by O'Brian Gunn
As Bisset watches, she notices the angry purple stream flowing down his arm wash into a gentle ribbon of gold. Her arm alights with a sharp pain that melts away into her bones.
She shakes her head. “Go home, Bisset.”
The air is thick with the stench of marijuana, uncurling lackadaisical fingers through his body and massaging his mind into a mellow mass.
Noir brings the joint to his lips and tokes. The tip of the roll burns like a spot of lava. He holds it. Holds it. Holds it. And—
“Mmmmmmmm.” He grins as smoke tumbles from between his lips, brings his head back on the couch and watches as the TV screen explodes in a mutiny of color and sound. “Grade A dank, baby.”
His apartment living room is lightly littered with the remnants of take-out, strewn jackets, fully- and half-empty beer bottles, and cigarette butts smashed out and wrinkled in the ashtray. The cramped space is sparsely decorated and somewhat well-kept. A small collection of knives sits displayed in a case in the corner.
“The fuck are you doin’, you dumbass bitch?” He spreads the fingers of his upturned palm at the TV screen. “You know damn well he’s in the next room.” He takes another puff and watches as the man turns the corner and screams as a jagged butcher knife is stabbed into his neck. “Ooooooo.” Noir cringes and smiles as an exaggerated torrent of blood gushes from the man’s wound. “Toldja.”
Something outside the window tears his half-lidded eyes from the screen.
On the sixth floor of the building next from him, two men are in a heated argument in a low-lit room. One is shirtless with his arms stretched out at his sides as his mouth works furiously, his face knotted with anger. The other stumbles back a step, hands clenched into fists that look as if they are aching to lash out. Noir watches them for a moment before sliding his eyes back to the screen.
“Gahdamn.” He brings the joint to his face. “Just suck each other’s dicks and get it over with. Shit.” He winces and coughs around the next exhale.
A lit lamp slashes across the room, a comet from this distance.
Noir gets up from the couch and pads over to the window to draw the curtains closed. “Fuckin’ up my high.”
He pauses.
The shirtless man stalks toward the cowering man stooping to pick up the pieces of the broken lamp. His hands are at his sides and Noir can just make out the muscles in his forearm bunching. The shirtless man flexes his hand...
...and several inches long claws grow from the beds of his nails.
The burning joint almost tumbles from Noir’s fingers as his mouth unhinges.
The shirtless man lifts a clawed hand in the other man’s face, snarling. With his other hand, he yanks the curtains closed.
Noir’s eyes dart to the newspaper on the table.
“GENETICISTS ATTEMPT TO DISCOVER THE ORIGINS OF ALPHA-OMEGAS”
He smirks and snatches up his boots and three blades.
Leo worms his index finger beneath the bandages to scratch at his itching hand, thinks better of it and scratches lightly at the wrapping instead. He looks around the office as his fingers work, remembering the first time he was here, when he was hired. Then again when he was promoted. And once more when he was named Employee of the Year. And—
“Ouch.” He looks down and sees a spot of blood. He grimaces and stops scratching.
The door opens.
“Mr. Kennington.” Mrs. Acker steps in. “Good to see you.” She sits down behind her desk, folds her hands, and spreads a smile across her face. “How is your, uh...” She flutters fingers at his hand.
“It’s fine...fine.” He clears his throat and flexes his fingers.
“Good. Well, I think you’ll agree that we last parted ways on a not-so-good note, but I’m willing to overlook your little outburst—” Her eyebrows jump. “—and allow the past to remain where it is. I understand how difficult it must be for someone like you to—”
“Mrs. Acker, I just need to take a leave of absence, get my head and everything in it in order.”
Her eyelashes flutter. “I’m glad to hear it. I’d hate to lose you and your prodigious intellect and grasp of medical biochemistry. Just know that the shorter the absence, the better.” She holds her palms up. “Not to rush you or anything. You’re without a dissected doubt one of our best and most valuable employees, but we’ve received a few solid candidate applications recently, some who have Alpha-Omega abilities that make them exceedingly qualified for—”
“Do you care, Mrs. Acker?”
