Chapter #9Hang on to Adam. by: Seuzz   You realize that Dana is looking at you strangely. "Are you okay?"
"Huh? Oh, I'm fine. Just a flashback."
She starts. "You do acid?" she asks quietly.
"What? No. Just a joke. Just a ... a weird thing." You can feel her mind, her thoughts. Interesting. Yeah, you can fix this little awkwardness. You reach into her mind and give it a few tweaks. Now she doesn't remember any of your conversation.
She shakes herself. "What were we talking about?"
You shrug and stretch. "Nothin' really." You toss the cigarette away. "I'm sorry, I got something on my mind right now, Dana. But come find me sixth period, will ya? I got study hall in the library then, and I'll need you to distract me." You smile, and reach out and give her a quick flick on the chin with your finger. She smiles and leaves.
You light another cigarette after she's gone. That was interesting. Very cool. So David Johnson tried possessing you, huh? Too bad for him the little motherfucker didn't know who he was dealing with. You can feel him sloshing around inside you even now. That's the really funny thing: you've possessed him.
Maybe he's still there, you think. But you've got your mind and will shoved so far up his gooey blue ass that he doesn't even realize you're thinking his thoughts for him. That little bit he's got stuck in Dana, for instance: a little bit of David that's now become a little bit of you—the new and improved Adam Karter!
Oh yeah, you think, taking a long drag and blowing out a thin stream of smoke, and knocking a little ash off the end of the cancer stick. Then you cough out a little ball of blue goo and play with it, letting it run over and between your fingers like the living part of you it is.
This is good. This is gonna work.
* * * * *
Normally, you'd find something to do after school—a person to hang out with or someplace to go and kill time. Anything to put off the moment you'd have to face your mother. But you're feeling much more confident of your ability to handle her now.
Your mom's car is out front when you pedal to a stop outside the trailer: she's not due at work for another hour. You find her sitting at the table when you come in, gripping a coffee mug. She looks up at you in surprise, and there's a pregnant pause. You smile tightly. "Hi mom, I'm home."
"So, the prodigal's got nothing better to do than stay home with his sick mother," she says mockingly. Her words are slurred; no surprise, since you don't need to see its contents to guess it's vodka in her mug. "Want me fix you a fucking snack? Or maybe you skinned your knee and want a good cry. Have your asshole friends finally figured out what a little shit you are and decided not to play with you any more?"
Your smile widens. "Shut up, you whore," you say coolly.
She doesn't react for a moment, and then all the color drains from her face. She looks up slowly at you, her bleary eyes blazing to sudden life; a terrible rictus, almost shark-like, spreads across her face.
"Why, you fucking little prick," she says. "You goddamned incubus. You—"
That's enough. You walk up to her—she doesn't even flinch—and shove your hand over her mouth while kicking her in shin. She gasps, and then the pile goo you were holding is down her throat. She chokes and heaves and gags, and then you feel a strange numbness that seems to be coming from outside your body. That's followed by a reeling sensation as the alcohol in her system hits you like a hammer. You have to sit and put your head between your knees. Your hair, you notice, hangs limply; you can see it. How is that possible? Then you realize you are looking at yourself out of your mother's eyes. Tentatively, you lift her hand and touch your head. You flinch at the feeling of your thick hair between her fingers, and her fingers on your hair.
"You little prick," you say in her voice. "You crawled out of my belly and sucked at my tit and gobbled down all the food I put before your ungrateful little face." It's the start of her favorite speech, one you know by heart. But you raise your own head, and from her eyes you can see a mad light dancing in yours. "You think it was hell before," you say in your own voice, in a fierce whisper. "Well, I've got you now, you baggy old bitch. And you'll never hurt me again."
You get out of the chair and totter drunkenly down the hall to your room, where you collapse on your bed. You will need all your concentration just to get Laura Karter ready for her job.
It's horrible and disgusting work, but you walk her into her bathroom and take off her clothes and shove her under a cold shower until your head begins to clear. Then you scrub the grime of the day off her ugly body—which manages to be flabby and bony at the same time—and then you take her, still dripping, into the kitchen, where you pour two pots of hot, strong, black coffee down her throat. She has a terrible thirst for vodka, but you take out the bottles and with her own hands pour the contents down the sink. Then you put her in the jeans and t-shirt she wears to her job at the grocery store.
