Bound Read online

  “She called me an alchemist.” Mike took a swig from his beer, studying the bottle before setting it down on the bar. “She said that I had latent abilities and that I was probably drawn to you like a moth to flame... just from the vibe that you give off.”

  “An alchemist? What like a scientist? I thought you were failing—” Mike held his hand up to stop me while he took another mouthful from the bottle.

  “A different kind of alchemist.” He set his bottle down again. “I can change things by slowing down or speeding up molecules... the basic composition of … everything, dude. It might be easier to show you... Here—”

  He pulled out a quarter from his pocket and passed it to me. I studied it... and didn’t have a clue what the quarter was for.

  “Yeah... It’s a quarter...” I said bleakly.

  Mike held his hand out, gesturing for the coin. “Okay then, bro, watch this” He turned his head to see if any of the patrons were watching. The old bartender was at the other end of the bar pulling a beer from the pumps. Mike looked at me and the coin; I could see his eyes flash green, and the emerald glow bathed his palm as he shook slightly. The coin was still normal, nothing changed, and I could see the concentration intensify on his face. I was about to wise crack when the picture on the coin began to fade. His hand was trembling, and in the next instant, he was cupping a silvery pool on the palm of his hand, like he had swapped the coin for mercury. I prodded the melted mass and squinted at my finger. It was remarkably still cool to the touch. His hand shook slightly more violently, and the emerald glow flickered again. When he turned his hand over the quarter had solidified to the crease in his palm, and lightly pinged off the bar in the odd splodge of metal. I looked up at Mike and was lost for words, for a minute or two, guzzling my beer before speaking.

  “Mike... That is pretty cool!” I was freaking out; Mike had always just been Mike; the laid back stoner who unmercifully flirted with my mom every chance he got. And now he was... well, actually I don't know what he was... an alchoholist or something.

  “It’s Alchemist not alcho—” Mike interrupted me mid-thought...

  “STOP SKULL-FUCKING ME!” I surprised myself at the volume of my voice. The bar's patrons silenced with my outburst and looked on at us. I could feel the quiet voice in my head begin to grow louder with every shameful look I received. I tried to ignore the occupants and not get upset. After all, I did make the scene to begin with. I tried to explain that to the voice in my head. Sometimes controlling my dark passenger’s lust for carnage was unbearable. It was a useless fight.

  “What are they looking at?” I snarled. The bartender, observing what was happening scuttled over from behind the counter. Leaning forward, he turned to me and spoke with a hushed tone.

  “Look, kid, if you can't handle your drink then maybe you should take a hike.” A few of his customers laughed at us. Taking hold of my empty bottle as well as Mike's the bartender huffed and walked off...

  I could feel things in me begin to break and shift... Mike looked at me somewhat perplexed. To top it all off, one of the patrons, who clearly had too much to drink was throwing peanuts at us. Mike’s gaze fixed on me, his eyes turning shades of green.

  Is he challenging me? I shook my head, attempting to lose my thought with the movement. Puberty 2.0 was a bitch; sometimes there would be an occasion where your body would react faster than your brain, and this was one of those occasions. I stood up from my chair, rushing over to the drunk who was throwing peanuts; I snarled, picking him up by the neck. I could feel heat bubbling from my eyes and could guess that they were glowing, angry-amber. Something was different. Everything was washed in a sickly, mahogany glow. Everyone in the bar was radiating in a contrast of colours. Some were letting off a light, brown aura. And the smells... although I can’t really explain it, part of me knew it was the smell of fear. Their bodies produced the acrid scent, and it seeped from their pores, showing their feelings, revealing to me who could be a threat, and who was running scared...

  Their colours shone a vivacious array, branching through the entire spectrum. It was odd how my mind seemed to pick up their feelings from the colour they radiated. The drunk was all kinds of different shades; the scents he gave off were intoxicating and not just because he was wasted. He looked like the Aurora Borealis to me... He was more of my own personal homing-beacon, and I was sure that I could spot him from miles away. My hand twitched, and I squeezed lightly. Groping his wind pipe... the more pressure I produced, the more it made his aura grow fainter.

  Mike approached, putting his hand on my shoulder. I think it was meant to be reassuringly, but I wasn’t sure. It turned out I wasn’t a total empath.

