Venomous (2 page)

T
HE CITY
called to me with a funeral dirge.

As I stared over the edge of the skyscraper, some seventy stories above the frenzied New Yorkers squirming like insects below me, I heard the city call me out to play, in the form of an orchestra of sorrow and anger, a symphony of enraged madness. Every twisted little deed, every back-alley deal and big-budget brutality of this fine city, added its voice to the choir of the damned and the desperate. The city’s song was the closest thing it had to a soul, tortured and scarred though it was; it was the sound of energy and emotion pulsing through the very core of this place, the invisible heart of darkness that beat its killing rhythm through the sewer, skyline, sidewalk. I heard it in the back of my head, like a buzzing hornet whirling angrily in a jar, begging its captors to let it out so they can see what it’s made of. It was miserable, yes—the core of this city was rotten, to say the least—but also inviting, impressive. I focused on it, let its words and melody billow in my brain until the tone became deafening. It fed me power unthinkable and thoughts unspeakable.

All the song needed was a vessel, and that was my use. It was the paint, and I, the canvas.

There was the prickle of apprehension as the doors to my mind and soul flew wide open, the transformation setting off my basic reptilian defense system; then the becoming began.

From my eyes, my mouth, the tips of my fingers—the song of the city wrapped its inky cloak around my body. Pure negative energy, the physical form of hatred and pain, twisted around my body and clothes, coating me in a suit of shadows. I became a corporeal conduit of every twisted deed done around me, a well of free-floating malevolence and misery. I could control the energy with my mind and body the way an electrode would control electricity. Soon my entire body was cloaked in pure ink black, leaving me a walking silhouette, an animate shadow. This power was my curse and my tool. With it, I could use the pain of others to right the many wrongs that plagued this place and the people who dwelled in it. The venom, my parasitic dark side, had given me one incredible power: that of channeling negative emotions into physical energy, creating darkness that was as real and powerful as light. I was a fallen guardian angel, the gargoyle upon a church of sin and despair, a cathode ray for desolation.

The glittering lights of Manhattan twinkled red, like bloody stars in the night sky. Now, dressed in the city’s darkness, I could respond to its funeral song, soar out into the night on wings of rage, and enact vengeance on those who deserved it.

“I am Blacklight,” I bellowed into the rank night air, “and the night is mine!”

I leaped from the edge with a laugh and soared down into the degenerate streets below me.

I
FIRST REALIZED
that there was something poisonous inside me when I was eight years old.

I’d always been cut off from everyone else, the quiet kid building little houses out of wood blocks or driving toy trucks around on my own. My world was what I made it. When being Locke Vinetti was too hard, I could be Indiana Jones or Batman or, fuck, I dunno, Usagi Yojimbo (he’s the bunny from the Ninja Turtles). Even when other kids picked on me, I just kept quiet, no matter how angry I got. There wasn’t any of that after-school-special nonsense about being the one kid who the bullies picked as a goat; I got bullied just as much as anyone; I just didn’t respond to it. Other kids bawled or spat insults or threw punches, which seemed about as effective as not doing anything, and the latter option involved a lot less futile effort. I wondered, later, if maybe that’s how the venom was first birthed—through my silence, through the containment of my anger. Y’know, like Michael Douglas in
Falling Down
, only without any of the political commentary crap.

Anyway. One day in gym class, a basketball knocked me to the floor mid-layup, landing me right on my tailbone. At first I thought it had just bounced from the backboard to my head, but looking up, I saw three of my classmates baring three hyenas’ grins. I nearly started crying—my head, ass, and pride were in a state of stubborn agony—but if there’s one thing any elementary school kid knows about bullying, it’s that crying is like stapling a
KICK ME
sign to your forehead.

The second ball hit me in the face. I saw it clear as day: One of them, Tommy Ferraro by name, called out “Yo, Locke!” in a jovial enough tone, and when I turned around, the cretin chest-passed the ball straight into my nose. The world went white, the ground went unreliable, and my nose went gruesome. I touched my face, and once I saw the crimson smear on my palm, the tears just came.

This, as I had predicted, didn’t help the situation. Tommy jabbed one of his little sausage digits at me and brayed, “Oh, wook! He’s gonna stawt cwying! Pwoor baby!” He laughed again and reached for another basketball.

At this point, something just…broke free.