Only when you've got her at the door do you start kneading her mind until she falls into that state of suspended consciousness that will let her act independently while still being firmly under your thumb. You're still groggy and sick from the aftereffects of working her from inside her vodka-soaked brain, but you stumble out of your bedroom. In the living room the two of you regard each other balefully, but there is terror in her eyes: you haven't done anything to modify her memories. "You will go to work, and you will work hard, and you will not miss any more days at work," you say quietly. You find a tender spot in her mind, a place that craves alcohol, and you twist it painfully. "You will not drink any more." You pinch it tighter. "You will not talk to me." You give her the sensation that something hot and sharp has been shoved behind her eyes; she quails. "You will be a good mother, for once in your life. If you are, then the pain stops. If you aren't, then I will make you be good." She's trembling all over now. "And don't even think about telling anyone about this. Because I can not only read your thoughts, I can think them for you." You give her a sudden desire to stick her head in a gas stove: death would be sweet, far sweeter than this. Then you pull her out of the fantasy, and smile at her.
"This is the first day of the rest of your life, mother. Make the most of it."
* * * * *
You're bored and irritated after shoving her out the door. You've got nothing to do, and you're hungry, but there's nothing to eat but a couple of cans of tuna fish and a box of bargain-brand macaroni and cheese. This is maddening: Fucking cunt and her inability to hold a job. You're free to indulge your fits of rage now, so you go into your mom's bedroom and slowly and methodically kick the shit out of her closet door, until it hangs busted and crippled from a single hinge. If the old bitch says anything about it you'll give her something worth hurting over.
Still, now that you've got it out of you, you see that this kind of thing isn't good: you haven't disciplined yourself over the years to smile and flatter and distill your hatreds into sweet and seductive but poisonous honey just to throw it all away the moment you can. So you take the busted door out of its frame and carefully replace it with the door from your own room; you don't need a door on your closet anyway. And though this new power of yours will make your home life much easier, you have bigger and better ideas of how to use it. You can start by cadging a meal from a mark.
You pick up the phone; you've a hundred numbers in your head, but don't need a little book, let alone a fucking Blackberry, to dredge up the one you want.
"Hello?" the voice at the other end says.
"Hey Patrick, this is Adam. Adam Karter?"
"Oh. Hi."
"So what excitement is shaking your world?"
There's a pause. "Oh, nothing, really. Just, y'know, doing stuff. After school stuff."
"Cool. You wanna share it?"
"What do you mean?"
"I'm bored. Entertain me."
There's a stunned silence. "What?"
You laugh. "I'm sorry, that was brutal, wudn't it? But I'm serious. I'm bored. I got nothing to do."
He sounds totally flummoxed. "Don't you have, like, practice with your band?"
"I did that yesterday. I crave something new. Be my friend and do something with me. Your pick, totally."
There's a kind of gulping noise, and then he says "Okay." What you're doing violates almost all school protocol: the very, very hip high school senior cold-calling the geeky sophomore and asking to hang out with him. Only the fact that you're known for not having a favorite clique makes this remotely plausible. Which is one of the reasons you've gone out of your way to avoid having a favored group.
"What about watching one of your movies?" you suggest when he says nothing. "How about that one you were telling me and Mike about? About that guy? He did that thing? Or that thing happened to him?"
"Citizen Kane?"
"Yeah. Was that it?" Patrick is a budding film buff, and the other day he was running off at the mouth about some old black-and-white movie; you pretended to be interested, but in fact were barely paying attention.
"Probably. It's about a man who builds a newspaper empire and becomes really powerful, but the only thing he wants—"
"Patrick! Dude, don't spoil it for me! If it has Martians in it I want to be surprised!"
"No, it hasn't got Martians. Although, actually—"
"Patrick," you laugh. "Just invite me over to watch it already, okay?"
"Oh. Okay."
"I'll see you in a bit then." You hang up before he can argue.
* * * * *
The air is warm and humid, but you're dripping with sweat when you arrive. "Jesus," you pant when Patrick ushers you in. "I didn't know it was so far over here." You wipe your brow with your forearm.
"Why didn't you drive or take the bus?"
