We are outside on the sidewalk when her friends spot us. People are filing out of the club and they are forced to zig zag through the crowd. The blonde approaches with the skinny guy, Clarice had called Mason, in tow.

        “Clare, there you are! We wondered where you snuck away to,” the blonde gushes. “Who’s the guy?”

        “This is Billie. He’s one of my oldest friends.” Clare interlaces her arm with mine.

She does it so casually it is like eleven years were never lost between us. I feel a rush of pride course through my veins. My back straightens the tiniest bit. I imagine this is what it would have felt like walking into homecoming with her at my side.  

“Hey,” the blonde says. “I’m Grace. This is Mason.”

Mason steps forward, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you, man.”

His arm is filled in with intricate tattoos and his fingers are adorned with various silver rings. I unhook my arm from Clare’s and return the gesture. A small smile plays on Mason’s lips, accompanied by the slightest narrowing of his eyes. It’s clear he isn’t happy to meet me; just happy I am no longer attached to Clare.

I fall back to Clare’s side consumed by the uncontrollable urge to sling my arm around her waist and pull her close to me. This tattooed nobody couldn’t possibly know Clare the way I do. I knew her back when she was Clarice. Before all the dark eyeliner, piercings and black. But why had she changed the way she looked? Did she do it because she was trying to fit in with Grace and Mason? Maybe I didn’t know her as well as I thought. Who was I kidding? I didn’t even know she preferred to be called Clare now.    

“We were going to have a night cap at my place. You guys in?” Clarice asks.

“Duh,” Grace says.

Mason nods.

Clare lives in a one-bedroom apartment above a pizza place two blocks from The Den. She claims it’s horrible for her diet. The warm scent of garlic and cheese rising through the floor boards gives her horrible cravings. I must admit, that even at 1:15a.m., the scent of pizza still lingers.

The apartment is small and old. Much like her wardrobe, Clare has chosen black as the main color scheme. There are gothic touches to the apartment: dark colored candles, skulls, a vase of decaying roses. But there are also signs of life: a bowl stocked with fresh fruit, a reusable water bottle by the sink, her laptop left open on the counter.

We are seated around her coffee table. Grace is sprawled across the arm chair. I am on the loveseat by myself. Mason had jumped for the spot next to Clare on the couch. Cards are spread out before us. A game of rummy abandoned. We’d been side tracked with conversation and booze. I don’t drink often, and my head already feels woozy as I crack open another beer.

“Ooh, I have an idea,” Grace announces. “Let’s play Never Have I Ever!”

“Wow, how original, Grace. Are you sure you don’t want to play Truth or Dare while we’re at it? Maybe tell ghost stories, make friendship bracelets and braid each other’s hair,” Mason mocks.

Clare elbows him. He uses the opportunity to laugh and inch himself closer to her. Their thighs are nearly touching. I gulp down half my beer.

“Truth or Dare isn’t a bad idea, Mason. But we all know you’re chicken shit,” Grace muses. “Anyway, you all know the game. We hold up three fingers and take turns saying things we’ve never done. If you’ve done it, drop a finger and take a drink.”

“Fine. But let’s keep this interesting,” Mason says. “Loser takes a shot.”

“You’re on,” Clare challenges.

I smile doing my best to conceal my growing uneasiness. In my twenty-nine years, I have never played a game like this.

“I’ll start,” Grace declares. “Never have I ever kissed a girl.”

“Come on, Grace. Not fair. That is a deliberate attack,” Mason insists while lowering his ring finger, throwing an unintentional peace sign.

I also lower a finger. I may not have played drinking games, but I have been with a woman. We dated for a few months after I left my hometown. I take another sip of beer. The bottle is almost empty.  

To my surprise, Clare also lowers a finger. “What?” she declares to the room, a pink blush spreading across her cheeks. “It was college.”

 “Your turn, Billie,” Grace announces.

        My heart accelerates. I take a sip of my drink desperate for their eyes to be off me. What could I say I’ve never done? Never have I ever taken a life. Nope. Couldn’t say that, could I? I take another large swig of beer draining the bottle. Say something, Billie… anything. “Never have I ever… um…” My eyes lock with Clare’s. “Gone to college.”

        All their fingers drop and they each groan before sipping their drinks.

        “That was a good one,” Grace says.

        “Okay, I’ve got one,” Clare gushes. “Never have I ever tried coffee.”

