by Lee Hayes
Then, he hissed something again and all of the snakes—all of them—dug their fangs into her flesh and injected her with venom. Rebecca clapped delightfully.
They bit her repeatedly until she could no longer endure the pain; she blacked out.
CHAPTER 10
When Simon walked into his apartment, the rich smell of Crawfish Etouffee, simmering on the stove, greeted him at the door. The scent swirled around the room and landed flatly against his nose. He closed the door and inhaled deeply, hoping to get a taste of his favorite dish from the air itself. His stomach, reacting to the enticing smell, rumbled. The sounds of Esmeralda, a local New Orleans blues singer, played softly in the background. Her sultry voice never failed to put Simon in a good mood.
He walked deeper into the apartment, dropping his keys and jacket on the couch. Brooke was standing over the stove, stirring the pot, wearing nothing but a short pink and white apron that stopped midway at her thighs. Her breasts spilled out from the sides of the apron, showing just enough skin to entice and titillate. It was a delectable sight and Simon fought the urge to rush over to her and gobble her up completely without saying a word; instead, he chose to play it cool.
He smiled, watching her watch him. She moved seductively and smiled coyly, leaning over deeply as she stirred the pot so that he’d get a better view of her lovely breasts. His love for her had become thick and solid during these troubling times, but still, it would remain silent. Instead of saying the word, he’d show her instead. He was good at that, good at expressing his love physically; good at being tender and holding her in his arms. After all, what’s in a word? It is actions that matter. He read somewhere that love is a verb; love is what it does, and he held onto that definition tightly. So the word itself couldn’t possibly matter that much, could it?
This was Brooke at her best, anticipating his needs and desires. She looked genuinely pleased in making him happy, and he was thrilled to get back into their usual routine and not worry about the fantastical events that plagued him of late. He missed a sense of normalcy and routine in his life. He wanted things to go back to the way they were, before he dreamed of snakes and feared his dark side. It had been two full days since his last episode, and he was starting to think that the worst was behind him.
He let the music churn in his ears for a few more moments and then he bopped over to her, with a dip in his hip, and grabbed her by the waist. He pulled her into him and kissed her passionately, tasting the rich flavor of the dish on her lips and tongue.
“What’s all this for?” he asked.
“For you, of course. Let’s say it’s the beginning of a two-week celebration of your birthday.” Her smile was electric.
“Ahhh,” he said, “my birthday is coming up. I had forgotten with all the shit that’s been happening.”
“We’re gonna put all that behind us and get back to living and enjoying each other. This is a happy season. It’s your birthday and then Christmas four days after that. So, let’s enjoy it and each other.”
“I don’t want you making a big deal about my birthday, and you know how I feel about Christmas.” She simply smiled and offered him a taste of etouffee on a spoon to pacify him.
Simon wasn’t big on Christmas. Growing up in foster care, he received presents so rarely that he learned to not expect them. His little heart couldn’t stand the disappointment. He remembered feeling jealous when he looked out of the window and saw all the neighborhood kids riding their new bikes and playing with their toy guns and race cars.
“You still gonna go on the cruise with your parents?”
“Yes, and I wish you would reconsider. They really want you to come with us.”
He raised one eyebrow at her. “Me and your father on a two-week Mediterranean cruise doesn’t sound like a good idea. Besides, I have to work.”
“I wish I could spend Christmas with you.”
“You can. Tell your parents you can’t go on the cruise. Tell ’em you’ll be with me instead.” Simon was only half-kidding. Just once he’d like to not spend Christmas alone, but he wouldn’t dare impose on her.
“You know I would if I could. My mother would go through the roof if I didn’t make it. She’s been planning this cruise for three years and she finally got Daddy to agree. If I didn’t go she’d disown me.”
“I’m kidding, baby. I want you to go and have a good time with your family.”
The word family rang in Simon’s ears. It was during the holidays that his lack of familial ties hurt the most. Even now. “Are we still going to Franklin’s show tonight?”
“If you’re up to it after I finish with you,” she said with a hint of things to come.
“I like the way that sounds.” Simon moved over to the sink and grabbed a glass from the cabinet. He moved over to the refrigerator and poured a glass of wine.
“Simon, you shouldn’t be drinking.”
“It’s cool. I looked up the medication online and it said wine, in moderation, was okay while I was on it.” She looked at him incredulously.
“Are you lying to me?”
“Of course not. Here, see for yourself.” He reached into his pocket and was about to pull up the popular website WebMD on his cell phone for confirmation.
“Never mind,” she said, “I trust you.”
When he moved near her he noticed a bright yellow piece of paper in the trash can. He immediately recognized it as a “Late Rent Notice” that Ms. Sanchez loved to tactlessly attach to tenants’ doors.
“Ms. Sanchez was here?”
“Oh, yeah. She caught me when I came in, but don’t worry about it. I took care of it.”
“Took care of what?”
“The rent. I gave her a check.”
Simon rolled his eyes hard. “Why the fuck would you do that? Brooke, I don’t need you paying my rent. I have the money order in my wallet.”
“She said you were late, but it’s no biggie. I’ll get the check from her and you can give her the money order.”