And it was overpowering. Irresistible. It welled up inside me, like tears well up in your eyes—only this thing was pure, liquid hate, anger and rage and depression, all in a physical manifestation. This was no simple emotional response; this was a real, honest-to-God, all-over
change.
It percolated up in my head, bubbling, bubbling, and then bursting, overflowing. I felt it burning in my veins; every part of my body was so alive, more alive than I’d ever felt it before. And once the feeling, the substantial emotion, had filled me and solidified, it took control. But the worst part about it was that I enjoyed it—Fuck, I
loved
it. This thing took me in its smooth, warm, black embrace and guided my limbs, and there was something, a voice without any sound or words, soothing and quieting. The insecurity and instability of what was happening seemed to vanish. I didn’t worry about what to do next, because it had been decided for me. Everything fell into its wicked, brutal place, and all was well.

So then I tackled Tommy Ferraro and bit off the tip of his nose.

Now, in the years since it went down, this story has been
greatly
exaggerated. People have claimed I did everything from bite off his entire nose to spit the piece back at him. Tommy Ferraro himself spouted some ridiculous yarn about me having razor-edged teeth and lapping the blood off my fingers as I rose up off of him. The true story is sort of lost to time—I was somewhere else entirely, Tommy was pretty caught up in the moment, and his friends just stood there stupefied, so all accounts are questionable. The fact remains that I managed to take a small chunk of nose off Tommy’s face with my teeth. He lay back, screaming, clutching his face (which was bleeding far worse than mine was) while I stood over him and barraged him with swear words and monstrous laughter. I know it sounds sadistic, taking the time to stand there and laugh at him, but it all felt so rapturous that I didn’t give it a second thought.

When the teachers finally found us, I was huddled in a corner, a blubbering mess. They kept asking me what was wrong, saying not to worry, Tommy would be fine. I didn’t care about Tommy. Fuck Tommy Ferraro. Even through the weeping and shivering, it never occurred to me that what I had done was wrong; that little cretin got what was coming to him. It was just that once that pure, black energy had gone back into hiding, I was left with the sludgy residue of it. I felt empty, worthless, overexcited, depressed. I wanted to go home and go to bed.

My mother had to get off work to pick me up, which, let me tell you, was a huge pain in the ass. She kept asking me questions about why I did it and whether or not I liked my school. Answering wasn’t an option, as my face was just flushed creases and snot. The minute we got home, I climbed into bed and passed out until ten o’clock the next morning. From what I’ve read and seen in movies, it was like recovering from your first shot of smack: Once that first blinding feeling had run its course, the rest of my body just sort of shut down for recovery. And just like with a drug, the thing that most irked me was how much I adored that raw, powerful feeling, and how deeply sad I was that it was no longer there. The best sensation I’d ever experienced, and the only thing that could spark it off was utter fucking misery.

From that day on, my life was peppered with outbursts of the venom and its sickly influence. Almost overnight I went from easy pickings for the bullies at my school to someone the new kids were warned to stay away from. Circles of whispering kids went silent as the grave when I passed. Which was cool at first, I admit. Like I said, I had never been THE target for torment—you know, That Kid? I wasn’t That Kid—but now I was a social Typhoid Mary. I’d made it clear that I didn’t want to be messed with, and I was left alone. Whenever new kids came by and tried to show how tough they were, I’d have an outburst and they’d go home to their parents, and the next day the school would get an enraged phone call, asking for my head. It was sort of like prison that way, just not with the whole selling-ass-for-cigarettes and the like.

The first time was indicative of the venom’s style, though, and that was definitely a problem. My books would get slapped out of my hands, so I’d whale on the slapper with my backpack. If someone spat in my face, I’d punch ’em in the throat. If someone shoved me into my locker, I’d slam their hand in the door of theirs. People would constantly ask why I had to go “that far” when someone was a bastard to me, and truth be told, I hadn’t the foggiest, because it wasn’t me doing it. Even if
I
wanted to beat someone down, it wasn’t a simple punch in the nose or a knee to the balls; something uncomfortable and effective. The venom saw things along the lines of nerve clusters and necessities (fingers and eyes, mostly, but basically whatever would be really difficult for someone to have wrapped up for a couple of weeks). The venom liked extremes—the crueler the better. This wasn’t about getting even, it was about causing the worst pain in the weirdest way possible. It was about being unforgettable.

Over the years, I managed to build up some tolerance for the venom. Sure, after an outburst I’d still vibrate and mumble as though I was attending synagogue, but nowhere near as bad as I did that first time. It helped that the vessel for the hate had been expanded: The level of rage has stayed the same, but I’ve grown enough, both physically and emotionally, to be able to deal with it now. The anger was the same, but recovery time shortened significantly. So the venom got creative and started reworking its game plan. Starting around eighth grade, I found out the venom’s other talent: It made me poisonous.