She sobers. “I’m sorry?”
“Do you care? Do you even care that one of your employees willingly stabbed himself with a pair of scissors? Do you even give a damn?” His brow wrinkles.
Her mouth works, hands fumble, eyes dart. “Mr. Kennington, I’m terrible with emotions and emotional responses, and I’m even worse with my own. I apologize if I seem callous, I’m not.” She gives him a level stare. “I’d like to remind you that we have a professional psychologist on staff if you need someone to talk to, if there are problems in your life you’d like to discuss.”
“I’m fine.” He looks out of the window. “And what did you mean by your comment earlier? That you understand how difficult it must be for someone like me. What about me?”
The water cooler burbles gently down the hall.
“I don’t know many mix—biraci—” She stretches her fingers out on the table and tries again. “I don’t know of many people with your particular racial background, but as a white woman, I do know what it’s like to be a minority within a majority. It’s like two separate people shoved into a single body, or having to pick one label for yourself and sticking to it for the rest of your life. I realize that by saying this I may be grasping at straws in an attempt to make a connection with you. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone at this comp—”
He holds up his uninjured hand. “Let me stop you before you puff yourself up too much. I know who I am and I know what I am. I’m Lebanese, I’m European, I’m Jamaican, I’m Native American, and several other races. I may be able to—to pass for white most of the time, but when I close my eyes at night, I know the man I am, okay? I know who I am. I’m a human being.” He regards her. “Now, can we stop making an issue of my race so I can get my paycheck and fill out all the necessary paperwork for a leave of absence, please?”
She pushes away from the desk and walks for the glass door. Her fingers are around the handle when she pauses. “The only person making an issue here is you, Mr. Kennington. I’ll talk to HR to see what I can do about improving the chances of them accepting your request.”
Bisset nearly sucks her lungs up her throat when she flicks the light on in the darkness of her apartment. The plastic grocery sack hooked on her index finger slips off and the sound of egg shells cracking is a wet, muffled one.
Her reflection sits in the easy chair, legs crossed with an expanse of brown thigh glowing in the light beneath the jade dress. Her hair is a glossy smooth swath arranged in a tail coiled over one shoulder. Her eyes smolder golden with verdant swirls.
She gives a tug of lips. “Hello, Bisset.”
“Dragoness...”
Her reflection lifts a slender finger. “The Dragoness. In the subliminal flesh.” She slides from the chair and stalks across the room. “I hear the angel has been flapping her wings in your ear, drowning out the voice of reason.” She leans against a wall with her hands behind her back. “My voice.”
Bisset glances down at the smashed eggs and places the rest of the groceries on the counter before retrieving the dented carton. “You’re not real.”
“And neither are you.”
She stuffs the bag and all in the garbage, looks at her yolk-stained fingers. “I’m about to make myself something to eat, can’t take my medicine on an empty stomach.” She walks to the sink and washes her hands, rubbing at them with hand soap a bit too roughly. “Will you be staying for dinner?” She goes about putting the rest of the groceries away.
“That medicine isn’t going to help you, Bisset.”
“It better, cost enough.”
The Dragoness pushes away from the wall and glides toward her, speaking in soothing tones. “Pharmaceuticals are for the body and the mind; what you’re dealing with is spiritual. You think it’s an affliction, but it’s not.”
Bisset whirls on her, jabbing with a loaf of bread. “THEN WHAT IS IT? Please. Explain to me why you’re in my head.”
The Dragoness pauses. “I’m choking on the words as I say this, but Seraph is right. You’ve been blessed. The only problem is that she thinks you’ve been blessed to end all human suffering.”
“And what do you think?”
The smirk is poison slicked over her mouth. “That you’ve been blessed to cause it.”
Bisset growls and throws up her hands. She feels The Dragoness step behind her.