  “Come on, man, he's calling the cops...” Mike was talking about the bartender, but it didn’t encourage me to slacken my grip. My dark passenger and pissy hormones were in control right now. My grip didn't loosen. I could feel what felt like a chuckle escape my lips; it wasn’t my own voice that I heard. As my hand twitched, I began to squeeze harder on the man’s throat; I felt empowered. This man’s life was literally in my hands. There was a smell of blood on the drunkard’s breath from where I was causing internal issues, which was wrapped with a hint of vomit where he had struggled so violently to free himself that he was stupefied. His mouth lolled, and he released his bladder. I wanted to kill him. It was then that I felt something hit my back; at first I thought it was Mike politely tapping me to get my attention, so when I slowly turned to see who wanted me, I was greeted with a chair. It cracked, and snapped like dry twigs, a perfect pile of kindling on the stained floor. Mike shoved aside the drunk’s accomplice, who was screaming something that I couldn't make out. The only sound dominant in my head now was my dark passenger howling with glee. The thu-thump of the drunk’s heartbeat made my mouth salivate with anticipation. Mike rounded on me, trying to make eye-contact. His eyes where pulsating with energy, and I continued to ignore him and smiled wryly at the evermore limp sack of skin that I was holding.

  My attention was finally brought back to, I suppose, normal standings when the bartender pulled out a 12 gauge that he kept behind the bar. He then fired off a warning shot that rippled through my mind, much like a stone being skipped through a pond that produced ripples. He cocked it again, but this time held it firm against his shoulder and aimed it towards me. Pangs of fear snaked through my conscious mind... the human part at least. My grip tightened, the gurgles released were becoming more strained. What was I doing? Was I really willing to die just to teach a drunk a lesson? The red mist or whatever the hell it was that switched me to crazy began to dissipate. I released my grip, and the drunk hit the floor. His legs drew to his chest as his rushed intake of air choked him. He lay in the fetal position, coughing and sputtering. A cry of frustration parted from my chest, and I continued to wrestle with myself. I knew I was losing my humanity. I felt sick to my stomach. Why the hell would I flip out like a hot-headed jock? I was drunk with the feelings that flooded through me, the feel of his fragile skin beneath my fingertips, his aura... I wanted to end his life, not out of hate or need to eat... I just wanted to feel his life flicker and fade. I was becoming more... sadist than animal. I pinned my hands to my side, keeping myself from reaching over and shredding the quivering wreck. I could tell that the last few moments of his life had been sobering...

  I hadn't noticed at the time that Mike had been on his cell phone. The bartender was arguing with him as he shut his cell phone. We turned to the bar door as it swung open, police officers stormed in, and Mike shook me, trying to make me move. I didn't want to. Something was wrong with me, and I knew I deserved whatever the law enforcement would dish out.

  I couldn't believe that I thought that I had control; the discussions that I had with Jessica... Lycaon was just as much to blame for letting me go... I thought I was under control... I shook my head with the indignation of it all. How could I have been so stupid to think that the brief training I had with Lycaon was enough? I had so much pent up rage, still b
ubbling within me, now more blatantly directed at myself. One of the police officers called out to me, gesturing for me to get onto the ground. I chose to lie down in a submissive state as they dashed across the room, closing the space between us. One of them attempted to roll me onto my front and put my hands in cuffs, I obliged them.

  “What about your family, your mom?” Mike’s cry was barely audible thanks to the bedlam that was taking place. I couldn’t answer.

  What about my mom? I couldn't do anything for her. The more I tried to help, the more I, or someone close to me got hurt. The officer who cuffed me continued to read me my rights as if I were listening.

  I was shaking, all that progress I thought I had accomplished, all the sparring, and the training; I guess I shouldn't have agreed to it in the first place. I was cursed. I hoped that they would lock me up for a long time. The fear and tears still spilled from the human on the floor, still rasping for air, wheezing in-between breaths. The other officer was checking over his vitals, trying to reassure him, moving him slightly. It was an attempt to make him as comfortable as possible, while they waited for the ambulance to arrive. His eyes never left my own; he didn't blink, just stared, tears rolled down his face. More police officers stormed into the bar, helping to lift me and drag me to the squad car. Mike had disappeared. I didn't blame him for bailing; I guess in hind-sight it turns out going for a drink was a bad idea.

