Akari
by Susanne S. Bridenbaugh

The man once said he found Jesus at the bottom of a spent tuna can, where the leftover oils swirled and converged in rainbow shimmers of repentance. Some of that repentance must have spilt over on his clothing, or perhaps in his devout fervor he tried to baptize himself of all past and future sins. His eyes were the empty holes of Salvation’s lost; those that have seen more than their share of vengeful brimstone and broken promises that this world administers.

On his skin I saw only the scabs of mortality. If this man had been a productive unit of society most would have called those labor wounds patches of bravery and determination-we are conditioned to think such thoughts. But I did indeed know this man and his history. For many years he had existed on luck alone-be it good, as in a half eaten bag of chips found in a rusty dumpster, or bad, as in wrong place at the wrong end of Karma. His name, or what we called him, was Noah.

I knelt to the grimy asphalt, took his roughened, flaccid hand in mine until I had leveraged the man’s weight enough to see the ragged wound at the base of the skull. The tears I refused to shed burned the back of my throat; good old Noah, he had been kind to all. Even the rats he fed.

Reaching inside his filthy waistcoat pocket, I drew out a coil of black and placed it into my own coat pocket gently, feeling its sleek coolness around my fingers.

I touched the cool center stone encased in the platinum on my upper chest. I knew each intimately, by feel and sound; this one droned in low pitches. This one, I knew without even glancing down, would be kelp-green. Upon touch it glowed, lighter green in the center where it slightly domed, and darker green around the edges where it gathered its energy.

I snapped the stone from its encasement, freeing it to my palm. Closing my eyes as I placed its smoothness to the old man’s forehead and held it there, using the back of my eyelids as a screen. Flashes of images erupted: sharpened silver metal and rivulets of rusty-maroon blood seeping into the gray-black pavement. And I held my eyelids down forcibly and groaned with the effort when a sneering ghostly-pale face emerged, half of the ragged cartilage torn away where his left nostril should have been. Intricate black Celtic designs tattooed his forehead and left cheek, and in his bruiseblack eyes: malice so strong and vile I almost dropped the stone in my old friend’s lap.

I contemplated placing the blue and green stones together, but quickly dismissed the thought-not with Noah. It was better to remember him as he was. And I wasn’t certain of the outcome.

I replaced the green stone back in its metal clasp, content that I was given the hateful image of Noah’s murderer.

Leaning the old man back against the brick wall, I turned for the mouth of the alley that led me to my own Brownell Street. In the dark recesses of the wall I could hear feminine sobbing, a crescendo of anguish and bewilderment. I slowed my pace, but did not stop the tap of my boot heels against the littered floor of the pavement.

"Shhh Avaline. I will take care of it."

Traffic was its usual gnarled mess once I’d reached Main and Center Street. Finding a telephone booth, I called and reported my finding to the local police precinct, hanging up on the urgent questions pouring through the receiver.

I needed a meal, both food and precious energy, and found the first at a small diner five blocks from where I made my call. The burger was non-too-lean, but I devoured it regardless, giving a hearty laugh at the thought of my agent’s face should he see the greasy burger and fries heaped upon my plate.

"You are an international model, you can’t eat like this!" he would say, thinking mostly of his own fat percentage of my labors.

And little would he know that all these fat calories he obsessed over, and more, would be blazed before the night’s end.

I knew where I was heading before I lifted my ass from the diner bench. Intuition called me to the seedy limb of my metropolis where I would search for this killer of innocents. I had a few clubs in mind. But first I would need some repair.

The restroom’s garish lighting illuminated my pale skin to imperfection. I knew I was getting haggard-and what would my agent say about this? But this too would be remedied before the dawn’s first scouring rays. In the mirror my shiny obsidian eyes looked weary. Given another couple of hours of deprivation, they would almost appear sunken, although the food was beginning to help marginally. But food wasn’t what I needed at the moment. Strength was my ally on this night, and one I could only obtain in an ancient, forbidden way.

Luckily my hair still shone healthy and black against the alabaster of my skin, becoming camouflaged in the black pressed leather of my overcoat. I stared at my reflection, my predominately Japanese features melding with American traits, passed down from a grandfather deported in the panic of World War II, when he took a Japanese wife and was called traitor.