“That’s not the point. The point is, I’m a man and I can take care of my own bills. I don’t need you taking care of me, not like that. I’m going to have to have a conversation with her about discussing my business with people.”
“I’m not people. I’m your girlfriend. Please don’t be mad. I was trying to help and we’re having a good evening. Let’s not argue.”
“Brooke, you have to understand—” She stepped back and untied the apron, letting it fall to the floor. Her nakedness filled the room.
“I have to understand what?” Simon’s unfinished criticism of her was overwhelmed by his rising desire. “Why don’t you come over here and show me how much of a man you really are?”
Halfway into the evening, Simon felt his two glasses of wine starting to work on his system. Franklin was on stage with a full band behind him while he sang with more heart and soul than a man three times his size. He voice was deep and rich with passion and power, and he hit every note precisely. His range and vocal affectations were remarkable and he held the entire room spellbound as he worked every inch of the stage thoroughly. Women swooned when they heard the fullness of his soulful voice and his intense and highly sexual lyrics; there would certainly be some panty-dropping tonight.
The darkened lounge was packed to the nines with people of varying shades and backgrounds. The Black Cat always attracted a diverse crop of people who came out to hear good music and to enjoy cocktails so strong that two of them were almost certain to knock you on your back. Their signature drink, Voodoo, had gained infamy in the city and had sent many folks to the drunk tank at the police station for an unexpected overnight stay.
The crowd that night was enthusiastic and lively, gyrating and grinding uninhibitedly against Franklin’s charged lyrics and the hypnotic beats of the drummer. The vixen of a saxophonist, who was all lines and sensual curves, sent the crowd into a frenzy when she blew on her horn and sent notes so carnal into the air that legs immediately spread and backs arched ins
tinctively.
Almost three-hundred throbbing people were squeezed into a place meant for no more than two hundred. Sweaty flesh pressed against equally sweaty and unfamiliar flesh, but no one seemed to mind. There was a spell in the air, some of that old magic only New Orleans could produce. The heat generated by the crowd caused the concrete walls to perspire. The crowd was on its feet and Simon felt the old floor shift underneath him. He was pressed hard against Brooke from behind, acting as part protector and part lover. Their bodies swayed naturally and easily together.
The end of Franklin’s mesmerizing first set was met with thunderous applause from the audience and his cool, laconic reply when he leaned into the microphone and simply said, “See y’all in half an hour.” His voice was confident and smooth; he was the reigning king of the room and the audience, his eager subjects. He dipped off the side of the stage with a proud smile on his face and disappeared.
“Wow,” Simon said. The music of the club blared through the speakers. The crowd didn’t stop their dancing; they simply changed their rhythm. Simon grabbed Brooke’s hand and led her through the crowd toward the back bar. He wanted to use the restroom and to get a bottle of water
“Can you get me some water?” he asked Brooke, making sure that he handed her money to pay for it. “I’ll be right back.” Simon walked down the dimly lit hallway toward the bathroom. He had walked this walk many times in the past, during Franklin’s many shows, but the distance to the restroom seemed much longer this time. Maybe he was in a hurry to pee. He moved around a couple that was grinding against the wall. Usually, he’d watch for a few minutes, but he feared any delay now would cause him to urinate on himself.
As he continued the long march, the overhead lights flickered and the hallway itself seemed to shift out of focus. Simon rubbed his eyes with his hands and pushed opened the door to the john. Surprisingly, it was empty. Immediately, he rushed over to the urinal, ignoring that sour smell of urine and alcohol that permeated the thick air in the tiny room. He unzipped his jeans and exhaled with relief as he released the liquid that had built up in his bladder.
The lights flickered again.
“Ssssss-Simon.”
Simon spun around in a panic, spraying the wall with urine. The lights flickered rapidly and the room itself seemed to be changing shape, as if the walls were malleable. Quickly, Simon finished, buttoned his pants and turned around. The lights went out completely, covering the room in a dense black. He couldn’t see anything, not even light seeping under the door from the other room.
“Ssssss-Simon.”
“Leave me the fuck alone!”
Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid. The familiar command came in a voice that contradicted the one hissing his name. This hissing voice harshly grated on his ears while this one offered—or at least attempted to—a peculiar kind of peace; a dichotomy that his present fear couldn’t reconcile.
Suddenly, a white light flickered like a strobe light in the corner. A shape of a man was being carved out from the shadows in the room. Simon held his breath and watched. He was too terrified to even move. The shadows gathered and created a hooded man that must have been eight feet tall. The man had no face; only yellow eyes inside of a dark hood. The shadows that made up the man moved like flames in a strong wind, giving the giant Shadowman the macabre appearance of black fire.
“Come to me.”
The room shifted in and out of focus, as if Simon was looking at an image through the broken lens of a camera. Then, the smell of rotting meat overtook the scent of hot piss and beer. The smell held a tight grip around his neck, choking the breath out of his body.
He felt unsteady, wobbly. He pushed his body against the sink for leverage just as the Shadowman raised his arm. His long, bony finger reached out across the flashing light toward Simon, who watched helplessly as the finger curved close to his face. Simon’s eyes bulged and the stench of decay lodged in his throat.
