Index:
Chapter One
The Cost of Concession
Light.
Dim light. Day light.
Bright light.
Bright light.
Night light.
Sun light.
Sunlight keeps the vampires away, supposedly.
Werewolves, too, now that he was thinking about it.
Not to mention…
G
S a S
I u r i G
n c g r h T
c c o e o r
u u y n s o
b b l s. t l
i. a e s. l
e. s. s.
Were there werewolves in Alaska?
Did they…
…stay fuzzy?
for weeks
on
end?
Today
New York City -- Winter
HIS HANDS WERE trembling. The stall held the sour stench of vomit and the residual tang of urine, caked in the grit and rusting the bolts that held the toilet to the floor. It was worse where he sat, he was sure—crouched in the largest, farthest stall, his back to the wall. His shoulders were wedged between a trashcan and the porcelain bowl holding the scant contents of his stomach. It was the farthest thing from comfort, logic, or sanitation, and it was sure to ruin his suit jacket and matching pants, yet he felt not the slightest inclination to move.
The pills were rattling in his fingers. Steel grey eyes panned down, almost silver, both iris and eye rimed in black. Pale white fingers, too cold in appearance to seem quite right, pressed flush against the yellow bottle. It was an odd contrast. Through the plastic, his skin looked almost… normal. He smirked, only to wipe the vomit from his lips on the cloth of his shoulder.
He raised his free hand, flexing his fingers in the light. People had always told him he looked like a porcelain doll. At least, those who realized that this was his skin, his own flesh, not some sort of backwards attention-seeking circus routine. Most assumed it was. Just this last week, he’d been called a freak, a fag, a fairy princess. Not that he cared terribly much what anyone else thought.
He tilted his hand, watching the way his skin seemed to swallow the light. Most skin was so… shiny. Not his. Maybe he was a void? A vacuum? A porcelain vacuum-void. The toilet he was leaning against was porcelain. Maybe that was it. ‘Porcelain’—a subtle way to tell him he was full of shit. Back when he had a family, his grandpa used to tell him that. Always with a smile, though.
His hand fell back to his lap. He held the pill bottle up, instead, shaking it just to watch the contents jingle. His stomach hurt. So did his head, for that matter, along with his throat. These always made him nauseous. And gave him a headache. Or maybe it was the headache that made him nauseous. He wasn’t sure, nor was he sure he cared. His doctor did. Without a definitive source, he was told, there was no definitive treatment.
Had he been alone, he might have laughed. Actually, he was fairly certain he’d just laughed anyway, but he couldn’t tell. He was hearing them again. Not ‘the voices’, not like on television. They were people, he was convinced, but not in the sense of flesh and bone and flapping lips. They were something deeper. Something trapped. But never could he figure out from where, or how, they spoke to him, or why they always came when he saw them.
He shook the pills again. He could take them. Probably should take them, or at least that’s what his doctor, therapist, pharmacist, boss, and psychiatrist would tell him to do. Swallow them down, yum yum yum, and all the scary shit would flutter flutter away. But was that honest? Was that really him? And surely he was on to something, surely there was some truth to his visions, to them, to the monstrosities waltzing through the three stories of mall below him and pretending to be just like everyone else.
The bottle hit the stall wall. He was stomping on it, gritting his teeth, cursing under his breath as the bottle shattered and the pills became powder. He didn’t remember throwing it, or getting up, or even getting angry, but he was angry goddamnit and these piece of shit pills were to blame. Not real? How the hell should they know? How presumptuous did a person, any person, have to be to tell another human being that what they could see and hear and touch and smell and hold wasn’t real? Truth? This was truth: they could fuck themselves.
He felt a quiver in his shoulders. It took a moment, a long moment, for him to realize he was still trembling, but for a different reason. His vision blurred, his eyes going moist. He’d just crushed his freedom, his normalcy. His relief, his escape, was glued to the bottom of his dress shoe, powder and piss and water forming his hope into a sickly yellow paste.
He spit in the pile of dust, or what was left of it, throwing open the stall door and kicking out a chunk of yellow plastic. Stumbling to the nearest sink, he gave his most aggressive finger to the portly, concerned-looking bearded old man drying his hands. He could go to hell, just like everyone else. Not like he’d understand. He’d call the cops if he knew what was going through the young man’s head.
Splashing water in his face, over his washed-out black hair, and against his neck, he began to scrub. He scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, adding soap and nails and raking the skin of his face, as if he might peel away the world’s filth. But he could still hear them, still feel them in his head and gut and skin. They were a stain, a taint he could never be rid of. There were times he thought to soak himself in bleach. It wouldn’t do a goddamned bit of good.
Thirsty. His mouth had been dry for hours and now the acid burned. He thrust his face under the running water, cramming his head into the sink. By the time he was done drinking his head was soaked, but he felt so much better. He took a deep breath. He could think—really. He was okay. Really. He was. His head was cold, though, so he stepped towards the paper towels, only to notice he was sticking to the floor.