You drum your hands playfully on your flat stomach. "You get flabby if you drive everywhere. But I probably stink like shit, don't I?" He says nothing, and you laugh and slap him on the chest with the back of your hand. "I really want to watch that movie, but how about a quick cannonball in your pool, just to take the smell off. Is it open?"
"Oh. Sure. Did you bring your swim trunks?"
"No, I didn't bring my swim trunks," you reply in a playfully mocking tone. "I told you, I want to watch that movie that doesn't have Martians in it. Though I hope you're lying about that, at least."
"Well, okay. I guess we can take a quick dip. You can borrow some trunks."
"Why bother with that? You have a house rule against skinny dipping?"
His eyes widen. "Um. No. But—"
"But what? I just want a quick dip, something to take the edge off the hot ride over. Why dirty up some swim trunks, especially ones that don't belong to me?" You nudge him. "Come on, it'll be fun. It's not like anyone can see into your back yard."
Patrick blushes but leads you out to the pool: it's a big thing, with deck chairs on one side and a rock garden and large, sturdy gazebo on the other. There's even a built-in brick oven and barbecue out here. Why David didn't try to possess one of the Carlsons so he could have all this ... Well, no matter, you'll have part of it to yourself soon enough.
You pull off your shoes and socks and pants and shirt and toss them casually aside, then pause to give Patrick a quizzical glance. He hangs his head and pulls his own clothes off more slowly. When he's almost done disrobing, you pull off your boxers and do a cannonball into the deep end of the pool. The water feels soft and refreshing, and you can't resist laughing as you bob to the surface and push the hair out of your eyes. "Come on, Patrick," you shout. "I got nothin' to be ashamed of, and I'm sure you don't either.
He smiles through a wince and pulls off his own underwear and slides more quietly into the water. You flop back with your head and chest and shoulders riding atop the water, and sigh. "This is awesome, isn't it? Don't you ever do this?"
"Sure, I swim all the time."
"No, I mean with nothing between you and the water."
"Oh. No, I've always got trunks on."
"But it's better this way, don't you think? More natural and ... Well, don't think I'm flirting with you, but kind of sexy, too?"
He's silent. "I don't think I have the ... the look like you do ... to pull it off."
You raise your head and squint at him. "Don't think that way, Patrick."
"What way?"
"That you're being judged, that you have to impress people. I don't think that way, and it all works out for me."
"Yeah, but you're ..."
"I'm what?"
"You're ... Well, you are, like, the most popular guy in school, so ..."
You grin at him. "Exactly. See how it works?"
He grimaces shyly. "I don't think it would work with me."
"It's workin' already. I'm the most popular guy in school, and I like you just fine."
"What the hell are you guys doing?"
You look up. It's Kristy, Patrick's older sister. She's come out of the house, her jaw hanging open in a shocked grin.
"Hey, Kristy," you say. "Your brother and I are watching a movie. What's it called again?"
"Citizen Kane?"
"Right. Citizen Kane. It's not about Martians."
"I don't think so," she says.
"It is about Martians?" You turn toward Patrick. "Dude, you lied to me."
"I mean, it looks like you're swimming in our pool without anything on!"
"Well, if you know what it looks like, Kristy, why are you asking what we are doing?"
"Because you're not wearing anything!"
"Of course we're not wearing anything. Do you go swimming with all your clothes on?"
"I usually wear a bathing suit, yes!"
"Well, bully for you! You probably also lift your pinky finger while sipping your afternoon tea!"
She laughs. "You deserve everything you're going to get, Adam Karter." She sits down and crosses her arms, a mischievous smile on her face. "I'm going to sit here, just like this, until you come out of there."
"Knock yourself out. Isn't the water clear enough to give you an eyeful anyway?"
Her eyes involuntarily twitch downward. She gasps, flushes, and covers her face with her hands. "Oh my God!"
You glance over at Patrick, who is laughing so hard no noise is coming out. "Go ahead and hang with us till we come out," you grin. "I'm sure the refraction just makes things look shorter than they actually are."
Her eyes are dancing as she looks at you from between her fingers. Then she jumps up and goes back inside. You do a few lazy strokes on your back. "She's going to watch us from inside the house, for when we come out, isn't she?" It's phrased like a question, but isn't really.
