Venomous

by Christopher Krovatin

  Right on target.

  The world just stops.

  My life freezes. It’s like someone hit the pause button on my existence. I step back and take it in. My face is a malicious grin with reddened eyes. Every muscle in my body looks taut beneath my clothing, pulled tight in both rage and anguish. Casey is actually lifted off the ground by my punch, his cheeks puffing out, his feet hanging about a foot or so above the floor. His body is hunched over my fist, crumpled, like a badly raised circus tent.

  I feel powerful. I feel immortal and dark and stark raving mad. I feel like every fantasy character I’d concocted for myself at bedtime, every grand villain or hideous monster I’d used to make my poisonous core into a weapon or a shield against everything else. This is how Vlad the Impaler must have felt, Alexander the Great, Charles Manson—invincible, powered by something beyond their control and feeling deliciously wonderful about it. This is how Blacklight feels. It’s fantastic. It’s better than every fantasy I’ve ever dreamed of, every fight I’ve ever walked away from. Better than sex, than love. Paradise in ebony.

  This is nice, I think.

  Isn’t it, though?

  BAM, I’m in the fight again, and after a second of floating, Casey hits the ground. He tries to push away from me, coughing, sobbing, but I grab the collar of his shirt and pull. One of his bloody, drooly hands reaches out and does the same to me. For a second I see his face, my friend’s face, pained, hurt—

  —and then he smiles, and I know that no matter how powerful or dark I just felt, he understands.

  He yanks, and uses the force of me pulling up to head-butt me right in the face. The world shatters, and all is silent for a second, but consciousness spins back into view.

  We’re both on our feet, but just barely. My head is still swimming from the head butt, and Casey’s still choking from the uppercut, and the people circling us are looking more worried than excited now. We’re heaving, stumbling, trying to gather our wits, ready for the next move, the next punch. Our eyes meet, and although bloody and bruised, I can tell he’s still ready to fight.

  “Stop.”

  Somehow, through the car alarms and the whispering audience and all the city’s noise, we both hear Randall and look up at him. He stands at the front of the crowd, arms folded, Tollevin flanks him, aghast. Randall’s expression is one of mixed contempt and grief—he’s disgusted by us, but it’s obvious he didn’t expect anything less. There’s a smudge of blood on his shirt. I then take the time to look at our battlegrounds and see lots of it, spattering the sidewalk, my clothes, my fists…JESUS. Now that I look at it, there’s blood everywhere, even smeared on the walls and the car we hit. This place looks like a food fight at Hannibal Lecter’s place. I had no idea there was this much blood in a person. Or that I could shed it.

  After this pause, there’s no more momentum. I feel numb, obliterated. I can’t even cry. There’s nothing left in me, like the venom has passed out from exhaustion and left a big empty room behind. I open my mouth and feel my lips sting as the blood and mucus coating them stretches and then cracks.

  I turn to face Randall. “Brent call you?” I manage to hiss out. He nods, slowly. “How do I look?”

  “You’ll be okay.”

  Greeeeat. “You okay?”

  He opens his mouth to say something, and then his eyes widen. “Locke—”

  A hand grabs my hair and yanks, accompanied by the most gut-wrenching scream I’ve ever heard. Casey sweeps me off my feet and slams my head into the car’s hood. Everything swirls purple before going straight to black.

  “Locke? LOCKE?”

  A hand slaps my face awake, and I sit up on the pavement. Tollevin crouches in front of me with a glass of water, which he shoves into my mouth, and I gulp greedily. The side of my forehead cries agony.

  “Oh fuck,” I mumble. “How long was I out for?”

  “Only about twenty seconds,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief. “Long enough to make us worried, though. Jesus, I’m beginning to wonder if it’s possible to kill you. Man, you need to see a mirror.”

  The details of the situation rush back into my head. “Where’re Randall ’n’ Casey?”

  “Over there.”

  I follow his finger to a couple of yards away, where Casey sits with his back up against a wall, head between his knees. Randall crouches in front of him, face pained and exhausted. A small trail of blood runs from Casey, dribbling down the pavement and into the street.

