Antiheroes: Treaties of a Lost Soul

Chapter One

Price of Silence

Under blue moon I saw you

So soon you’ll take me

Up in your arms

Too late to beg you or to cancel it

Though I know it must be the killing time

Unwillingly mine

—From The Killing Moon

by Echo and the Bunnymen

A shot in the night somewhere in the city. It draws no attention. No one cares.

Dark. It’s always so dark here, but I feel safe within the confines of the loft. My nightlight and the lights from the vanity in the bathroom provide the only illumination tonight in this seemingly cavernous space where I reside. This loft seems so big and overly empty at night, a constant reminder that I have nothing really to speak of, just a dark, empty, dusty space…but I think I like it this way. Yes, I definitely like it this way. No connections, affiliations or responsibilities. No invisible chains to restrain me. I don’t need much. I never need much, come to think of it. Just the bare essentials: alcohol, drugs, music, makeup, girls, in that order, and sometimes…food. Having nothing is easy and free, and since I have relatively little, I think I’m qualified to comment on the subject of the much under-rated concept of simplicity. Keeping things simple makes me jubilant and giddy with a heightened sense of unfettered freedom seldom known to the general populace, an existence reflected by my humble domicile.

It’s nighttime; it must be. The boarded windows give no indication, but I’m usually not awake otherwise, and the dim lighting from the bathroom casts eerie shadows into the bedroom. They dance and play with the help of candlelight that partially reveals a large mattress on the floor. One of those shadows takes the shape of a horizontal form on the mattress, the antithesis of motion, a natural stasis, a deep, serene slumber. A vague, incongruous shape lies within and under the sheets. It could be a lot of things if I didn’t know better…but I do. I wish it was just some sort of inconsequential, inorganic matter under those covers…like a box or a pillow or something that wouldn’t demand my attention and concern…but this does.

This is overwhelming…demanding of all my faculties now…

I’ve grown tired of looking at myself and watching myself sniff cocaine in the mirror. I’m also tired of talking to myself in the mirror. I’m not getting any answers, not the answers I need tonight anyway. My self-advice was inadequate, so I moved to the bedroom maybe an hour ago, closer to the shape in my bed. Who knows? Time is standing still for me this evening. I thought I might be high enough to deal with this tonight, but I’m never high enough, it seems.

Never.

I try to figure myself out sometimes by staring at myself, thinking maybe if I look long and hard enough, I’ll be able to see into my soul, resolve the mysteries therein, and come to some grand synthesis or at least some helpful conclusions about who I am and why I do the things that I do; but it never really works,1 and my face becomes an ugly, scary stranger in the dim light of my vanity mirror, needing more drugs, someone I don’t care to keep company with anymore.

I’ve been sitting here, close to the bed, for some time now, watching, just watching, trying to listen to the beautiful silence that’s being so rudely over-ridden by my own voice in my head, sort of a static white noise with broken dialogue, my dialogue, struggling with myself…a heated debate, and I’m trying desperately to abate this and be done with the internal struggle and the agonizing anxiety that’s within me. The minutes pass slowly, and I continue to watch, close to the shadowy form that rests so still and silent and peaceful.

Ah, my eyes are wet. The dreaded tears have come.

The sex has been over for hours, and I’ve been watching her sleep for a long time now. It seems like a long time since I’ve moved, except for fondling Raven. I’ve just now become aware that I’ve been absent-mindedly groping Raven, my knife, this whole time. I have a fascination with knives and own a few, but Raven is my fave. She has a metallic black handle and a curved, razor-sharp blade, about an 8-inch overall length. Her handle forms steel knuckles for maximum utility. She’s beautiful but potentially devastating… and so is this girl.

I have to deal with this tonight... There’s no time... Tomorrow will be too late...

I fight with myself over and over again, yet come to the same drab conclusion. Not yet, though.

Let her sleep some more.

I get up and move back into the bathroom. My makeup is difficult to get off tonight, and my hands are shaky from being high, but I need another line. I would have removed it earlier, but she wanted me to keep it on. Some girls like that. I need to think some more. I need to be sure…. But, I am sure.

My eyeliner looked really good tonight. STOP! You arrogant fuck. Now is not the time to dote on yourself. Don’t get distracted. Get your shit together.