        “Shut up,” Grace yells. “There is no way that’s true.”

        “I swear. I’ve never tried the stuff.” She laughs. “I knew I’d get you guys with that one. It’s my secret weapon.”

        She was right. Each of our fingers drop. I’m forced to crack open another bottle. My buzz dangerously straddling the line of drunk.

        Grace huffs. “Kissed a girl, but never tried coffee my ass,” she mutters.

        “It’s official,” Mason announces. “I’m going to buy you a coffee tomorrow morning.”

        “No way. The stuff looks vile and it’s addictive.”

        “I promise you’ll like it.” He reaches his arm behind her letting it rest around her waist.

Clare lets him leave it there a moment before scooting forwards to the edge of the couch. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” She angles towards him. “Come on, badass. Your turn. Each of us have only one finger left. You have the opportunity to end this right now.” She shows him her middle finger.

“Very funny.” Mason reclines back, scratching his head. “Give me a minute.”

It appears Mason is having as hard of time as I did. I steal another quick sip from my beverage. The room sways slightly. I haven’t had a buzz like this in years. It’s kind of fun. I peer around the room and almost explode with laughter. We all look ridiculous. Each of us hinged forward in anticipation, a single index finger raised in front of our faces. Our eyes narrowed in concentration as if the world’s existence depends on the words that will come out of Mason’s mouth. Maybe there’s a chance I could win this silly game after all.

“Never have I ever,” Mason begins.

“Come on, Mason. We’re not getting any younger,” Grace teases.

“Had a stepparent.”

I feel the spit stick in the back of my throat as an image of Frank surfaces. He is standing with his bulging belly, his beard unkept and eyes wild. “Your mother’s a whore, Billie.” I glance around the living room. I am the only one to put a finger down. The only child of a broken family. I have lost.

“Woot,” Mason shouts. “I gotcha, Billie!”

I don’t like the way he says my name. He says it just like Frank always did, emphasizing the ‘ie’ with patronizing contempt.

“Shot, shot, shot,” Grace and Mason begin cheering in unison.

Clare leans forward, pouring tequila into a shot glass. For the first time I notice a tattoo on the inside of her forearm. I can just make out the words: never forget who you really are. Mason nudges the brimming shot glass towards me, his eyes gleaming. It’s a challenge, I realize.  

I snatch the glass from the coffee table, tilt my head back and toss the liquid down my throat. The alcohol burns as it connects with the sensitive flesh. My eyes return to Mason’s as I slam the shot glass back down.

Challenge accepted.

Grace and Clare cheer and clap. I smile but don’t like the way the room is tilting. My stomach, filled with a mixture of beer, gin and tequila, grumbles. The hunger, I managed to suppress earlier through sheer will power, is returning in full force. I need to leave.

   My hands are braced against the love seat ready to push myself to a stand when Grace jumps to her feet. The alcohol seems to have imposed the opposite effect on her. She is filled with energy whereas I feel like a limp plant that someone forgot to water. “Anyone up for a late-night meal? We could walk to Carl’s Diner. Pancakes sound amazing,” she gushes.

“I’m in,” Mason adds. “What about you, Clare?” He nudges her elbow.

Her arms are now crossed in front of her chest, her tattoo hidden. “I’m pretty hungry too,” she says. “I’m in if Billie is?”

I turn to look at her. Sure, I’m starving. What they don’t understand is what I’m hungry for. My stomach grumbles at the thought of it. Control yourself, Billie You can fight this. You can be a normal twenty-nine-year-old man.

“Please say you’ll come,” Clare says, a hint of pleading in her voice.  

All it takes is one flash of those blue eyes and I can’t stand to disappoint her.

###

        Carl’s Diner is empty aside from a pair of truckers at an adjacent table. We are squeezed into a booth with splitting faux leather seats and smudges of dried maple syrup. This time I beat Mason, sliding in next to Clare. Grace sits across from me. Mason next to her. My stomach lets out an obnoxious rumble. I wonder if the others can hear it.

        “I’ll have the monster pancakes please,” Grace chimes to the waitress who has appeared at our table.  

        “From the kid’s menu?” The waitress asks, removing the pencil from behind her ear. She is an older woman, her face hardened with wrinkles. Her bottle-blonde hair sits in a ponytail atop her head. If it was a different decade, she would have a cigarette dangling from her lips.