  The scene kept on replaying in my head. My stomach flipped over, and its contents came to the surface, spewing over top of the curb outside. I didn’t think I was the type of guy to turn my back on everything important to me, but then again, it wasn’t that long ago that I thought I was just like every other grumpy teenager. I guess I didn’t even know myself, yet.

  The drive to the station was quiet, the officer's radio was crackling on and off with other codes being called out. None of it meant anything to me; I was still mortified with what transpired in the bar. I needed to get myself under control and where better than a locked prison cell. There were a few exchanged glances between the officers, looking back toward me as the squawking on the radio continued. Neither I nor the officers were interested in making small talk. I could see that the one sitting shotgun was in his late thirties-early forties; he had a ridiculous, ginger-tinted, handlebar moustache with his thinning crop, of hazel hair. It made him look... really distinct. In the few moments that I spent standing next to him, I could tell that he was also below average height, with a thin wiry build. His eyes were a dark brown and the frown lines on his forehead were so deeply set that they looked like they were there for irrigation purposes. His jowly cheeks made him slightly resemble a British bulldog. I think what was so off about his appearance was that with his narrow face and pointed chin, large moustache and balding head, he was a doppelganger for Yosemite Sam. I guess I was fortunate that he wasn’t as trigger happy. I wish I could say that his partner was Elmer Fudd, but unfortunately, all I could make out from the back of his head was that he had neatly trimmed black hair, and from the brief glimpses of his face, his nose was pointed and low, drooping and set with the rest of him. He just looked depressed.

  My stomach swilled around, and I could feel all kinds of conflicting hormones duke it out internally, and yet my dark passenger was silent. Like it had messed up my life enough that it had now left me. Leaving me to my fate, and if that was the case, then I was more than happy to see it go. Shit, since I had begun changing, all it had done was complicate things to a whole other level with me. One minute I was running, and the next I was unconscious. That was pretty much the pattern of late. Images came to my head of Tristan in his last moments. I was responsible for that, too. If I hadn’t met up with the Winters, they wouldn’t have been forced into the conflict with Kaitlyn. So much blame fell on my shoulders, and losing it in that bar only proved to me how out of control I was. If I lost control in my transformed state like that, I would be as much of a threat to an ally as I would be to any other. This trail of thought kept me occupied all the way to the police station.

  The Police station's décor did not fit in with the surrounding buildings. This place looked like it was a decade old if that. The masonry work was a pale grey, and there were some dark stains in places. I'm guessing it was to be expected in this quaint little mining town. The front, double doors were closed with the badge of authority stamped on the window. Yosemite Sam helped me from the squad car, and led me up the four steps to the entrance. I think I was still in shock. Walking through the front door, the glow of the fluorescents stung my eyes, their constant whirring buzzed in my ears. An officer called Tucker ominously approached the front desk. Great... was I going to get sentenced there? He looked up at me, pushing some wire-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose; he looked like he was coated with sweat. The apparent walking to the desk and climbing a step had tired the portly officer. Tight cropped curls were neatly arranged on his scalp, and he had what looked like a mustard stain on his tie with three chevrons on his arm. My guess, he spent all his time neatly arranging his curls and eating, rather than walking. His face was bloated and pale, and his eyes were deeply set back in their sockets.

  “Hey, Neil, lem’me guess... Another kid that couldn't handle his hooch, huh?” Yosemite Sam, or Neil if you prefer, snorted and nodded in compliance. So this was the infallible police wit that I had heard of... No wonder criminals got away with so much.

  “Yeah this one kicked up a stir in John's place; He assaulted Biggs over an undisclosed matter. He was probably shouting his mouth off again. The kid himself hasn't been any problem. In fact, he ain't spoken a word since we picked him up... He was sick before getting into the car though, so drink is definitely involved.—”

  “Yeah I thought it was the case; what about the other guy? John said he walked into the bar with a friend.” The larger officer dabbed at his mouth, drool had peaked out while he was talking. It was either something to do with facing down whilst talking, or we looked good enough to eat... I was hoping it was the first, as the latter... Well, I am not inclined to let myself get eaten. I have watched enough Romero flicks to know better.