I was named after that woman. The woman he forsook his homeland for, and loved with all his being. Akari, I whisper still feeling the power in the name even though she had long passed from this world. The necklace around my neck had been hers. I had once been naïve enough to believe it only benevolent; no one versed me in its history-in its need that would become my own when I took the sacred oath. I had learned by the trials, and errored on the side of trying to appease a force that was neither wholly evil nor good.

The relic, it was true, preferred to feed on the pristine spirit. In the beginning, I tried in vain to break it of this inclination, and was nearly destroyed in the process of starving the energy flow. Instead I learned to bend the unnatural desires of the deity. But that was nearly five years ago when I was eighteen and living in Tokyo on miniscule modeling jobs. That was before I took the runway and consumed the fashion world one reckless night by impulsively peeling off the very clothing I was modeling to greedy little eyes, becoming an overnight success.

I brought the memory close to me, remembering how delicious it felt to be overcome with power as I stepped onto the runway in a wispy little dress held in place with the silk string at the waist. I reached the end of the catwalk. I pivoted. Pivoted again. Turning my back to the audience, I pulled the silky tie and the dress slid to the polished floors. Liberated from the clothing that was all-important, I strolled from the spotlights beaming overhead in only the flesh-colored thong panties they require us wear under the sewn art.

The shocked audience recovered shortly after, realizing this was unprecedented-and deemed a work of art in itself. Models do not go against the professional grain-only those who have nothing to lose have much to gain. I was the sheep that bucked the flock and allowed the wolf in. I was given a new title and sub-culture fanfare. The Fashion Industry dubbed me: Neo-Model. I wasn’t sure I appreciated being labeled and typecast as if I were a file no one knew what to do with.

I returned my attention back to the mirror and the shadowy image reflected in the glass. Reaching into my coat pocket I retrieve a cosmetic tube; swiveled it and brought it to my plump, pale lips. The red slashed angrily against my white teeth. Already the food was restoring my vitality as skin smoothed and eyes glinted back at me.

I sought the dark coil in my outside pocket bringing it out and gingerly uncoiling its slender length before allowing it to recoil around the column of my neck, entwining with the amulet. Feathery flickers of a forked tongue absorbed the scent of my skin and found it pleasing as it settled its head on the carmine stone, becoming one with the ornate band. The miniature reptile complimented my necklace; and I was content to have it stay there-this inheritance of Noah’s.

No one noticed my strange adornment as I left the diner, or if they did none were foolish enough to say so. Most people have the good sense to let the strange go about their own business. We are a morose lot, given to violence and savagery-so the rumors say. I say we are the ones with the strength to smash the mirrors we look into and see our true face; and have the courage to not lie about it by hiding behind pretenses. The strange are not predominately Evil, anymore than the pre-fab normies are internally Good. I have a relentless curiosity concerning all people. It is the reason Noah was my friend.

I don’t withhold myself from people who are different. I take from people who are evil; I take whatever their measly, concealed morality holds for me. I take and I spend-Call me the Robin Hood of Morality, I care not.

I walked along my city streets lost in my roving thoughts. This man with the tattooed face preoccupied me. I still felt the hate smoldering behind his heavy-lidded pale eyes. Little energy would be garnered from such a malignant soul, but that is my way, and I was robbing this killer for Noah’s sake.

Reaching the western side of the city, the air seemed stifling with the factory’s acrid smokestacks billowing their refuse in the backdrop, wafting through the neglected shells of apartment buildings and businesses. Winding through the decrepit streets, I found the enigmatic Metamorphoses sunken back amongst the tiresome half-abandoned factories. Some of its letters were limp, and slightly off kilter, lending it an artistic flair as if planned instead of sloth. The metallic pollution wafted stronger here, settling on skin and clothing, permeating every crevice and crease of the district, and I imagined, within the whoring club.

Two large dark-haired Neanderthals manned the entrance, surveying all who entered with cold indifference. Such would not be the case with me, an unknown exotic from the bowels of the city. I paused before them allowing the scrutiny of their pierced eyebrows, and noses that would take from me my scent to analyze for undercover law enforcement that tried on occasion to crack the establishment. The slighter of the two cocked his head and drew heavily on his self-rolled cigarette pinched between tar-stained fingertips.

"Must be new to these parts, Dove. Haven’t seen you around."

I met his squinting eyes without blinking. "I travel a lot. First time out on the town in a while, and first time here," I allowed this to digest in their mind before adding, "This place comes highly recommended by ‘Harp’."