"Probably."
"I should do some calisthenics for her, then, right?"
"You like Kristy, don't you?"
"Sure, she's cool. Most all of the girls at school are cool."
"She's not seeing anyone, you know."
You smile at him. "Stop trying to give me permission to date your sister. I'd ask her out if I didn't have reasons not to."
"What reasons?"
You give him a look. "Do you think I invited myself over just to use your pool?" His eyes widen and he starts to stammer. You shake your head. "Forget it. Let's go inside and check out that movie."
You dive under the water and swim toward Patrick. He turns his back to you: good. You blort out a thin stream of goo and send it swimming toward his ass. You surface on the other side of him and have just got the hair shaken from your face when you start to penetrate him.
He freezes and suddenly begins to twitch. "Oh, God!"
"What?" You hurry up. He thrashes and falls back, and you grab and pull him up; the last thing you want is him drowning.
"Jesus, it—" You're having a hard time pushing into him, and his face is screwing up with the pain. You pull him to the side of the pool and lift him out. He's twisting and arching his back, but you're almost in him now; you can start to feel some of his muscles.
"What happened?" Kristy has come out again and is hurrying over.
"It's like he had a spasm," you say. You're feeling dizzy yourself: All in a rush, you feel a tingling and prickling from someplace outside you—Patrick is now falling fully under your control. Then there's a haze before you: you're looking at the sky with a second pair of eyes. Gingerly, you turn them toward Kristy. You give an experimental cough with your second throat. "I'm fine," you say softly.
"You don't look fine," she says. "Maybe we better call the paramedics."
"No, I'll be okay." You realize you're staring at her, so you close Patrick's eyes. That's better: you can feel both bodies, but you're not as confused with a second perspective on the world. You sit him up, and then stand him up, with eyes still closed, and turn his body so it faces away from Kristy. You stretch his arms and torso. "See? I'm fine."
"Huh. Okay. What about you, Adam? You okay?"
You realize your own body has been frozen in a crouch, still staring at the damp spot where Patrick had been lying. You look up. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little shaken." You feel a little dizziness in both your bodies as you stand up, then go up to Patrick and put your arm around his shoulder. "Just give us a few minutes and we'll be okay."
There's a silence, and then you hear Kristy walking slowly away. Carefully, you drop yourself and Patrick down, to sit on the edge of the pool with legs dangling in the water. You tap into his mind until you find the memory of the attack in the pool, and with a little deft rearranging turn it into a short but violent muscle spasm. Then you slip down beneath the conscious surfaces of his mind. He comes alive again as you slip him off your leash; now you can only feel his thoughts.
"God, that was weird," he says.
"Does that happen often?"
"It's never happened before!"
"What was it?"
"Just, like, a weird muscle spasm."
You look at him gravely. "I'm sorry. Maybe the swimming was a bad idea."
"No, it's not your fault. Like I said, it's never happened before."
"Well, okay," you say slowly. "I guess it's over." You give him a playful slap. "Let's dry off and go watch that movie."
For the most part you ignore his thoughts and try to stay aloof from his mind, but you give it a few experimental pokes. You make him curious about the size of your dick, and ignore it when you catch him sneaking a look down at your crotch. On the way inside, you prod him into thinking you might be hungry. You are, in fact, ravenous.
"Want something to eat? We have some leftover lasagna that Magda made last night."
"Who's Magda?"
"Our cook." He blushes.
"Do you have a butler too?" you tease.
"No. She's just some live-in help who does some cooking and cleaning for us. Cuz my mom doesn't like to do those things."
"Is she a good cook?"
"Oh, she's great!"
And so it proves; the lasagna is delicious and you wolf it down hungrily. You could get fat on this kind of food, but you won't: you'll take more stuff off Patrick than you want, but you won't consume more than you need. Leanness and hunger have made you what you are.
Up in his bedroom, you feel a sharp stab of jealousy and hatred when you see all the crap he has: the shelves stuffed with DVDs and games, the electronics, the high-definition TV, the Wii, the DVD and Blu-Ray players. The garbage in this room alone costs more than all the garbage in your whole house. And what does this kid and his family do or have to deserve it? You wouldn't deserve it, either, but they don't deserve it more than you.
