Venomous

by Christopher Krovatin

  “But then I’d just be a scumbag.”

  “No, you wouldn’t, you’d be imperfect. There’s a big difference, Locke.”

  “I’d like to think that sleeping with someone else when you have a girlfriend makes you a scumbag as well as imperfect.”

  “Well, that’s your opinion.”

  “Yeah, it really is.” I start to pick at the arm of the couch, not quite sure what to say to that. Is this supposed to be a form of progressive new therapy, being okay with asshole behavior? It’s like a lack of warmth is a job requirement.

  “Well. Anyway. There. I had sex with my girlfriend.”

  “Was this your first time having sex?”

  “Oh. Yeah. That’s sort of the point.”

  “Uh-huh. How’d it make you feel?”

  “Amazing.”

  “What does that mean?”

  How else is sex supposed to make you feel? “It means that orgasms create a pleasurable feeling that I’m sure is biological encouragement for reproduction—”

  She laughs out loud, and I feel victorious. “Emotionally. Are you glad it happened? Was it what you had envisioned?”

  This question I actually threw around in my head a few times. I mean, I love Renée and last night was incredible, but did it live up to my expectations? Sex had always been this looming, crucial thing in the background. Now that it was over, where do I stand?

  Finally I look at her and smile. “Y’know what? I regret nothing about last night. It was perfect. It wasn’t at all how I envisioned it, but it was even better because of that. I feel like a million bucks.”

  She smiles. “Good for you. But back to what you just said—how had you envisioned it?”

  Tender area, that. “I mean…honestly? I had sort of envisioned it being really awkward and bad,” I say softly, throwing a little laugh in there to try and prove that this didn’t make me really fucking uncomfortable. “I thought that I’d be too nervous, and she’d get tired of me, and I wouldn’t be able to find…it, and—”

  “The clitoris.”

  GYAH. Come on, lady. “…yeah. And also, I always was afraid…” The tension builds, and it’s as though my jaw won’t work.

  “I’m listening.”

  I squeeze and shove until it pops like a mental zit. “I was afraid something would happen with the venom. That things wouldn’t work, and I’d get frustrated, and maybe even violent. I think it’s why I’ve always been kind of freaked out by sex, because I was scared it would open up some sort of gateway into the worst part of the venom, and someone would get hurt, and my pride would…well, you get the picture.”

  “And what happened to it?”

  “It disappeared the minute she touched me.” As I say it, it registers as real, true. “And when we were alone, it ceased to exist. Not just the feeling of it, but any memory of it. The venom didn’t matter.”

  “Very good. I think we’re making progress,” she says softly.

  “What, because the venom doesn’t show up during sex?”

  “Well, sure.”

  “What if it does?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” She scribbles something on her notepad. “And how’s the venom now? How has it been lately?”

  “I’m…it’s changing,” I say, trying to assign words to the whirlwind of emotions I’ve dealt with the past couple of weeks. “Recently, it’s been there constantly, this pestering voice in the back of my head, at all times. Like it’s becoming less and less localized. I don’t feel like I’m having as many attacks, but the poisonous side, the hurtful side, seems to have come up to the surface.”

  “Mmm-hmm. How has that affected you?”

  “Actually, it’s been sort of helpful. At times. It’s as though, when I get a little angry, instead of blowing up or just taking it and swallowing the anger, the venom takes over and makes me sort of…dangerous, you know? I feel risky and tough, but confident. Sharp. Does that make sense?”

  She nods, cradling her chin. “The venom is, if I may, your Mr. Hyde. It can do things you can’t, go places you’re too scared to.”

  “Not the analogy I’d use, but sure. Just, now it’s less of an explosion. Like it’s in my hands.”

  “You sure about that?”

  I eye her nervously. “Wow, what does that mean?”

  “From what I’ve seen, you’re coming to terms with your anger,” she says, scribbling another note. “Whether or not you’re in control of it is an entirely different issue all together.”

  “You make it sound really terrifying.”

  “No,” she says in her stupid fucking shrink voice. “I’m expressing my opinion. If it’s terrifying, then you’re the one who’s making it so.”