The suspicious nature of the two fled, and suddenly they were two good buddies. The silent bulk of the other held out a pack of Camel non-filters with renewed interest glittering in his gray eyes. I took the offered cigarette as the chatty-one flickered his lighter to my lips before the other could swing his around. Good old ‘Harp’. It pays to have a broad spectrum of friends.

"Name’s Zeno," the one who lit my cigarette proclaimed, as if I should take note, "This here," he pointed to the larger camel-smoking brut, "Is Philippe."

I read the fine print in his voice: I am the brains and clout of this operation, best to familiarize yourself with me.

"I am Kami," I lied, using the ancient Japanese term for superior power, and if he’d bothered to read my tone it would’ve said: I don’t care for pompous assholes.

"Welcome Kami," the one called Philippe said, smiling with greedy gnarled teeth. "I like your necklace." He reached out to touch the no longer sleeping serpent, but yanked it swiftly away as it opened its jaws wide in sibilant warning.

"Sorry," I replied. "With just about everything, the smaller species tend to have more verve. I should’ve curbed his attitude while I had the chance…but they’re so damned cute when they’re hatchlings, you know?"

I was having a bit of fun with these guys so I carried it further than I normally would have. "Good thing he didn’t bite you-these asps are deadly-the hospital probably doesn’t have any anti-venom in stock."

Zeno and Philippe slid backwards as if I’d just casually mentioned I had leprosy. I choked back laughter at their ignorance of not being able to recognize the difference between the asp and the harmless black racer.

"Nice to meet you guys," I called over my shoulder, walking into the dimly lit parade of society’s outcast.

Inside I allowed my eyes to adjust to the dark and flashing lights. Like most underground clubs, it possessed a central dance area; the perimeters of which were all smaller rooms that wove maze-like throughout the multi-floored structure. Laughing candlelight flickered in some, while others were cloaked in whispering darkness, labored breathing, and the squeak of rusting box springs. The smell of heated glass, synthetic chemicals, and earthy-sweet grass lingered at every intersection of doors. Sweat-soaked bodies careened and slithered past me bringing the smell of exhausted liquor to my nostrils as my friend bobbed his head nudging my chin in hisses.

I pressed on as faces ricocheted from all sides of my vision. None resembling the hideous man I sought. Tracing my path back to the bar, I ordered a Jack and Coke, wondering at the sins of alcohol when this place castled so much more.

Sugary bite of alcohol down the back of my throat as my eyes followed the skeletal steel fire escape up the inside wall to the third floor. This floor must be an exclusive level I thought, noticing that most shied away from it, sitting at the base of the stairs or propping up against it. A dungeon loft, how banal, thinking of the Industrial Clubs of Hong Kong and Beijing and the marked risk of any staircase or door therein. A ravenous spider lurked in every parlor in the East, while in the West, well, those that dared scurried off in fright of its own mewling shadow, unprepared and showing its cowardly-pale underbelly.

A couple with rainbow hair and pierced bottom lips ceased their intimate conversation, warning me with their eyes as I commenced up to the second level and on to the third.

Reaching up, I placed my fingers against the blue stone, waiting for a pulse to affirm my instincts. If I held the image of Graffiti-face in my mind the stone would hone in on him. It was my compass of evil. Earlier, when I’d thought of using the green stone with the blue, it was so Noah’s spirit could converse with me; perhaps lead me to his killer. To do that his spirit would have had to remember what befell him-not something I wanted to put him through.

But perhaps the real reason: the body itself becomes animated and perverse, with no semblance of its prior inhabitant. The seamless joining of body and spirit is forever torn upon death. I used the stones together only in dire emergency or need. Unpredictable and radical results were always a possibility when merging stones. It was best to use them individually; their power was harnessed that way.

Another colossal man-specimen stood at the landing of the third floor, arms akimbo, stern and imposing, thoroughly enjoying his job as gatekeeper to the uppertrash echelon.

I smiled as wicked and innocently beguiling as I knew how. I stepped beyond him, only to feel his massive hand around my forearm, halting my progress.

My lips parted and I resisted the urge to knock his hand away as images of violence he perpetrated leapt in front of my eyes, the green stone once again showing the moral character of my victim. Tsk tsk, I thought. I was hungry and he’d do nicely. Looking up at his great height I feigned surprise.

His grip loosened but didn’t release my arm. "You shouldn’t be up here if you’re not a member."

I relaxed, pressing my breast against his arm, and whispered huskily so that he’d have to lean forward to hear me. "What do I have to do to become a member?"