Of course, you hide this reaction; you just grin and say, "Whoa. Cool."
He looks a little embarrassed—you'd give him a point for his constant embarrassment at having a pool and a cook and thousands and thousands of dollars in toys, but it's too late. You want to take from him, and humiliate him at the same time. That's the whole reason you came over. So you seize his mind and twist his thoughts: He wants to give you his iPod; he is going to buy himself a new one anyway; he doesn't like the color of his old one, so he's going to buy a new one; he likes you, and he wants you to have his old one; he's just going to get rid of it otherwise ...
Patrick starts rummaging through the stuff on his desk. "Hey, you want my old iPod?"
"What?"
"I'm getting a new one, and ... Well, I'd just be getting rid of this one anyway."
You stare at him. "Jesus, don't they have, like, an exchange program for old iPods?"
"Well, I dunno. I guess maybe. But I thought maybe you'd like to, you know, have it." He shrugs helplessly in embarrassment and holds out the iPod limply.
You stare at it in his hand and then take it gingerly, blushing a little yourself. That's the cool thing about having this goo-self as part of you: you can modulate your own reactions much more carefully and deliberately. "Aw, shit. I mean ... Well, thanks. That's really cool of you."
"I mean, I bet you already have one," he says desperately.
"Huh? Well ... It's the thought that counts, right?" You give him a playful pretend punch to the stomach. "Anyway, thanks a lot, Rick. It's really nice of you."
"'Rick'?"
You look at him shrewdly. "I thought you didn't like the name 'Patrick'."
His eyes widen a little. "Actually, I don't like it much. Did I ever mention that?"
You wink. "Maybe you didn't. Somehow, I just had the impression you didn't like it. A hunch or something. So how about I call you 'Rick' instead? You know, short for 'Patrick' without being 'Pat'? Blech. I went around as a 'Rick' for a few years when I was a kid. From my middle name."
His eyes shine and he smiles shyly. "Yeah. I liked that."
"Great. Rick it is." You hold your hand up for a high five; he returns it and you give it a manly clutch.
While he absorbs this, you flop down onto the floor and wait for him to start the movie. He jerks himself out of his little reverie—you must like him; you gave him a nickname, you gave him your own old nickname as a nickname; this is so awesome, Adam Karter, the coolest guy in school is hanging out with him!—and puts the disc in the machine. The movie that follows proves as boring as you'd known it would be, but you pretend to be fascinated. Secretly, you amuse yourself by playing with your new toy's mind. It's cruel, but you can't resist giving it the occasional little pinch, giving him the sudden and inexplicable desire to kiss you; it doesn't help that the two of you are sitting close enough to touch shoulders. Even without your ability to read and massage his thoughts, you'd notice the hot blush that breaks over his face every time you prick him this way. You pretend to ignore it, though, and finger your new iPod gloatingly.
* * * * *
You have some homework to do afterward, but it doesn't take long; and tonight you don't even smoke any more cigarettes. You shouldn't anyway, and your goo self is able to nicely suppress the nicotine urge. Then it's to bed.
You're curious about what sleep will bring. David didn't need to sleep; will you? You reach out and sense Dana and Patrick and your mom—the latter at work but the first two also in bed, asleep. You lay in the dark and let your mind drift. And then you're dreaming.
Your eyes are still open and you look around in the dark, but you also see the dream: a snowy field with tracks running across it. Rabbit tracks. You follow them hungrily and then there's the rabbit, and you tear it apart with your jaws and swallow it down, because you're a wolf. But you're not a wolf, you're a boy, but the blood and fur still taste sweet in your mouth.
You sit up. You're still dreaming, which means that your real mind is asleep; your Adam-possessed goo mind is still awake though, and still entirely under your control. You and David must be the same person now. So long as you keep some of him inside yourself, so that the connection isn't broken, you should be able to keep him part of yourself.
You are still thinking about the dream, though. David possessed a wolf for a little while, when he escaped from the park. It would be sweet to have a wolf—No, a full wolf pack—under your control.
Or there's Dana. You still remember the hot hunger you had for her out behind the shop building. You could pay her a nocturnal visit.  | Members who added to this interactive story also contributed to these: |
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