Hopping on one foot, he peeled the medication label off the other, stumbling and slamming into the towel dispenser with a laugh. He glanced at the label, for a moment. It was so dry, so careful not to offend. As if his pharmacist didn’t know exactly what haloperidol was and why one sixteen-year-old Raiku Hirubasa would need to take it. Of course, those dear folk were trained not to think about these things, not to ruffle any feathers. He might snap, after all. He might see something crazy—because he was crazy, clearly, or why else would he take this—and he might do something irrational.
He smirked to himself as he grabbed handfuls of paper towels, thinking about how absurd it would be to jump his pharmacist. He scrubbed his hair dry almost violently, for no real reason other than to make it look ridiculous. Tilting his head and putting on his best crazy face, he took a peek at the mirror and cracked up laughing. He was sure he was laughing, this time, though in the back of his head he was busy grieving over the raggedy state of his hair.
He made a note to buy more dye. Surely the Manhattan Mall had hair dye, somewhere. Going to a salon would have been easier, really, but he didn’t like strangers with sharp objects around his face. Not now.
With a wobbly step towards the doorway, he nearly fell. Evidently he’d wrenched his knee. Oh, well. Now he could be a crippled porcelain vacuum-void. The thought made him smile, until a new stranger entered the restroom. Oh, god. Please, no.
Pain bloomed in his skull, a horrible shrieking cacophony rattling between his ears. No one else heard; no one else knew. But he could feel it, physical, tangible, a definitive someone or something pleading, begging, calling to him for help or mercy in words that weren’t even real—syllables that amounted to little more than nonsense, but made so much sense to him. And it hurt so much, every time.
The man was nothing to look at. Pasty skin, brown curly hair, thick glasses and an unkempt goatee. Blue jeans. Heavy black jacket, open. Look-at-me-I’m-witty t-shirt.
Raiku shrank back, mashing himself into a corner. His heart raced in his chest, his mind awash. Go away go away go away go away go away go away.
The man glanced at him in passing, an eyebrow raised. Concern registered on his face.
Those eyes. Simple brown eyes, caked with filth. Eyes that turned every woman to body parts, individually wrapped, stamped and ready for sale. Eyes that made children into play things, dressed them in leather and chains. Go away go away go away go away go away go away go away go away go away go away.
The plain man took a step closer. “You okay, kid?” His brow furrowed, worried.
Raiku could smell it. All of it. Sex, semen, and shit. Blood, both from wounds and menstruation. The smell of leather, the smell of plastic, the smell of a dingy little basement full of mold and soiled furniture. “Y.. yeh, I… I’m fine, man, jus’ feelin’… not good.” Go away go away go away go away go away go away go away.
“You… sure? You look rough.” He raised a hand, began to reach toward the young man’s shoulder.
It touched his jacket, but it burned anyway. Burned and burned and the pain spread from shoulder to chest to feet to face. His teeth grit and his eyes clenched and he shrunk back but he was already in the corner and why wouldn’t he just go away.
He squeezed gently. “I can call someone, you know, if you need h—”
“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!” Before he could stop his hands they were pushing, punching, shoving, scratching. His eyes weren’t even open but he felt his fist strike something and it hurt and he heard the man cry out and heard him hit the floor and felt his feet carrying him far far from here as fast as they could manage.
As soon as the bathroom door slammed shut behind him, Raiku flung his jacket off his body. He clawed at his shoulder as he stomped into the crowd, blindly pushing his way through, bumping into people and drawing curses. It burned everywhere and nowhere and it hurt so bad. The voice grew louder, louder, and his vision blurred until he could hardly find his footing.
He was in an elevator. When did he get there? There were people all around it and he hated it but they weren’t like that man. Sheep and cattle, harmless and oblivious, prey for the whims of their fellow man.
Home. That’s where he was going. He was halfway across the mall now, closer and closer to the doors that he silently vowed never to cross again. He did his best to be careful, but he could hardly see, hardly hear. He looked to his left to pass an old man and crashed into a young woman. A mumbled apology met a raised hand and he stumbled straight by her, hoping he’d never seen her again.
Security was at the door. He could make out their radios against the mouths, hear the faintest crackling voices, and it was enough to know that he had hurt that man and now they were looking for him.
The fear was there, but at this point, altogether negligible. He stumbled back a few paces, turned clumsily and stomped back towards the nearest restroom, where he would hide in a different stall until they gave up looking.
Uniforms were branching out, searching. He knew he was easy to find. How much porcelain could possibly be wandering these open spaces? It was hard to keep an eye on his path, but he had been through this place many, many times. He could make it anywhere blindfolded, navigate without the slightest—
Who?
Who was that he just passed?
He knew her from somewhere.
Didn’t he?
He had to.
Raiku turned around, walking backwards, eyes fixed on the face of a woman walking his same direction. He could hardly see her from here, and there wasn’t much to see, anyway, with a heavy trench coat and scarf obscuring nearly all her features. Red hair, he thought, maybe. Or was it brunette?