  Okay, friends accounted for. Next problem. “Where’s Renée?”

  Tollevin hisses, “She’s inside the bar, man. Now might not be the best time.”

  “Help me up.”

  “Locke…fuck.”

  Tollevin yanks me to my feet and hands me my glasses, surprisingly intact. I hobble into the bar, dark and ratty, and find Renée on the stool, picking her nails to pieces. Great black gobs of makeup drip down from her animal eyes, darting every which way in case of predators. One knee moves pistonlike; her foot beats out a double-bass rhythm. The bartender, a cute girl in her midtwenties, has a hand on Renée’s shoulder. As I enter, she takes just enough time to return my glance and turn away in horror. The more I walk, the more I feel the blood move down my face.

  “Renée?”

  She shrieks and goes a foot in the air. Instead of going to my face to help me, like they should, her hands go straight to and into her mouth, her fingers shoved between her teeth. Her eyes well up with tears, and her shoulders go up in a defensive posture. Jesus, how bad did Casey beat me? We didn’t get that out of hand, did we?

  “Renée.”

  “Look at you,” she gurgles. “Look at yourself.”

  She stands up and marches out of the bar, crying quietly. I follow her into the street, as fast as I can.

  “Renée.”

  She turns the corner, trying to outwalk me. What the fuck? I grab her shoulder and spin her, make her look at me.

  “Renée!”

  Before I can say anything else, she’s screaming and hitting me, pounding her fists at my shoulders and neck and making these horrible leathery noises in the back of her throat again. My wounds scream out in soreness, so I just put my arms up and back off. I take the hint and don’t touch her again, just follow her.

  “Renée.”

  Past the remaining members of the audience, disgusted, whispering. I start switching sides to make sure both ears can hear me.

  “Renée.”

  She walks to the curb and throws one hand up, the other one clutching at the back of her neck. I pray that our appearances will make every cab driver in a three-mile radius turn their OFF DUTY lights on.

  “Renée.”

  A cab pulls up in seconds, and she’s inside it, barking her address. I grab hold on the door handle and try to keep her from closing the door.

  “Renée.”

  She screams and yanks with all her might before crawling into the far corner of the taxi and hiding her face. The cab, whose driver probably thinks I’m a budding Ike Turner, disappears with a screech and a cloud. I memorize the plate: EVH5604. Soon, though, it blends in with the New York City mob of yellow cabs, and it’s lost, taking my repulsed girlfriend with it.

  “Renée.”

  The wounds on my face and the bruises on my arms sting as my sweat and blood roll into them, as if someone had dripped poison into my open gashes and aching muscles. Somewhere in the distance, there’s a high-pitched wail, growing louder and louder.

  Tollevin runs up to my side. “Dude, that’s the cops. You need to get the fuck out of here, pronto.”

  And even though it makes no sense, a word forms in my mouth, the only word I think I can say other than her name.

  My lips curl, teeth press, tongue wavers, and:

  “Venom.”

  ARE YOUalive?”

  He sputtered out another gurgling response. The monster that had nearly killed me was no more, leaving this charred little…man. A man, an engine of blood and ligament, nothing more. Weak
, easy, shallow, murderous.

  There was another spasm in the energies of my costume, and I crouched, preparing to do what I knew had to be done.

  “I understand your intentions,” I whispered, “but you killed her. Terrible future or not, you killed her, my friend, and I…can’t let that be forgotten.”

  “S’posed ta…kill you,” he spat. “Send me bacckkh to kkill you…”

  “I can’t allow that, either. What I am, what I can do…It’s all too important, you see. Too important to let one little pissant put it in jeopardy.” I grabbed his collar and flipped him over, his face finally facing me. I raised my fist, begging for the impact of blood and bone. “I’m sorry. Understand, this is for your own good.”

  He sputtered out a mouthful of blood, and then he smiled. A sly smirk up in one corner of his face. “I’m glad I got”—he managed to croak out—“got to meet you…helped me remember what…you were like…”

  My hand froze, the energy still raging through it but the motivation lost. Again, the overwhelming feeling that something was not right with this man washed across me. “I don’t understand.”