“It’s not as nonsensical as you think. Humanity has benefited more from suffering than it cares to admit. Where do you think the expression ‘that which does not kill us makes us stronger’ comes from?” Her words slither sweetly. “Suffering forces you to reach deep inside of yourself for strength you didn’t even know you possessed.” Her voice pitches an octave lower. “Think about it. Infectious disease outbreaks, social unrest, wars, financial crises. All have forced humans to step out from their boundaries and look elsewhere for solutions, to make a connection. A human connection.”
“That’s insane.”
Her voice scorches. “What did I just say? How many groups of people, nations, and communities have come together because of the AIDS pandemic, hm?”
Bisset listens silently, swallowing.
“Suffering is necessary. It balances the universal scales. The one thing that righteous angel neglected to share with you is that which sparkles often blinds you...to the truth.”
“And what’s that?”
The Dragoness cuts her eyes to the left. “The truth is that a divorce is about to take place next door.”
Bisset stitches her eyebrows together as she turns around. “What?”
“Michelle and Ben have grown tired of each other; one no longer appreciates the other.” She plucks an apple from the fruit bowl, examining it. “The divorce rate in America is abysmally high.” Her golden-green eyes flash up at her reflection. “Maybe you should make them realize just how blessed they are to have each other.” She puts down the apple, takes up an orange and tosses it at Bisset, who fumbles to catch it. “I hate apples.”
Gone.
The door peels open with the same weary creak. Footsteps. Labored breathing.
Light
Noir grits his teeth and glances down at the slash marks on his stomach underneath his jacket. He limps and winces to the bathroom, flicks on the light. Carefully, he peels off the shredded t-shirt and examines the injury, studying the throbbing red lines on his face.
He turns on the faucet, releasing water and memory.
Noir scoffed as The Shirtless Man tried to hit him for the fifth time.
Mouths were opened, insults and threats threaded the air. Then The Shirtless Man picked up a baseball bat.
Noir ducked. Another lamp was smashed.
He jerked back and the bat hit the wall, showering them both with flecks of plaster.
The Cowering Man stood shuddering near the hallway, wringing a phone in his trembling hands.
Noir sucks in air between his teeth as alcohol trickles and stings over ripped skin.
The Shirtless Man swung left. Missed. Right. Noir ducked and rolled left before popping back up again with a twisted smile on his face, gloved fingers twitching with sparks of anticipation.
He bounced his eyebrows as The Shirtless Man’s face contorted in fury. He flexed fingers that seemed to harden and lengthen for a moment.
Noir stepped into the man’s next swing, grabbed him by the wrist with one hand, and jabbed the ramrod fingertips of the other into the man’s throat. The Shirtless Man’s eyes went wide as his throat clogged, the bat falling from his limp hands to clatter to the floor. Wrist still in his grip, Noir wrenched it behind the man’s back at a painful angle as he slinked behind him.
Noir quivers his fingers, shaking off the wrapper and stretching a Band-Aid over a cut. Tigger’s image bounces with joy on the bandage.
The Shirtless Man rammed the back of his head into Noir’s nose, slithering out of his grasp.
Noir mumbled a retort and pressed a hand to his bleeding nose.
The Shirtless Man’s hand flexed and relaxed as his mouth worked, throwing words.
Noir rubbed his bloodied fingertips together down at his side. He smiled. Then he yanked a blade from behind his back and rushed him.
Claws sprouted.
Blows were traded.
Noir carefully wraps his torso with an elastic bandage, trying his best to keep still.
Claws ripped across his arm. He blocked the next slash, but not the next or the one after.
Noir spilled the man on his ass with a leg sweep. Then he slammed the knife into a wrist, the pain cracking his opponent’s mouth open, stitching his eyes shut, and shocking his body into rigid stillness for a moment.
The Shirtless Man started to struggle, but Noir yanked out another knife and buried it in the other wrist. The Shirtless Man stopped struggling and started groaning deep in the back of his throat.
The Cowering Man wailed, shuffling back in fear and stutter-stepping forward in devotion.
Noir looked up at The Cowering Man and spoke.
