“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.

The roof clears off shortly afterward (surprise, surprise). There are comments, whistles, a couple of encouraging statements telling me to stay cool and wishing me a good night. Omar curses Randall out; Casey moans apologies through his hideous drunk, but soon they all leave. From my corner, I hear Randall talk to Alan, the gathering’s host, who tells him to let me stay up here as long as I need, we’re all tarot here.

It’s harder this time. It won’t speak or move or communicate with me, just sits there feeling pleased with itself and drumming its fingers. It isn’t asleep or drained, it’s just bored for now.

After a while, Randall comes over and joins me. His walks implies that he’s been drinking down the tension. With a slump, he’s next to me, back propped against the roof’s lip, and we stare out at the New York skyline in the growing morning light.

“God, that’s pretty,” he sighs, lighting a couple of smokes and handing me one.

I nod, and then look over at him, a lump rising in my throat again. “Thank you, Randall. Thank you so much for looking after me tonight.”

He shrugs and takes a drag. “Fuck you, Locke.”

The words land in my ears like a cold, heavy rock. He’s never said something that blatantly heartless to me before. Tonight was worse than I thought. “I’m sorry, Randall.”

“‘I’m sorry, Randall,’” he imitates in a plaintive little voice. “‘Didn’t mean it. It was the venom. You wouldn’t understand.’”

My sympathy begins to do combat with rage. “Hey, man, that’s a little unfair, isn’t it? Come on.”

“FUCK YOU, man!” he yells, leaning forward with the effort of the words. “Look at you, man! You’re sitting on a rooftop, caked in blood. I’m sick of having to pick up after you every time you get pissed off.”

You preppy little shit.

“It’s not like I’m TRYING to do this, Randall!”

“Are you sure of that?” he snaps. “Is there really ANY effort on your part not to go ballistic? Does the venom take over or do you LET IT FREE? Part of me wonders if you just enjoy this, Locke. Getting to be the dark hero and all-and don’t bullshit me, man, I can see that. Huh, I wonder who the guy with the spread arms and the bleeding heart’s supposed to represent. I wonder. Then again, you don’t tell me anything, because my puny mind couldn’t possibly grasp your unhappiness.”

The venom begins to take over. “What, you just decided to be a dick tonight? You’ve been acting pissy all evening, and now this. Grow up.”

“Oh, look who’s telling me to grow up.” He chortles. “Y’know, it’s not fucking fair, man. Renée falls for you. And Casey finds someone who understands the black. And all these people have gotten into this little tarot card club because I’ve brought ’em in and I’ve orchestrated it all…and Randall Elliot gets FUCKED. I’m just the Fool, y’know? You’re the Strength, and Casey’s the Emperor, and I’m the fucking jester who plays guitar and smiles. No one’s ever going to fall in love with me or worship me or even FIGHT me. No one’s ever going to think, ‘Wow, Randall, he was really something. I remember that kid.’ I’m your training wheels, Locke. I’m your fucking driver’s test, your gateway drug. Why? Because I’m not fucked-up? Because I try to be a nice, normal guy?”

Cry me a river. Consider this role reversal, asshole.

“It’s not like that, and you know it.”

“Yeah, well, you’re my best friend, of course you say that,” he murmurs. Something inspires him then, and he laughs. “But if I did what you do, it wouldn’t mean shit. You’re so charming in your rage, so broken and fragile and poetic about it all, and people see it as a part of who you are. But me, they see nothing special. You’re special in your dark little world, but me? Nah. I don’t have some deep, unexplainable thing inside me. I don’t beat people into blood pudding at parties. So I guess I don’t really matter, do I? Well, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I’m not bent and twisted to the point where violence is second nature to me. I’m sorry that, overall, I’m well-fucking-adjusted. It’s just in my nature, huh… I guess when the end of the day comes, I’m there alone. You’re with Renée and the venom, and I’m alone.”

“Casey thinks you’re-”

“HA. Casey? Everything that happened tonight, even that stupid little atrocity of yours, was his doing. Every time we hang out, he finds some way to ruin it. There’s always a fight to be had or inappropriate comments to be made for him. Man, he’s worse than you. At least you’re trying, or claiming you’re trying. Fuck both of you. Man, maybe you two should’ve gotten together in the first place. You’re made for each other.”