  “We didn't see him; he must've run off. Smart friend though, don’t cha think?'“

  It was disconcerting at how comfortable they talked about me as if I weren't there. I should have been relieved at the reprieve, but I don't think they took the situation as seriously as I had hoped they would have. I heard a grunt come from inside my thoughts, like someone was eavesdropping on my mental conversation. I turned to see who was watching. It was still the same police officers. Another rumble rippled through my mind, sending tremors to my nerve endings. I clenched my fists. The realization dawned on me. I recognized the pitch; it was my dark passenger. I guess he was developing more of a consciousness than I had realized. Well, at least I was in the best place I could think of, locked up like an animal in the zoo where I could do no harm to others. I coasted along in my trail of thought; for a while I hadn’t noticed that their conversation had ended, and they were waiting for me to answer. Sluggishly I slurred, not out of intoxication but out of weariness. I wanted to sleep.

  “S-sorry what?” I asked timidly.

  “I said, kid, what's your name, and where do you live? Neil shoulda asked you at the bar, but apparently you weren't talking much.”

  I gave them my details and had to confirm three times that I lived in Canada. The officer’s expression looked bleak. I would have understood if I said Tokyo or Timbuktu...

  “Where again?” I tutted and repeated. This has to have been the third time that I have had to repeat myself in the last however many days. I thought Kingston was heard of well enough. Hell there is even a song called Kingston Town... Alright so maybe that song is about Kingston Town in Jamaica, but still. I sighed.

  “Neil, could ya take him back into lock-up? I'll check his details.” Yosemite's face was a lot paler than it had been, probably just the fluorescents; everyone looked pasty and ill under them. Tucker remained where he was, thumbing over
his nose and continued squinting at his computer screen as he nudged his glasses up.

  “So, kid, what brings you out to this neck of the woods?” Yosemite was attempting to make small talk now, making up for lost time in the car my guess. I really wasn't in a sharing mood though, and so simply told him that I was out visiting friends in the area. He seemed unconvinced. Another officer approached; he was tall and blonde with a sickly set of pale blue eyes, and one of those bum chins... He nodded to the Looney Toon, pulling out a set of keys and walked me over to the cell door. Yosemite yawned and shuffled back to the front desk where his partner was now waiting. I could hear the desk clerk squawking on the phone to somebody about me. He had to repeat my name and address several times. I caught my breath as I looked into the cell, the whole point of me being in here was to be by myself, out of harm’s way so to speak. There wasn’t... I was being led to a holding cell with three other inmates. They whispered to each other as we approached; one of them had a tattoo on his forehead that said “mug”. It had to of been the funniest tattoo that I had ever seen. His head was bald and gleamed under the lights. He wore a white tee-shirt that had blood stained around his collar. His gaze locked onto my own, and he sneered with contempt.

  Great, I thought to myself, put me in with a bunch of “mugs”, that's a brilliant idea. A snort escaped from my chest. I could feel my passenger poise itself, ready to unleash and attack. Just brilliant, one of the reasons I flipped in the bar was from people looking at me funny. I wanted to slap myself out of my mental slump, but I couldn't without breaking out of the restraints. I asked the officer if I could have my own cell; I didn't think it was a good idea. The inmate laughed and jeered, making kissing noises. The others joined in. The cops simple answer was no.

  “Hey, boys, be gentle with the fresh meat, he's scared you’re going to hurt him.” The inmate practically sung. My step faltered, and I nudged the officer. I felt like it was my first day in kindergarten, and I was asking my mom to take me home. It was the longest thirty minutes of my life. As soon as the officer pushed me in the cell, I quickly backed up toward a wall and sat on a bench. The other guys crowded around me, the mouthy one from before was trying to provoke a response out of me. He was calling me really nice things like a “faggoty-assed bitch”, and saying that my mom “should have aborted me.” Really nice stuff. I just gritted my teeth and ignored him; reciting to myself a song I remembered from The Black Eyed Peas, Where is the Love? Saying the lyrics, for one it always cheered me up; besides, it was better than listening to the wannabe Shawshank group spouting abuse toward me.