

  “The comic book,” I say. “I really enjoyed it.”

  “Everyone likes Spider-Man. He’s cool.”

  “Yeah, well, I like Venom more.”
/>   “So do I.”

  I stare hard at her. “Yeah, but I think we like him for different reasons.”

  A shit-eating grin covers her face. “I bet.”

  And that’s all it takes. There’s a thrust of misery with a pinch of infuriation, and the venom fills me like a drug. This time, though, it’s the loathing and shame, not the explosive rage: I feel clammy instead of warm, lifeless instead of energized, embarrassed instead of bold. The room grows cold, and I try to burrow into my coat, hoping it’ll take me away from this beautiful girl who knows my most horrible secrets.

  The venom loves it. Hope you enjoyed that kiss, buddy, it croaks, ’cause it’s the last. She knows. Two words: damaged goods.

  “Hey,” she says. She leans over the Scrabble board and runs a hand along the side of my face, warm to the touch. Its movement is one of comfort, and it works. As her hand glides along my skin, the worry disappears, and the despair blows away. “Bad moment there?”

  I force a nod. “Came on kind of quick. Sorry. Really sorry.”

  “No apologies,” she says, turning back to the game. “I’ve been friends with Casey since we were ten, and he’s had the black for as long as I’ve known him. I’ve had some bad run-ins with it too. But that’s no reason to be afraid of him. Someone’s issues don’t have to define them as a person, do they?” She puts down the word “GOTH.”

  I cross with it, using the O: “LOSER.”

  She glances at me and smirks. “I mean, are you defined by this ‘venom’? Does that make you who you are?”

  The harder I try to say something, the harder the venom pushes down on me. The room is suffocating, incense and candle smoke choking me. The shadowy decor blurs together into a squirming ocean of black. Eye contact is out of the question. The venom whispers angrily at me, doing everything it can to keep me from divulging its secrets. “It affects everything,” I finally say, running my hands through my hair. And sighing. “It poisons everything. Every time I think I’m better, it comes back, and it laughs at me. I’m losing track of who running the show these days—me or it.”

  She cocks an eyebrow. “Well, that’s not a good sign.”

  “It’s not my choice.”

  “I didn’t say that. Just that it’s not okay.”

  “I know that. God, how could I not know that?”

  She puts down a word in front of me, unconnected to the others. I’m about to tell her that she can’t do that when I read the word: “UHOH.”

  “Why’d you—” Before I can finish the sentence, Renée’s flung the Scrabble board aside, bent back on her haunches, and sprung forward onto me like a huge house cat. My trench curls around us like seaweed, tangling and binding me until I’m useless. Pretty soon, she has me in a headlock and is giving me a noogie.

  “Say ‘Uncle Fester’!” she yells.

  “Buh! Never!”

  “Say it!”

  “Make me!”

  She swiftly stops noogie-ing me and lets me out of the headlock. I’m sitting up, leaning against the side of her bed, and she leaps onto me, straddling me. I don’t know how she moves like that, as though she’s been raised in a jungle. Her face is right up in front of mine, moving as if she’s trying to get my scent. “I could, you know,” she whispers.

  “Could what?” I gulp.

  “I could make you,” she mumbles, and lowers her lips slowly and softly onto mine, the way Casey did last night, only a lot better. She pulls the trench coat around her like wings, and with each kiss, each push together, we sink deeper into it. Finally, snuggled up together like we’re in a big black cocoon, she wraps her arms around my shoulders and nuzzles her face into my neck, stopping here and there for a little nibble. I pull my arms inside my coat and wrap them around her waist, which feels liquid, agile, but soft and warm. Whatever I did to get this lucky, I’ll never know.

  “Mmm,” she says. “This is nice.”

  I am inclined to agree with this.

  Cuddling becomes resting, and resting becomes napping, and napping becomes most of the day’s activity. Sleep is not an easy thing for me, especially with someone else present, because it means letting my guard down (summer camp sucked). The fact that I can fall asleep with this girl nestled on my chest? Unbelievable. Unheard of. Truly a miracle.

  When my eyelids drag their way upward, I notice two things: (a) the clock on the wall says I should be home by now, and (b) there’s someone knocking on the door.

  I shake her back and forth. “Renée. Renée, wake up.”

  “Murf,” she replies.

  I hear the knocking again, louder this time. A woman’s voice on the other side calls, “Renée! Renée, you there?”

  She squirms in my lap and yells, “Come in!” in an annoyed whine.

  Is this girl out of her mind? Delirious with fatigue? She’s making no effort to get out of my lap, no effort to unbutton the coat containing both of us. What if her mom freaks out? What if I’m chased out of the house by an angry older brother? Or two? Or seven? I imagine using the hall fire extinguisher to smash open the skull of a burly Goth sibling, but shake the thought off quick. Venom talking. This isn’t the time.

  The door opens, and in waddles a chubby old lady with curly red hair and itty-bitty spectacles sitting on her huge face. “Oh, I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says politely, with a tinge of French in her voice. “Renée, who is this?”

  The monster. The pervert. The evil boy trying to defile your precious daughter.

  “This is Locke,” she mumbles. “Locke, this is my aunt Marie.”