  Dr. Yeski’s full of shit. The next couple of weeks are a blur of happiness.

  School is wonderful. Andrew leaves me alone and Randall seems like an even better friend than before, now that I’m part of the tarot (which is a little fucked-up, but I’m too ecstatic to care). Occasionally, when we go walking or go downtown, someone recognizes me as the new member and talks to me, makes me feel magical and important. Randall just acts as if it’s all old, if pleasant, news. He’s used to this kind of reception almost wherever he goes. For me, this is Shangri-la and Hollywood rolled into one. I feel like Madonna.

  I am, as it turns out, a love machine. Renée and I spend more time having sex than we do eating. Whenever I see her for the first time that day and kiss, we both get a look in our eyes of pure hunger. She starts wearing clothes when I come over that I know are put on for the sole purpose of making me hot under the boxers—fishnet shirts, bondage skirts, low-cut pants, bras with studded straps. New concepts and practices enter my mental library, positions and sweet spots and condom brands. The best part is the reciprocation: I don’t just want her, we want each other. There’s energy in the air when we’re together—fiery, passionate, horny energy. It’s incredible to be in love with this girl, but it’s even more incredible to know that she wants me, wants my smell and my skin, wants my sweat and my hair and my butt. That’s a weird concept: a girl liking my butt. How the fuck does this happen?

  And on top of all that, the venom only makes its entrances charmingly now. Occasionally I get those flashes, like the one time with Renée on the phone, when the venom seems to lace my comments and attitude with wit and power. Rage seems to melt on contact with me; I brush it off my shoulders and look on the bright side. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel totally in control. Every moment is like that first shower with Renée—I feel my venom alarms begin to light up, and then the sight and sound of her just make them go dead quiet before they even really start sounding off. No one is poisoned, including myself, and every day seems to push it farther and farther. Who knew that after all the soul-searching and despair, she was what I needed to fend the venom off?

  Love was the cure all along. It’d be disgustingly predictable if it wasn’t so great.

  Then there’s the party.

  The door booms open, and the city skyline glows around me. My coat flutters in the rooftop breeze, but I barely notice.

  “Where’d this…what is…”

  Casey slaps me on the back. “Told you this’d be worth your while.”

  The rooftop, lit by the harsh fluorescent glow of nearby Times Square, is covered with artists. Kids dressed like redneck circus performers scamper across the concrete, spraying tags and slathering canvases. Great swaths of poster paper have been laid out and thoroughly marked. Every place I look, someone is creating, illustrating, building. The whole process moves at a steady rhythm. No one takes a break; they just move from one strange emotional expression to another. The whole thing makes me think of an ant colony.

  Off to the side stands a table covered with bottles. I ask Renée and Casey about it. When Casey informs me it’s the bar, Renée and I decide that we have our work cut out for us.

  As we’re mixing up White Russians, Randall appears beside us and mumbles, “
What’s up, guys?”

  Renée gives him a huge bear hug. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in ages!”

  Randall shrugs and says something about it only being a few weeks, which isn’t that long. There’s something wrong with him tonight, I can tell. He’s not in his normal master-of-ceremonies mode, but instead looks like I normally do at parties, shifting his weight constantly and glancing around with a severe look on his face. After a little small talk, Renée kisses me and excuses herself to hug and chatter with a massive raver-looking guy who has glowsticks somehow braided into his dreadlocks (classy). I turn to Randall and smile.

  “Are you okay, man?”

  He shakes himself off a bit and shrugs. “I’ll be fine.”

  “That statement right there doesn’t make me think you’re okay.”

  “Just a little—” Before he can finish, Casey shoves his way between us, grabs the bottle of Jim Beam on the table, and slugs down about two shots before disappearing into the crowd with a whoop.

  “That why you’re worried?” I whisper, throwing a thumb at Casey.

  “Yup.” He sighs and stares down into his drink.

  There are a million things I want to do to help, but I have no clue what they might be. Randall’s the one who’s supposed to be on top of things, taking charge, keeping all his insane friends in check. Me, I can barely tie my shoes, much less control a herd of emotionally unstable teenagers with my very presence.

  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.