Her eyes met his, ever so briefly. He couldn’t make out the color, but he knew that she knew and he didn’t know why or how. She had to. He knew her, from somewhere. She was like him. She had to be. She was like him and she knew and she could tell him what this was and why and how and who.
He whipped around, raising a hand and opening his mouth to shout to her, when his foot caught a kiosk corner. He flew straight into the nearest employee, a heavy set man with a shaved head and a hundred piercings.
A tray hit the floor. Glass shattered. The man lurched forward from the blow and Raiku fell straight past him, twisting with momentum and landing the back of his head against tile and glass. He could feel his lips part as shards pierced his skin, could feel the pained gasp leave his throat, but he heard nothing.
He laid there, stunned, arms curling against his pounding head, when he felt himself being pulled up. The man was barking something to someone else about getting a first aid kit. Raiku looked up, squinting to make out the face of what appeared to be a heavily reformed, once-angry biker.
How a biker could wind up selling lotion seemed, for a moment, equally as important as the three uniformed guards rushing towards him, one of them with a red-and-white box. He knew what happened next—charges filed, his doctor and shrink informed, his wrist slapped and his lawyer called. But none of that seemed important. That woman. Where was that woman? He needed her and she needed him and where had she gone?
But she wasn’t there. That man, that horrible horrible man, was there. He was coming this way and the screaming was growing worse and he could smell him and taste him and his stomach churned. He could feel the words leaving his mouth, protest, begging the biker man not to let it near.
But the biker man just squeezed his shoulder warmly and grasped his wounded head, holding it gently so the man with the box could pick the glass out of his skin.
Raiku lurched away, not from pain but from fear, his body screaming at him to run, to flee, to get as far away as he could. One of the guards grabbed his arms, pulling him back. He was saying something about the glass, how he knew it hurt but it had to come out anyway. The glass didn’t matter!
“That’s him, yeah,” the voice of it was saying. Why was his voice so clear, so loud, when everything else was drowned out, muted by the screaming and begging? “But go easy, I think he’s sick. Just look at his skin, man. He needs a lot more help than I do.”
It was stepping closer. His face was clear, vivid, coated in as much worry and concern as it was sin.
“Go away, stay the hell away, die in a goddamned fire you sick son of a bitch!” The words pierced his lips, bursting free against all manner of will. “I KNOW WHAT YOU’VE DONE! I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE!”
It paused, shock registering on his face, then confusion, then hurt. He stepped back, just as he’d been asked, raising his hands in surrender. “S-Sure, kid. Yeah. Sorry.”
Raiku lurched away again, only to be pushed back down. The last glass was pulled from his head and heavy gauss was pressed into his wounds. It hurt, he knew, but he could hardly feel it, anymore. Every inch of his being begged for release, pleaded to escape, even as the voice in his head beseeched him the same.
When he was finally pulled to his feet, he stopped struggling, just to seem complacent. The glass was gone, and they kept talking about how they’d get him fixed up, and how they knew it hurt. But as soon as their grip on his arms loosened, he dove forward, yanking himself free and bursting into a sprint.
He wasn’t even sure where he was going. The guards were chasing, cursing at him and ordering him to stop, but it didn’t matter. He had to leave. Had to get as far from it as he could. But more than that, he had to find that woman. He needed her. She needed him.
As his feet carried him around a corner, a heavy set guard just ahead broke into a run. Raiku slipped as he tried to whip around, his shoes losing traction. In moments, he was on the floor again, this time on his side. His tongue was bleeding in his mouth, but he scampered back to his feet, taking off in the opposite direction.
But the other guards had caught up. Three ahead, one behind. He tried to get past the one but he was caught by the arm. The others surrounded him as he flailed and hollered, screaming obscenities as a knee met his lower back. By now, there was a crowd.
They forced him to his knees, forced his hands behind his back. One of them said something about the police being en route, another the ambulance. A pair of hands tried to steady his head, but the passed by his mouth. He bit.
The free hand struck the side of his head, a reactive strike. The guard behind him pressed harder, forcing him to his stomach on the floor. It was cold and his head hurt and it was coming back, watching him like some kind of goddamned spectacle, just like the rest of the crowd.
“GET AWAY FROM ME! I’M NOT SOME FUCKING JOKE! STOP… stop…” he trailed off, eyes catching a hint of that woman behind the guards. She was there. She could see him. She knew. She knew he needed her and she needed him.
He stopped struggling. Time seemed to stop. His vision was still a mess—tears had joined the screaming and the concussion—and he still didn’t know how he knew her but he knew her and she was here in the crowd. He wasn’t a spectacle to her. He wasn’t a show. She knew.
It wasn’t long before the police—the real police, with guns and badges—had shown up. He let them escort him out. Let them lead him to the ambulance. Let them take him away.
He had to find her. She had to find him. He knew they’d meet again.
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