  “Hiya.” I cough.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Locke,” she says warmly. “Locke…that name sounds vaguely French, does it not?”

  “Maybe. My last name’s Vinetti, though.”

  “That,” she says with a chuckle, “sounds not in the least French. Renée, just remember your brother’s staying with a friend tonight, so you have to do the dishes.”

  “Umf,” she says, and nuzzles back into my chest.

  “Nice meeting you, Locke,” says Aunt Marie, and closes the door.

  “Wow,” I heave. “I was scared she’d flip out.”

  “Aunt Marie doesn’t care,” she murmurs, shifting in my lap. “She trusts me. Besides, she’s French. The French are a lot worse than this in public.”

  “So you have a brother?”

  She nods.

  “What’s his name?” Maybe he and Lon could—

  “Andrew. You know him.”

  Wait. Oh, shit, wait. Andrew. Can’t be.

  “Older or younger?”

  “Older.”

  “Your last name isn’t Tomas, is it?”

  She shifts a bit more. She knew this topic of conversation had to come up at some point. “Yeah. I told you, you know him. He goes to your school.”

  He does. That’s the problem. The venom writhes on its back, pointing and cackling, sending waves of worry through me. Nothing can be perfect for me. It’s just not allowed.

  THREE DAYSscouring the city, and no luck. The creature seemed to always be around, but it was rarely visible. A roar would sound and I’d turn left, only to hear claws clattering on the pavement to my right. The beast, while horrid, was incredibly intelligent, and it seemed to possess the hunting powers of a wolf. Even though I couldn’t find it, I could feel those glassy eyes boring into me, twitching as it observed my presence.

  I glided noiselessly through Central Park, indistinguishable from the shadows. I had been following the lanky junkie in front of me for a few minutes, waiting. Woe came off him in waves; I could smell his guilt, his hatred, from a block away. He was scrambling through the park, clutching a broken bottle, eyes wide, breath ragged, clothes filthy, hair wild. He was dangerous, and I had to be here to stop him.

  The junkie came onto a path and approached a hobo lying curled on a bench.

  “It was beautiful fabric,” said the junkie sternly.

  The bum looked back at him, half-awake. He was young, maybe twenty-five, and blon
d. “Whazuh?”

  “IT WAS BEAUTIFUL FABRIC!” yelled the junkie. “YOU DIDN’T TAKE CARE OF IT RIGHT. NOW IT’S RUINED.”

  “Look, man, I don’t know what you’re on tonight, but—”

  “Don’t tell ME what to do,” the junkie shrieked. “I MADE that. It was such a good situation before you came, and now we have NOTHING BUT TELEVISION!”

  The junkie raised the jagged glass bottle high, an urban Norman Bates.

  I raised a hand, and a lash of black lightning hit the glass, which exploded out of the doper’s hand. He turned, enraged, but upon seeing me, fear took over, and he scrambled away with a scream.

  The young bum sat up on the bench, eyes bright, face gnarled into a grimace.

  “You have no need to worry,” I said. “I mean you no harm.”

  The bum opened his mouth to scream, and all that came out was a hideous, blood-soaked roar.

  Out of his mouth squirmed the tentacles—huge, meaty, writhing with a sound like wriggling scorpions; clicking mixed with squishing. All over his body, his skin seemed to stretch, bloat, and then split open, revealing the black many-tendriled body of the creature. Finally his eyes seemed to melt, dribbling down his face. Behind them sat two red, segmented orbs, twitching at me curiously, studying my every move.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ANDREW TOMAS IS in my grade, but he’s a year older than the rest of us because he got held back a year for being a smartass and an asshole. He wears Polo and North Face and Armani Exchange and refers to certain kids as “faggot motherfuckers.” He’s not a jock, although everything about him would suggest it. He listens to hardcore rap and tries to freestyle in the student lounge over the ghetto kids beatboxing. He has the Tasmanian Devil in bling-bling jewelry tattooed on his calf. He’s a sadist, the worst kind of bitter, arrogant bully imaginable, who just wants to take his anger out on anyone who looks weaker than he does. My violence is something uncontrollable, a gut response to being treated a certain way; his is calculated and plain old mean. And while he makes my academic nightmare a living hell, his beautiful Goth sister holds my heart at her all-girls academy thirty blocks away.

  I’m privileged enough to have moved from being a “faggot motherfucker” to being a “freak-ass bitch” in the vast, complicated mind of Andrew Tomas. The only reason I’ve had this wonderful privilege bestowed on me is because a kid who hangs out with Andrew named Omar once took my glasses off my head and started playing Monkey in the Middle with Andrew. What happened? Well, the venom went off and I tore Omar’s eyebrow ring out, and when he tried to fistfight me afterward, I knocked one of his teeth loose. I got my glasses back and was immediately transferred from being a “faggot” to being a “freak” or “schizoid” or whatever the word of the day was, it doesn’t fucking matter. It’s one of the venom’s most prominent traits: If you’re someone I like, I’m a violent, twisted bastard. If you’re someone I don’t, I am the Marquis de fucking Sade. The only reason that Omar didn’t report me to the administration was because telling the full story would’ve involved explaining why two strapping young lads were tormenting such a “sensitive” and “troubled” young boy as Locke Vinetti. Andrew, however, put my name down in his head.