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.