I tell myself these things, not out loud, just in my head. I continue with the removal of my makeup. What a shame. I hate taking it off. I usually wear at least some light eyeliner every day, but getting ready to go out is different. It usually takes an hour or longer to put my face on. The lips are the most difficult because I outline them with black liner, just like my eyes. You have to be careful not to smear the lipstick with the liner and keep the lines straight with even thickness. The corners of the mouth are especially tough. You don’t want to look like a clown. It would be great if I could keep this face on all the time. I feel free when I’m done up like I’m someone new and anything is possible for me. It’s an escape, but makeup is also a big part of my reality, who I am, and that gives me some happiness. I’ve always been a dreamer. I live in my head.

That’s enough, Fade! You need to get through this soon. Quit distracting yourself and procrastinating! Fucking daydreaming about your makeup. Are you serious? Not much longer. The sun will be coming up in a few hours. She needs to be gone by then. I need a drink and another line of cocaine. I keep my drugs in the vanity, a bit anyway. What’s in the fridge?

There’s half of a fifth of Jameson left. I feel better now.

I catch myself crying again as I move back into the room where she’s sleeping. I hate to cry. I dread this with all my being. Blood runs down my arm where I’ve been cutting myself with Raven the last few minutes while thinking this through. I usually use a razor for this sort of thing, as Raven is too big and can cut too deeply before I realize it. Then I need stitches or super glue to stop the bleeding. Cutting usually helps to assuage my sadness and depression by focusing the brain elsewhere through pain, substituting physical pain in place of emotional pain, which hurts more and lasts way longer, but the cutting doesn’t help tonight. Tonight I’m abnormally numb, and nothing is helping me with this predicament.

Why wouldn’t she listen to me? Stupid girl. How do I do this? What’s most expedient? I can’t stab her. I can’t do it! I can’t use Raven, not on her. She’s too beautiful. I like her way too much. I thought I might be able to care for her in time.

This pains me. I do not want this.

This is not me, but a necessity.

How do I contend with this?

I step outside of myself, so to speak, grab one of my guns, the Sig Sauer P229 40 cal, move to the bed, and grab the extra pillow she’s not using.

I don’t have to worry about noise here. Not here. No one lives near this building. Even if they did, a single muffled gunshot here is just common noise, like a car alarm or police or fire engine siren, nothing out of the ordinary. Chaotic sounds are normal background noise every night in this desperate and dangerous city, a sentient city, a large monster that feeds on the weak and unwary. You must always be wary here.

As I stand over the bed with the pillow in one hand and my pistol in the other, she stirs awake, rolls over and says sleepily, Fade?

Now! Before you lose your nerve!

I hurriedly place the pillow over her face and fire into it point-blank. Her body goes limp. Blood. There’s blood now, profuse amounts of blood seeping through the sheets…blood all over the bed…including my own, my arms dripping from Raven cuts, standing over her these last unknown number of minutes. Blood everywhere, it seems. Blood seeping into shadow. Shadow merging into blood. The whole loft looks to be covered in it.

I’m having an anxiety attack from nerves and the cocaine that’s heightened my heart rate, and I’m delusional, I know. I need to sit down—I’m in a cold sweat—so I do—in the puddle of blood on the floor that may or may not be real. I’ve started to cry again, unnoticed by me, until the physical sobbing catches me by surprise, and I’m startled, jostled out of what seems a brief trance.

I hate to cry….

I dare not remove the pillow. I cannot remove this pillow and look at the reality of what I’ve done, the emptiness that I’ve become, my own bloody, ruined face staring back at me. Her corpse is now a window into my soul.

My only witness has been one small, dark, unblinking eye from a side profile. The Black Rabbit of Inle’, a.k.a. The Black Rabbit of Death, sits quiet and unstirring in his cage across the room...so peaceful... He’s watching me... He’s always watching…waiting for my day.

It was just a single gunshot in the night, commonplace, somewhere in the dark labyrinth of the city. It draws no attention. No one cares.

A shot in the night somewhere in the city. It draws no attention. No one cares.

Chapter Two

Menacing Comforts

You can have it all

My empire of dirt

I will let you down

I will make you hurt

–From Hurt by Nine Inch Nails

Detroit, sometime in the early nineties. It’s around October, my favorite time of year—dark, damp and gray, a perpetual overcast that goes on day in and day out. Depressing, really, I would imagine for most, but I’m used to it. For me, it’s home.