I had the Midas touch, if old King Midas had a penchant for decay rather than gold (stupid analogy, I know, but you know what I’m talking about). Everything I became a part of turned to shit before my eyes. My growing depression and antisocial tendencies were definitely a few of the things that caused my dad to leave us around then. (The question has always bothered me: Was Dad always a dirtbag, and did the venom just reveal him; or was Dad fine until the venom drove him out?) I remember hearing the fights he and my mom had right before they split; her side was always sympathetic and nurturing while his was always authoritative and dismissive—I was “nothing more than a punk.” (He’s the kind of guy who likes that word, “punk,” when talking about people he considers insolent.) The fights centered around the venom a lot of the time: He kept saying that it must be her fault, that she kept letting me get away with it, and she kept insisting that I needed a sense of unconditional love and sympathy. He was honest-to-God
scared
of the venom, too, which was…interesting. One time, in fifth grade, a kid named Alan Raskowitz pulled out a chunk of my hair during art class, because he thought it was funny, so I beat him to a pulp. Just got on top of him and started pounding him with the fuchsia plastic handle of the scissors I was holding. My mom couldn’t be reached, so my dad had to pick me up from school, and the entire car ride, he just kept glancing over at me and shaking his head with this terrified look in his eyes (although it might have been ’cause I looked sickly and miserable and had blood on my shirt, but I was still his son). In any event, point is, Dad left right before I turned thirteen, and I definitely had a hand in it. He said goodnight to Lon and me one night, and the next morning he and his stuff weren’t there, and Mom couldn’t stop crying. He lives in Westchester now with a very nice woman named Millie, who smiles constantly. They have two well-adjusted little blonde kids; a daughter and a new baby boy. I met them at a Christmas party when I was fifteen. Lon seemed to think Millie was really sweet.

I hope they all die in a fucking fire.

My romantic life? Right, okay. I’m like an owl: From a distance, I seem graceful and deadly in a stylish way, but up close it’s all claws and fleas and coughed-up pellets of hair and bones. Either the girl gets scared away from me or the venom works its magic and her life begins to slowly spin down the toilet. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not too ugly a guy—I get “handsome” a lot, and sometimes “cute in a certain way,” which makes me think I look like Nick Cave, so I’ve had experience with getting to know and spend time with girls. But every time I enter anything resembling a relationship, the venom makes an appearance—an obscene comment, a violent opinion, a depressed sigh, you name it—at just the right time to leave me embarrassed and my date terrified. One girl, Clarice, even casually mentioned that nights out with me and her other friends always seemed to be a lot less fun than the nights with just her and her friends; she told me she’d been observing this, like a science experiment, for a couple of weeks, and all the evidence pointed to me being a social bad-luck charm. I got the point, paid for my half of dinner, and went home to drink about a gallon of chocolate milk. So after a while, I just stopped giving a shit. My reasoning: better to be terribly lonely than screw up someone else’s life. Girls sometimes shoot me a smile or a glance, and I can’t even look at them, because there’s no fucking hope. That’s it in a nutshell. Hopeless.

My friends? Make it friend. Randall Elliot seems to be the one person who isn’t affected by the poison that is me. One day in eighth grade, Randall watched a kid tormenting me until I slammed him in the ear with a lunch tray. When the teachers began screaming at me, Randall intervened on my behalf (I believe his actual opening comment was, “Oh, this is some BULL
SHIT
right HERE!”). Since then, we’ve been inseparable. He’s one of those popular misfits, the quirky kid who still has a lot of friends and a decent social standing. Like…he
LOVES
Weezer. Which sort of tells you everything you need to know. He still considers me his best friend, which makes no fucking sense considering that I weigh him down more often than not. People always ask him, “Why do you hang out with that kid?”

He always has the same response: “’Cause he’s awesome.”

I don’t get Randall a lot of the time. But then again, he doesn’t always get me. The one time I tried to explain the venom to him, he shook his head at the right places and nodded when he needed to, and finally whistled and said, “Heavy stuff, Stockenbarrel.” (That’s his idea of a joke, by the way.) Just like everyone else, he doesn’t understand the venom, because that’d be like understanding God. Unlike everyone else, though, he accepts the venom as a part of his best friend. “The way I see it,” he told me, “I won’t encourage it, but I guess I’ll just learn how to deal with it, y’know? Now can we eat?” And he has. Dealt with it, that is. He knows the tricks to calming me down, can see an “episode” long before it hits. To him it’s a strategy, a way of working around things. Which I thank God for. Every day. Because if he reacted logically, if he eventually just threw up his hands and walked off, I’d be alone. It’s one of my big fears: the day Randall doesn’t understand. But until that moment arrives, I owe him everything.

When all’s said and done, my problem is simple: The venom is my own. They get the concept but can’t grasp the curse. Because no one else could be me, no one could have any idea what it meant to be poisonous.