        Grace nods eagerly, the buzz of tequila and beer swirling behind her brown eyes.

        “I’ll take the same,” Clare blurts. Her gaze meets Grace’s and they burst into laughter understood only between them.  

        Both Mason and the waitress roll their eyes. “And for you two?” she asks.

        “I’ll take the bacon and cheese omlette with a side of home fries,” Mason dictates.

        “And I’ll just have a coffee. Black,” I add.

The waitress folds up her note pad and walks away in a hurry. Working in an all-night diner, I imagine she is used to dealing with drunks like us. She had that no-nonsense attitude that is common among waitresses. Her only regret is probably not telling us to go fuck ourselves and sober up.  

        “Billie, you’re not getting any food? Aren’t you starving?” Clare asks.

        “I’m okay,” I lie.

        When the waitress returns balancing our plates in the crook of her arm, the smell makes me nauseas. She slides a steaming mug of coffee towards me and food in front of the others.

        “This is too cute,” Grace squeals.  

        I glance at the girl’s plates and understand the relevance of monster pancakes. An enormous pancake is decorated with two banana slices for eyes and chocolate chips for pupils. A whip cream mouth is lined with fangs of strawberry slices and used again to represent horns. The sight is almost comical. Two grown women decked out in black, dark eyeliner and piercings appreciating such a childish gimmick. I want to smile but my hunger is too persistent. It sounds as if a thunderstorm is taking place inside my abdomen.

        Mason steals a strawberry fang from Clare’s pancake. I imagine myself leaping across the table, pinning him to the ground and tearing his goddamn throat out as blood explodes onto my face in a hot stream.

Sweat forms on my palms. What would they say if they knew my secret? Would they explode with shrill screams? Would they point their fingers in accusation condemning me a murderer? They could never understand I need to take another’s life to live. Not even Clare would be able to come to terms with what I’ve become. This is the tragic life of a monster. I am nothing like the silly pancakes that stare back at them with their lifeless chocolate pupils and strawberry fangs.  

        My stomach gurgles. I cannot think clearly. My head is still foggy with intoxication. Hold it together, Billie. You can do this. But my assurances are pointless. The Other has woken. The bottomless pit filled with jagged edges and sharp teeth will not lay dormant until it is fed.

        “I’ve got to go,” I announce. “I’m sorry. I’m… I’m not feeling well.”

        Clare’s hand jutes out latching onto my thigh. “Will you be okay getting home?”

        I nod, but my mind is not concerned with getting home. My mind is consumed with the need to feed. I throw a wave to the others. Billie wants to hug Clare and say goodbye or at least gently squeeze the hand that is still resting on my thigh. But the Other has another idea. The Other wants me to pull away from Clare, and if she tries to stop me, it wants me to tear her arm from its socket  

        I free myself from the booth and bolt for the exit. A rush of cool air slaps me in the face. I realize I forgot to pay for my coffee. The Other shuts me down, reminding me it doesn’t matter. My feet feel unsteady. The world shaky. Focus. I need to make my way to the woods into the safety of the trees. My eyes dart around the quiet city and land on the face of a man. He walks by without a glance. I want to go left, away from Concord, but the Other commands me forward.

        “Excuse me,” I hear myself shouting, the words leaving my mouth without my permission.

        The man pauses and turns towards me. “What’s up, man?”

        I can hear the slur in his voice. Just another guy out enjoying a Saturday night. “You dropped your wallet.”

        “Really?” he asks.

The Other advances forward.

The man is patting his pockets, his eyes glazed with confusion. “No, it’s right he—”

I seize him by the throat, my other hand stifling his protests. I force him into the alleyway behind Carl’s Diner. A rat scurries away and the smell of wet dumpster fills my nostrils. My fingers graze the edge of the razor blade in the back pocket of my jeans. I usually snap their necks. It isn’t fair they should suffer. But the Other doesn’t share my morals. Do it. Do it, now, it commands. The razor blade slashes out, slicing into the meat of the man’s neck. He reaches for his throat in a poor effort to stop the bleeding. The Other is already there, lips curled around the wound, lapping up the warm liquid. The Other remains latched on even as the man collapses to his knees and then the pavement. It isn’t until the man’s body gives a final twitch that the Other is satisfied and retreats.  And here I am—alone, kneeling over the corpse of a stranger with blood around my lips.    

Next Chapter: Chapter 10