“Go away!” Simon screamed. He gripped the sink tightly and closed his eyes.
“Fuck you, man. I gotta piss.” Simon opened his eyes in time to see a wiry black-haired man stumble to the urinal. Simon watched him, almost expecting him to morph into a ball of shadows. He looked around the room and there was no sign or trace of the Shadowman. Gone were the shadows and the flickering lights and the bitter smell of decomposing flesh. Simon remained at the sink, looking around the room.
“Get the fuck outta here. This ain’t no peepshow!” Simon didn’t have to be told twice to leave that room. Hurriedly, he moved toward the door. He couldn’t have gotten out of that room faster if he had been an Olympic sprinter. In that room, he had felt unfettered evil.
As he burst through the door and wobbled into the dark hallway, he clutched the black wall for support, pressing his back firmly against it as his chest heaved. His heartbeat pumped furiously against his ribcage. With his head held low, he took a few jagged steps down the long hallway, barely avoiding collisions with a few people scattered about the space. His balance was off kilter, thrown by something so wretched that he’d have difficulty articulating it.
When he entered the main area, he saw Brooke at the end of the bar with her fingers wrapped around a bottle of water. He bulldozed his way through the crowd and made his way over to her and practically snatched the bottle from her grip. Eagerly, he poured the liquid down his bone-dry throat, hoping that the water would drown out a thought even more disturbing than the image of the Shadowman and the smell of dead flesh.
Undoubtedly, he knew that he had been in the presence of wickedness, of death. Even more troubling, there was a part of him that liked it.
CHAPTER 11
Simon stood at the water’s edge absentmindedly tossing pebbles into the Mississippi River. When it was warm, families came out in full force to enjoy the water, but not today. There were people around, but fewer than he had expected. Simon tossed another pebble. He watched the waves ripple throughout the murky water, and every few seconds or so, he’d look up and gaze into the horizon, hoping divine intervention would show him the way, or, at least, provide him some answers to the questions that he could not shake.
It was an unseasonably cool day in December and the wind skimming across the water cut through his light jacket. The squawking sound from a group of birds that flew overhead temporarily stole his attention. A wounded bird, no doubt a part of their flock, struggled on the ground to take flight. Simon watched the tremendous effort of the bird, which took a few ragged steps and flapped its wings forcefully, only to fall flat. The bird meandered near Simon, who noticed a tear in its left wing. The bird struggled and struggled to take flight, but its efforts were pointless. Simon, watching the other birds soaring above, felt sorry for the damaged one. The bird reminded him so much of himself; they were kindred spirits.
Lonely.
Damaged.
Struggling.
Unsure.
As he desired for himself, he wished the bird nothing but peace.
Fly away, little birdie.
He noticed a tingling in his fingers and as the thought left his head, Simon watched the bird take a few confident steps and take flight. It soared!
Simon stared, completely mesmerized by the effortless flight of the bird. It flew proudly and Simon watched it join its group that had gathered atop a naked tree in the distance.
Did I do that?
With all that had happened, Simon wasn’t surprised. He didn’t take responsibility for the bird’s recovery, nor did he discount his intervention, either. At this point, he thought anything was possible. He simply exhaled and moved away from the water and took a seat on the wooden stump a short distance away. He had more pressing issues than wounded birds.
He loved this spot. He had spent many days here staring at the water, people-watching and finding his inner peace. Something about the lapping sounds of the water and tranquility of the scene never failed to ease his mind, regardless of what was going on in his life at the time. It was here that he foun
d his center. Whenever Brooke stressed him out, or when school became too burdensome, or when he didn’t know where his next meal would come from, he’d come here and leave his troubles down by the riverside.
Simon tossed his last stone into the water and rubbed his face with his hands. For the first time in a long time, he truly felt afraid. He wasn’t so much afraid of what was happening as he was of what he was becoming. He could feel a change coming. He thought back to the night he had the fight with Bryon at Starry Nights. He felt power surge through his veins in a way that simple adrenaline could not explain. He felt as if he had the strength of ten men. He could have easily ripped Byron apart, limb by limb. He remembered the tingling in his fingers and the fire he felt in his fists when he balled them for combat. They felt heavy, like thick stone, but he wielded them easily and crushed his adversary. He knew Byron never stood a chance. Simon was grateful that he hadn’t knocked his head off his shoulders. As odd as that thought sounded to him, he knew that on that night it was well within the realm of possibility.
What disturbed him more than the brutal beating he handed out was what he felt after it was done. After Bryon lay unconscious and Debbie pressed him to leave, it took all the strength Simon had left to contain his joy.
Joy. An unusual emotion to feel when someone was near death, he thought.
How could I find pleasure in nearly beating a man to death? That was the question that Simon had asked himself over and over and over again. The question stayed with him and drove him to distraction. It was like he was becoming someone else.
Then, there were the thugs. They’re lucky they escaped with their lives.
And then the tasting of blood.
Simon huffed wearily and watched a few people move rapidly down the jogging trail. Some jogged; some ran, while others simply walked. In spite of the cooler than usual breeze coming from the river, it was a lovely Sunday afternoon to be outside near the water.