  “You were—” Another cough, another spray of gore. He caught his breath. “You were a better brother than you were a tyrant.”

  Pow.

  No.

  My fist dropped. My face dropped. My entire body let out a collective heave of sorrow, and my hands clutched the broken man before me.

  “Lon.”

  “Hey, mmannuh…I’m schorry about Renée….

  “My God, Lon. I’m…oh God, LON, WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK NO, NO, NO…”

  “The venom remembered me and thought—” And then his body shook, bent in the middle, twisted up in weird, insectoid ways that no human should be able to move. “Found me, found the well inside of me when I killed herrrr—” More gurgling. Another twitch.

  “LON!” I clutched his body to me, trying to shake some life back into it. I heard him cough, and then I grasped his face, staring straight into his eyes, blue and fading quick. “LON, HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW?” I screamed. “WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME IT WAS YOU! YOU’RE OLDER, AND I COULDN’T RECOGNIZE…YOU CAN’T EXPECT ME…OH GOD, OHGODOHGODOHFUCKING CHRIST, I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY!”

  Static hiss seemed to fill the air, and his body went rubbery, unreal in my hands. “Going back.” He moaned. “When you die, they bring you back…. Don’t forget what…what you are…” His eyes, floating Cheshire cat–like in the darkness, focused on mine. “It’s not you.”

  And then my hands clapped together, because he was gone, sucked into time and away from me.

  I stood on the rooftop, feeling the city’s sorrows whirling around and through me.

  Somewhere, off in the distance of my mind, I heard an echoing laugh.

  “Admit it,” said a voice that wasn’t mine, “I’m starting to get to you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  IT IS MY firm belief that if I ever smoked crack, my mother would sniff the air, glare at me, and ask me why I was smoking crack. The Mom Sense gives all mothers an internal gauge that reads what kind of trouble their child has been up to, and how badly said child is gonna get it. So it’s no surprise to me that the minute I get home, even though I’ve been trying to be quiet and discreet, my mother calls out my name and walks into the living room to see me, bloodied and broken, slumped against the door frame.

  “Oh my God! What happened to you?”

  No talk. Face hurty. Maybe later. Her hands grab at my shirt, but I keep moving, brushing them off as I go.

  “Honey, what happened? Are you all right? Let me see, let me see, oh my God, sweetie, tell me who did this to you and I—”

  I put up my hand to signal that this conversation is not meant to happen yet. Once I make it to my room, I slam the door behind me and gimp over to my dresser so I can see my face in my mirror.

  Well, holy fucking shit.

  I’m all fucked-up. Like, Rambo fucked-up. Girl-who-survives-the-entire-horror-movie fucked-up. My lower lip is split in two different places. My left eye is a swollen mass of swirling blacks and blues, accentuated by a small scratch that had decided to bleed profusely down the side of my face. Small brownish bruises line my neck, each one a marking from where Casey’s fingertips had dug into my throat. There’s blood, snot, sweat, and tears all over every part of my face, some even clumping my hair together, turning its usual mangy blond to coppery and festering (man, I love using those two adjectives as a self-description). One lens in my glasses frames is slightly cracked but still usable, and has managed to stay in its frame, which counts for something, I’m sure, in some fucking ridiculous karmic way. It’s like a bus hit my face.

  I heave a sigh through my bloodied mouth, and the air rattles through my lungs and rasps out dry. A shell, a husk, a shed snake’s skin. I just feel sagging flesh on aching bone. An out-of-service machine.

  In the bathroom, I dampen a washcloth and get to work. The minute it touches my face, stinging nettles stab my entire head. The pain registers in the back of my brain, but just barely, not enough to make me care. The cloth and my face trade colors: My skin is revealed as pale and sickly, while the cloth turns a dark, chunky brown. It reminds me of chum.

  When I finish wiping down my mug, my wounds don’t look half as bad as they did before I cleaned myself up, but they’re still bad enough. The eye still looks hideously ballooned, but the cut above it isn’t visible in the least. One split in my lip seems gone already, but the other is ragged and swollen enough to present a problem. The bruises on my neck, though, stand out like a forest fire. I wouldn’t give me a quarter if I saw me on the street.