A grin spread on his face and he looked around. Sliding my fingers up to the stones I removed the red one, my eyes never losing contact with his. I led him effortlessly to the dark corner away from his station. Moistening his lips, he grasped my shoulders as I pressed the stone to his back, holding him immobile.

The energy didn’t flow; it spurted like thick hot oil, ceasing for a second or two before trickling once more. The corrupt housed very little conscious humanity, and mostly I had to dig for it through the compost of their deeds.

I finished feeding and he slid to the floor, lifeless and a menace no longer. If my bane was to murder only the morally diseased and psychotic, in my mind, I could do and practice much worse. Refreshed, I replaced the stone and continued down the narrow halls, listening for sound both in the corridor and the cerulean stone. The paltry energy I had just consumed made my scalp tingle, and my senses hone.

The door was ajar I saw, and the blue stone pulsed frantically along with the artery along side it. Peering into the room I saw Noah’s murderer. His feet were kicked up on the open windowsill as he reclined in a battered metal folding chair. His head pitched back as he held the syringe to the inside of his elbow, already he was feeling the incredible rush from the marinated white liquid, as his legs twitched and his head rolled side to side. A grimace of a smile played on his stretched lips.

I crept into the room unmindful of the creaking door as a smile overtook my face to find my quarry in such a vulnerable position. It was to be his last euphoric episode and I found the polar opposites of what he would experience this night to be curiously engaging.

The Celtic designs on his face, the curling and lattice, could have been artistically beautiful if the mangled flesh had not encompassed such an evil. I stood there gazing upon his drug-quaking body, repulsed and fascinated. I didn’t do the drug scene, but what I was viewing was close in nature to my feeding ritual-the rawness, the overt ecstasy of wave after wave of pleasure. Suddenly it was too much to have any connection however minute with this murderer of innocents.

I grabbed the man about the neck with one hand reaching for the red stone with the other. Panicked, his eyes flew open and he garbled grotesquely, spittle flying and spewing as he grabbed at my hand around his neck.

I underestimated his strength, whether it was drug influenced or adrenaline. I found myself sprawled upon the unyielding floor, the stone clattering away along the concrete. Looking about anxiously, I sighted its beacon-glow against the far wall behind him.

With my hands before me, I thought of kicking out, but as soon as I moved his leg swept mine out from under me as I found the hard floor once again. Along my scalp and biting, I felt the heavy rings he wore as his fingers entwined in my hair. Incredible strength twisted my defiant body until my back was against his chest, and it was then I felt the cold steel of the blade between my shoulders.

But the terror-slowly leaching my strength-stood in the halls of my mind, replaying his vicious deeds, although my eyes were wide and open. Here, at my back, the same murderous knife that spoke to me in pictures of soft-eyed deer, angry thrusts, and equally defenseless vagrants; compliments of the green stone as I tried to block the sight of Noah’s pleading eyes and forgiving hands before his spirit took flight.

"Who sent you?" he grunted.

I gasped as he pressed the blade point into my back and I felt the tip embed itself in my skin.

"No one."

"You lying bitch." Wrenching my arms, he pronounced each syllable like drops in a rain bucket, "One more time…who sent you?"

He removed the blade from my back and I watched as he brought it toward my throat. Flailing and useless, I stared. This is how Noah felt. Razor edge to puncture life’s thin skin. And I then claimed the emotion as my own, not quite relenting-but drained to the limits of my frustration. I felt the blade pierce my neck as he screamed, dropping the knife to the floor.

He stared in disbelief at the dual puncture wounds on the back of his hand. My friend, it seemed, didn’t care for all shiny objects. I dropped and rolled to the wall, picking up my red stone and cast it in his direction where it bound him where he stood. Stunned, I watched as a red mist billowed from his ears, eyes and nose. The necklace urged me forward. I felt its pull as I obeyed and placed my hands against the mist escaping from the man’s openings, felt the mist enter my own body and my thirst devour it.

Moments later I looked down at the dead man, for the first time my thirst quenched by one corrupt soul. One demon soul-and I rejoiced, finding I rather enjoyed the odd delicacy of Demon decay and antiquity. Replacing the red stone, still aglow with shards of energy, back into the filigree of the necklace. I turned to exit the room, smiling a touch too wide for such a harrowing escape. But then I was content, my battle had been won; my mission completed as promised, and, Noah’s brimstone had just become my own.

©2002 Susanne S. Bridenbaugh