It’s evening, and the skyline is lit with a tinge of dull orange and metallic blue from the fire in the sky. That’s what I call it. One can see it clearly from the River Rouge overpass, really a bridge, when driving over it into the city, especially approaching from the south. Open flames spew from high towers, burning continuously day and night like the bonfire of some weird cult. I love the fire in the sky. It makes me smile for some strange reason. I’m not exactly sure why, but I feel comforted by it. I’m home, the place where I belong. When the fires aren’t burning, I feel something is wrong, and it disrupts my sense of security.

Most people would want this burning to stop as it’s probably filled with industrial toxins. No, it’s definitely pollution pouring into the open sky, releasing fumes from the steel mills and oil refineries and exhaust from plant furnaces to produce the horrible sulfur-like stench in the area surrounding the bridge, but I like it. Not so much the smell but the fire that is Detroit. It’s so fitting here, a monumental symbol of what made the Motor City great, an industrial throwback, a reminder of Detroit’s glory days with the fires of industry still meekly burning like the weak pulse of a giant failing heart. The fire in the sky alerts me like a flashing warning sign, reminding me, as it should remind others coming into the city, of where they are.

Be careful, it says, for I am Detroit, and it’s dangerous here.

Things are different here than in most other big cities in some ways and similar in others. Every major city has unique aspects that make it special. Detroit is definitely that. This city has a very bad reputation, and I suppose with good reason. This is not a destination city with only a few tourist attractions and things to do for outsiders. One has to know Detroit to appreciate what it has to offer. It’s a city of secrets and secret places. You have to be intimate with this city to love it. It’s like a lover in that respect, not a lot of ambivalence. Love or hate. It’s cut and dry. People here are fanatically loyal and proud of their city, and I’m no exception. It’s a city of the underdog and for the underdog. I love this city. I was born here and know nothing else.

This city has its own unyielding rule: Survival of the Slickest. It is unmerciful and unpredictable, and for me, the fire in the sky represents all that life here demands, as well as the survival spirit of its residents, like the early American Gadsden snake flag’s message: don’t tread on me. That’s what the fire in the sky seems to say. I feel uneasy when the fires aren’t lit. For me, they’ve become a symbol of the everlasting vigilance of home and security. When they’re not burning, especially at night, I’m thrown into a deep melancholy and sense of foreboding that can last for days. But thankfully, the fires are usually burning day and night, and I can go on feeling that all is as it should be.

My name is Fade, and that’s enough. No one who’s currently alive knows my surname, my childhood and family history, or my level of education. I created my own identity and my own world long ago. I’m a ghost. I don’t exist on paper. I’ve never had a social security number, a driver’s license, or been employed. Fade is not my real first name. I lifted it from a villainous character in the novel Dune by Frank Herbert. The word fade means to gradually disappear without importance. That seems representative of my life. Depending on my mood, I sometimes spell it Feyd. It’s my name, and I’ll spell it however I want to. It’s not like I’m filling out fucking job applications anyway. The only time I write my name is for my own personal reasons, like writing in this journal. It’s rare that I write my name for anyone or anything else, and I could give a fuck less anyway.

Just as I’ve taken my name from a character in a book, my self-concept relates to the likeness of another villain; however, one evolved out of necessity and cruel destiny. Elric of Melnibone‘ is a tragic figure, doomed to lose everything and everyone he ever loved, just like the ancient Greek tragedies and the myths and heroes of antiquity. Elric is a true antihero who destroys everything he touches in his attempt to do what’s ostensibly the greater good for all. The Elric stories, penned by Michael Moorcock of London, are books that have been dear to my heart since I was a pre-teen.

I like to live under the radar, drawing little or no attention. Possessing an extremely private personality by nature, as well as that characteristic being a necessity for what I do, my past and my family history are my own, and I will take that information and those memories with me when I exit this existence.

I am a Goth, someone who belongs to a subculture that embraces the darker side of life, acknowledging the ever-lurking presence of Death and not being fearful of it but rather recognizing Death as a natural part of life and, in doing so, celebrating it. A Goth usually dresses in dark clothing that symbolizes mortality and Death.

Most of my clothing is black, including my socks and underwear.