Noir looks at the blood spatters in the sink. Looks at the blood soaked through his t-shirt.
The Cowering Man lifted a hand to the stitches on his forehead, fingers grazing the bruise around his eye and the slight red bump on his jaw. He shook his head as his mouth worked “no.”
Noir straddled The Shirtless Man’s waist. He wrapped his dirty fingers around the man’s throat and squeezed, wringing his hands around the other man’s skin as if he wanted to sear his fingerprints into the flesh. Noir’s mouth shaped the question “What are you?” He bashed the man’s head into the floor with each word, fingers still clenched over his windpipe. Spittle mixed with blood flecked the air like confetti.
Noir released him and The Shirtless Man replied.
Squelch
The man’s eyes flew wide. On the next exhale his heart stopped beating.
Noir yanked out the knife he had just buried in The Shirtless Man’s chest and cleaned it on the corpse’s pants. He looked at The Cowering Man.
“Did you a favor.”
He got up and looked down at The Shirtless Man’s still-warm body before his own injures flared to life. He pressed his hands at the wounds scrawled on his stomach and hobbled toward the door.
The Cowering Man watched him go. Then he scrolled his gaze down to the dead eyes staring up at him from the floor. He looked at the yawning door as he spoke. “Thank you.” He grabbed his jacket and left.
Noir stares at his bloody palm. He raises a finger to the mirror and smears a long line of red down the surface.
Jolting image of: Theodore Gordon exploding in a red eruption against the bus.
Quick flash of: The man in the bathroom spewing blood from his mouth.
Twitching splash of: The Shirtless Man’s gleaming claws slitting tender flesh and spilling blood.
The song returns.
B L O O D
Noir raises his sticky red fingers to his face, parting his spasming lips. “Blood.” His tongue eases out to taste. “Blood.” He looks at himself. “Blood.”
He opens the medicine cabinet again, snatches a fresh insulin syringe, and quickly returns to the scene of the crime.
The body of The Shirtless Man lies cooling with his vacant eyes glassy and mouth gaping. His hands end, once more, in normal fingers.
Noir’s own fingers spasm slightly as he looks down at the man he murdered. He looks over his shoulder at the gleam of light seeping through the cracked door. He swallows and turns back to the cor
pse.
Cooling body. Glassy eyes. Gaping mouth.
“Fuck it.” He kneels down with a suppressed grimace before jabbing the needle into the jugular vein and pulling the plunger.
B L O O D
It fills the syringe, stuffs his head with a sanguine symphony. His tongue darts out of his mouth and he pulls the needle out of the vein.
A noise.
Someone barges into the apartment with a gun drawn, sweeping the darkened living room.
Nothing.
Eyes settle on the corpse illuminated by the light of the full moon.
A curse slices through the air.
Like claws.
The light from inside gilds her exposed back, accentuating curves, lustrous skin, and the blood red silk of her gown. She smiles and a star is set aglow beneath her cheeks. The champagne flute softly meets her lips, and she sips. She touches elegant fingers to the gentleman’s forearm. He looks at her and seems to float on air.
Giorgio watches his mother toss her head back and laugh. She’d always had a wonderful laugh. It makes him sm—No. It makes him remember that she isn’t mourning her son’s death. In fact, she looks to be celebrating.
“You always were full of crocodile tears, mother.”
He stands in the shadows of the pine trees lining the perimeter of the mansion. His home. His childhood.
“What would you say if I walked up to you right now and embraced you? Or if I just stood there and waited for you to let me know that you missed me, that there’s a gaping chasm in your heart where I used to be?” He scoffs. “Or at least a pinhole.”
He watches the guests sitting out on the veranda playing cards, dancing, smoking, talking. Some linger in the shadows in hushed voices. Others stumble into the house with shimmering wine sloshing over the rims of their glasses.
Life goes on before his eyes.
“It’s like a dream. Something that never happened...to me at least.” His jaw clenches. “Only it did, and now I’m awake.” His eyes rove left to right. “So why am I still dreaming?”