  My mother, arms crossed and face tight, greets me as I crack the bathroom door. I try to force a smile to let her know that I’m okay, but my entire face screams in pain, so I just sort of grimace like a moron.

  “I want to know what’s going on, dammit,” she says. “You don’t just come home looking like that, slam the fucking door in my face, and not explain to me what’s going on. JEsus-MaryandJOseph, Locke, look at you.”

  My brain’s pilot light comes on, and I think of an appropriate response. “It’s nothing, really. I’m all right.” Good one.

  “Get out here this instant and tell me exactly what happened to you. It’s like…”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Do you—” Her face softens suddenly, and my heart shatters. “Locke, honey, please. Look at you. I’m so scared. What happened? Who did this to you? You don’t have to be afraid, you can talk to me about this.”

  “Got in a fight. Look, let me get a few hours of sleep. Please. And then I’ll tell you all about it. Every last detail. Just…I’m exhausted.”

  Finally she shakes her head and turns back toward the living room. “Fine. Go to sleep. We’ll discuss this when you wake up.” Her voice lets me know that I’m in deep, deep trouble. Big surprise.

  The sheets feel cool and soft on my body, compared to the roughness of everything else. I wrap and tuck until the whole bed is a cocoon, a comfort burrito with a scrumptious Locke core.

  As my head sinks into my waiting pillow, I reach out for the venom, the constant presence that’s been my companion for too long now. The venom sighs and waves me away, as though exhausted.

  Long day. Good work. Kudos, buddy.

  Everything’s poisoned, I think. You ruined it all. My friends, my family, it’s all been tainted, turned to shit. This is your magnum opus, isn’t it?

  I told you not to thank me. Not to get too comfortable. All I needed was an even playing ground, an amount of equality. And all that took was a little hope. Once you were lifted up, it was just a matter of waiting for the downfall.

  Always poisonous, I think, yawning. Nothing changed, it just looked different. Fuck you.

  You probably have a concussion, you know. If you go to sleep, you might not wake up.

  Maybe that’s for the best.

  I let my eyes, heavy and irritated, close softly.

  Sadl
y, it’s not my time, and after a few hours of dreamless black sleep, my eyes click open again. My wounds, now rested, have been given time to be sore and uncomfortable. I roll over and feel everything from my scalp to my toes scream bloody murder. I lift my arm to scratch at the cut above my ear, and everything from my fingertips to my shoulder blade becomes a bag of rusty nails and shattered glass. Well, at least I can feel real pain again. Good to know. Christ, this SUCKS. Every movement is torture. I want to fucking die.

  Lon sits at the kitchen table when I enter. He’s reading a comic book, and he does a double take when I come into the room: looks at Batman, looks up at me, looks back down to Batman, and then gapes at me like I’m a circus freak.

  “Holy crap!”

  “Language,” calls my mother from the other room.

  “Hey,” I mumble as I sit down at the table with the speed of an octogenarian.

  “What happened?”

  “Got in a fight.”

  He laughs like it’s not really that funny. “With what, a bear?” My mom snorts approving laughter toward my little brother. Being the subject of ridicule is, in this case, tolerable. “Are you okay? I can get you some ice….”

  “I’m fine. Just a little sore.”

  He tilts his head sideways, fascinated by my face. “Wow…I’ve never seen a real black eye before”

  I lean forward. “Wanna touch it? Softly, though.”

  Just as he reaches out to feel my swollen face, my mother enters the room and slaps his hand out of the air. “Leonardo, honey, will you excuse us for a second? I need to talk to your brother.”

  Your brother. Oh man…

  Lon nods to us, and then in a blur he’s in his room. My mother goes about tidying some things up in the kitchen before she slowly takes Lon’s seat and lights a smoke. When she doesn’t offer me one, I take it upon myself to spark up. I haven’t had a cigarette in way too long, and my throat has finally stopped aching from being choked. A minor blessing.