My aesthetic preference is a pale white complexion contrasted by jet black hair, usually dyed to obtain a deep shade. My pasty complexion is not only my personal preference but also a necessity due to a rare blood disorder that sensitizes me to the sun. Prolonged exposure causes my skin to form small reddish-brown spots about my torso, which, if they occur internally, could cause more serious complications. I have a benign form of this condition that will not kill me as far as I know, but more on this later.

I am, of necessity, a creature of the night due to my blood condition, making me a perfect candidate for a nocturnal lifestyle. A somewhat vampire-like individual, I do not drink blood. That seems childish to me. Those who emulate and imitate vampires appear to me to be attention seekers. The thought of being a vampire disgusts me and humors me at the same time. I am, however, an avid drug addict and have a love affair with cocaine. I thoroughly enjoy the drug and have no intention of relinquishing its embrace.

Some would call me a disturbed individual, to say the least, a textbook case, I’m sure, for a psychiatrist or psychologist who deals with the criminal mind. I wonder what profile I would fit according to their bullshit clinical criteria. I don’t care. I don’t care what anybody thinks about anything, much less what they think of me. I am sickened to be a part of the human race. I hate people with a passion. What they think is irrelevant. There are very few people I trust enough to call friend. The rest are just acquaintances whom I use for various purposes. Mine is a world of extreme loathing, pain, emptiness and danger. I am an island unto myself to the extent that adage is possible. Sometimes I wish things had been different for me, but I know no other way to live, and I’m now fully acclimated to, at home in, my life circumstances. I now relish who and what I am.

Chapter Three

Misfiteers

I ain’t no working man

I do the best I can

I got the devil’s hand

Rollin’ sixes

I am the habit man

I use up all I can …

A messianic Peter Pan

–From Snake Eyes and Sissies

by Marilyn Manson

It’s early evening as usual for me, usual in the sense that I sleep until mid-afternoon most of the time and evening is when I venture outside. An orange moon hangs low this evening, the type of moon that seems to take up nearly the whole sky. This moon is a sight to behold, my favorite when it’s like this, and a steady drizzle is falling. It’s twilight, and it’s beautiful.

I’m in the doorway niche of a dilapidated building at Fort Street and Vermont. Weeds crawl up through the plentiful cracks in the street pavement and sidewalk. Only one street lamp is working here, the way I like it—always dark. I’ve only been up for a few hours. I sleep a lot, mostly to relieve my ennui and depression or because I’m recovering from drinking and drug use.

I move farther back into the recess of a doorway and light a clove as I wait. This side street is always deserted…again, the way I like it. My cell rings. It’s Spam. I’m here, I tell him. I’m getting ready to go to work, as we call it. I need to focus, but I can’t get her out of my mind. I hold my head in my hands and try to force the thoughts away. The clove has given me a slight buzz.

I won’t cry about it anymore.

There it is, the distant rumble of Spam’s engine. They’re getting close. I would know the sound of that car anywhere. It’s very distinct, like a large metal predator, purring as naïves.

I tried to explain to her, tried to reason with her, but she wouldn’t listen. She was going to go to the police or tell somebody. It was just a matter of time. I was really starting to like her. That’s not what I wanted!

I met her a few months ago at the club. She was pretty in her corset and plaid skirt, knee-high lace-up boots, great tattoos on her arms and stomach. She had a gorgeous body. I watched her for an hour at least before I approached her. I needed to see if she was with anyone. I don’t like to compete for a girl’s attention. Her name was Krystina.

We hit it off quickly and flirted back and forth the remainder of the night, making small talk about this or that, the kind of nonsense potential lovers say when they first meet. We talked and fucked around over the course of the next couple of weeks at the club. One night I told her I lived a couple blocks away in my own loft. She was intrigued and agreed to accompany me home. That’s when it happened.

No more time to reminisce. They’ve turned the corner. I can see Spam’s headlights approaching. Good. My phone rings.

I’m here, I say once again, annoyed.

Stupid fuckers.

I step out onto the curb as the large, old Grand Marquis pulls up, some model from the early 80s. It sounds like a small tank and looks like a car out of a Mad Max movie, black primer with black hubs, leopard interior, seats six with ease. I love this car, but it’s not discreet and gets stopped often when outside Detroit, although we rarely leave the city. A large plastic crocodile sits glued to the center of the dash, and fuzzy dice hang from the rear-view mirror. I think it’s hilarious. Typical Spam.

