The venom drives into my nerves, like a dentist’s drill. “Randall,” I say, “it’s Locke. Listen, man, there’s no reason to act-”
“Don’t try to pull that shit with me, Stockenbarrel,” he snickers bitterly. “I’m no idiot, I see right fucking through you. You didn’t tell me about this because you thought I had a right to know. You told me this because you knew it would hurt me. Well, it worked. I’m hurt. Fuck off and die, you selfish bastard.”
“Watch your fucking mouth, Randall.”
“Or what? Pray tell, what’ll you do, pal? What more can you do to me at this point, Locke? Poison me, beat me up, kill me. I fucking dare you.” He clears his throat. “Now, Renée. How long?”
“Calm down. Let’s talk about this, okay?”
“Last chance.”
“Randall, it’s not that simple.”
“Cool,” he snaps. “I’ll just ask him, then.”
Click.
Renée dives for the phone, screaming “No!” and slapping Randall’s number onto the buttons so fast and hard that I’m sure she’s going to break it. She holds the receiver to her ear with both hands. “It’s busy. Locke, he’s calling Casey.”
My head is shrinking while the buzzing chaos inside it swells and pushes. The venom reaches back and tightens the screws in the nape of my neck. Everything is chaos, like flipping emotional channels, rocketing through my head one after another. I squeeze my eyes shut, clench my fists till they shake, and nothing changes. The venom is barely a voice anymore-it’s like a tone, a low-pitched whine behind my face, splitting my brain in two.
“Hey!” She’s in front of my face, staring at me with tired eyes. “You with me?”
I manage a nod.
“This isn’t unfixable,” she says in the same sharp, clear monotone, “but it’s pretty fucking bad. And I need you for this, okay? You have a lot of fixing to do today, and I need you here, now, not in your head.”
“I got it, okay?”
She puts a hand on the side of my face, and her palm quiets the roar a bit, a familiar sensation calling me back to reality. “Calm down,” she whispers. Her voice is like a gust of cool air. “Think clearly. The venom isn’t going to help here, it’s only going to cause more trouble. Stay with me, kid.”
The phone goes off again, and both Renée and I jump. She breathes deep, leans over, and hits the speakerphone button. “Hello.”
There is only white noise, the endless buzz of background noise at the other end of the phone.
And then the voice comes out. Like a bunny caught in a trap, bleeding to death. Like a child after his first day in hell.
“Renée…”
“Casey,” she says softly. “Casey, honey, you there?”
“Oh God, Renée…,” he moans, hoarser and louder.
“Shhh, it’s okay,” she whispers, “it’s okay, I know. Where are you?”
“RenÉEEEEEE!”
This is like the experiment scene in A Clockwork Orange, like I’ve been strapped down and forced to watch pain. His voice is painful, emotionally damning to listen to. This is torture. Any serenity Renée had given me was running out fast. Casey’s every word set my heart on fire.
She bites her lip and puts a hand over her eyes, hissing, “Fuck.”
“Renée, oh God, he said…he just told me someone told him!” Casey moans again, his voice increasing steadily in pitch and volume. “He knows, and he called me a liar, and he hates me, I know he hates me now, and I’m so fucking scaAAAARED!” Screaming gives way to heavy, racking sobs. I can picture him in a ball in the corner, his eyes wide, staring at the wall in a new shade as the black creeps through him. I can tell what stage he’s in right now, seeing as I’m in it so much myself. And I’m terrified. Jesus doesn’t live here anymore. We’re all gonna die.
“Casey,” she coos, “relax. Deep breaths. Pull yourself together. Randall doesn’t hate you, he could never hate you. Just don’t get too out of control-”
There’s a thud, deep and resonating, on Casey’s side of the connection. My own behavior in the past springs to mind-he’s punching walls. “OUT OF CONTROL? RENÉE, ARE YOU FUCKING LISTENING TO ME? He said, fuck, he wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise, he knows and he hates me, he said so. He told me…” Casey chokes a bit, spits. “He told me that it explained my behavior over the past couple of years, it all made sense now. Oh GOD, RENÉEE…”
“Case. Shhh. It’s going to be fine, and we’ll work together on this. But you need to calm down. You can’t deal with any of this if you’re acting like a maniac, all right, babe? Forget the black. Talk to me, dude.”
“Do you know who told him? Who was it? Who told him?” His voice goes quick and feral. “Was it one of the tarot kids? Do you know when? Jesus fucking Christ, Renée, I need to find out who told him.”
The question hangs in the room like a mist, heavy and ugly, clammy to the touch. Renée stares into my eyes with a look of utter fucking hatred, waiting for me to be the brave one, to step up and tell Casey it was me, and I just can’t do it. My head is a blur of crushing noise, but it seems to be keeping my mouth shut.
Renée finally picks up the slack. “Casey, look, does it matter? Would it make a difference if you knew who told him?”
A pause. “Oh. It was Locke, wasn’t it?”
“Case, c’mon-”
“Why else would you be so defensive?” he snarls, and then softens. “Was it Locke? For the love of God, Renée, don’t tell me it was Locke.”
Under my breath, I hiss, “Fuck.”
Shoulda been quieter, though. ’Cause the phone goes silent. There’s still the background noise, letting us know that he’s on the other end, but everything else, even his breathing, stops immediately. Renée turns to me, wide-eyed and pursed-mouthed, while I feel the blood drain out of my face.
Casey’s voice, careful and measured: “Am I on speakerphone?”
Renée puts her face in her hands.
Now or never, buddy. “Casey, please, you have to listen to me.”
“Oh. My. God,” he whispers, voice dripping with hatred. “Oh my God, you’re a dead man, Locke Vinetti. I’m going to beat the fucking sinews out of you, you angsty little shit. How dare you. I’m gonna…” Then there’s a smash on his end, like breaking plates, and his voice becomes a furious howl. “YOU TOO, YOU BETRAYING FUCKING CUNT. DO YOU TWO HEAR ME? I’M COMING FOR BOTH OF YOU. HERE COMES THE PAIN, YOU MISERABLE FUCKS. HERE COMES THE BLACK. YOU’RE BOTH DEAD WHERE YOU FUCKING STAND.” He starts cackling like a madman, his voice louder and louder until it’s a static electronic whine, until there’s another crash and the call cuts out.
Renée decides that her place “isn’t safe,” as though Casey is a team of highly trained mercenaries. We walk to my place, a couple of New York City vampires-black coats, dark shades, skin with an obvious lack of sunlight. There’s a tension between us that gets worse and worse as the walk continues. We barely speak, our mouths occupied with cigarettes, our minds taut with anxiety. By the time we get to my apartment, I’m almost wishing she would go away and leave me alone with the venom, let me ride its course, but I know her presence is the only thing keeping me from going utterly batshit. The venom’s not abating in the least.
Thank the maker, my mom and brother are nowhere to be found. We get to my room and immediately curl up on my bed, still silent. It seems like the only option available at this point-to clutch each other for dear life.
After about twenty minutes of silent cuddling, when the noise in my head has quieted just enough for me to form a coherent sentence, I ask, “So, do you hate me now?”
“Cut that shit out,” she mumbles into my chest. “It’s as if you want me to hate you at this point. I’m sick of it.”
“Why would I want you to hate me?”
“Because it would justify your poisonousness,” she says in an academic monotone. “You would feel justified in thinking of yourself as a blight on my life.”
“You agree with Randall then,” I snap. Suddenly her touch feels repulsive. “I’m just a melodramatic victim.”