My friends are here. Two sit in the back. They’ve left the front passenger seat vacant for me as usual. Spam always drives. I get in, and we’re off. Spam starts speaking immediately.

I’ve been tipped to this house, and I’ve been watching it along with our boy. Not too much traffic. It should be a clean haul. Slink is already inside. He’ll let us in the back door when he gets my page.

John Scarecrow and Keith Ghost sit in the back. Scarecrow is an enigma even to us. He’s the second oldest. He’s tall and lanky, like all of us, yet because of his height, he appears more emaciated. He wears the same leather always. It has a custom painting of a female alien-type by the artist Giger on the back. Giger paints weird science fiction scenes that usually involve alien-like faces or beings in dark colors, blacks and grays mostly. His art always reminds me of the types of creatures that might be seen in the movie Alien. It’s a disturbing-looking picture that adds to a disturbing-looking individual like Scarecrow. A perfect match, I’d say. Scarecrow has long, black, stringy hair with a pronounced receding hairline. He talks little unless angered, but then he always seems angry…angry at the world. His temper is vicious and uncontrollable. It’s hard to keep him in check. He’s unpredictable and will lash out at anyone without much provocation, which makes him an ideal strong arm but not someone to be counted on when a calculated response is needed.

Keith is the oldest. He’s a gentle soul. He’s also tall and skinny with an extremely pale complexion, paler than any of us. Because of this, we call him Ghost or Keith Ghost. His hair is blonde, white like that of an albino, which amplifies his ghost-like resemblance. Keith is bisexual, and I’ve had to block his advances on occasion when he was drunk. He always wears makeup and loves to dance. We try to keep Keith out of potentially violent situations, so he usually acts as a lookout but will throw in if necessary. He can handle himself well when he needs to. We’ve actually just asked him to join in on this next job. We’ve needed the extra help for a while now. We need Keith to step it up with the rest of us. We’ll find ourselves a new lookout and driver. Word is, this next job may be more dangerous than usual. That seems to be the trend now with what we’re doing…as if it wasn’t dangerous enough from the git.

That leaves Spam, the third oldest of the group. Spam, like the rest of us, is tall and skinny but not as lanky as John or Keith, who are both extraordinarily thin. Spam has very long brown hair, sometimes with blonde or black highlights. He’s also fond of makeup, usually just eyeliner and a white base with powder and sometimes light lipstick. Spam dresses in black like the rest of us. He has worn the same black faux leather pants and Tuk knee-high English combat boots since I’ve known him. He maybe owns three or four shirts, and he rotates them. Spam is the life of the party, the group joker, and second in command if there ever seems to be a voiced or unvoiced hierarchy. Sometimes we vie for control, but Spam usually defers to my judgment about people and situations if something doesn’t feel right to me.

Spam and I have been friends the longest and are very close. Spam does a lot of organizing as he’s the social butterfly of the group, the one who makes phone calls to all of us and arranges times for pick-ups, drop-offs, etc., but I double-check things and yea or nay jobs and strategies. He does most, if not all, of the reconnaissance work, finds the jobs we do, and acts as liaison between us and our middle man, Slink, whom we refer to as our boy most of the time. Our boy coordinates the jobs with Spam and often sets the stage by infiltrating and reporting back to us about the prevailing conditions.

I wear my hair long and jet black, sometimes with streaks of dark red. I’m only six months or so younger than Spam which makes me the youngest of the group, but I am the tactician and extremely anal and careful with the strategies for execution of our plans which makes me seem like the oldest and the leader of the group. My age is now an estimate on my part, a good ball park guess at best, but from what I can remember, I’d be closest in age to Spam, so I use his age to gauge mine because it just sounds and feels right. I don’t otherwise deal with age and never discuss it with anyone. I’m sensitive about it for some reason, maybe due to a fear of getting old. I quit keeping track of my age long ago when I was very young. There was never any celebration of birthdays for me that I can remember, and there has been no one to count my years and no reason why I needed to keep track. So, over time I’ve chosen to forget and did so. I hate fucking birthdays. I’m tall and skinny like the others, but I’m the shortest of the group at an even six feet. I’m the most robust of the group and probably the heaviest.

I’m the only one who works out and who has experience at fighting. I was an amateur welterweight boxer as a kid up through my teen years. Training at the local gym was always free for me because I was a poor neighborhood kid. They allowed me