OUTER DEMONS
I'm sitting on the chromed bar with my legs dangling freely. I'd lost my shoes hours ago, all pretension of formality has gone, been cast away by the host himself, the man of the moment, Leon Dupont. And my feet are clad only in my socks, those grey cashmere socks that match my hair that he bought me. I'm not sure I like my hair, it's grey, an old man's colour; but Leon calls it silver, makes it exotic, different, special. My feet are bouncing against the bar as I laugh and play with the cocktail shaker, making ever more elaborate catches. The light reflects strangely from the silver surface of the shaker, it's silver not chrome, never anything as crass as chrome, and as I contemplate this with a dense concentration, the thought occurs to me that I might be just slightly drunk. No, not drunk, maybe slightly tipsy, but not drunk. I've got a little tip for you; if you're ever at a party, be in charge of the drinks, then everyone'll assume that you're drinking just as much as they are. You see the thing is, I'm not all that terribly keen on alcohol, I like it but it doesn't like me terribly much. I drink too much and I get splitting headaches in the morning and there are so many better things I can do in the morning. Yes, those things, dieu, I'm blushing. I'm still not drunk though. I, Jean-Paul Martin, master of the martini (how very droll), am not drunk.
Leon's speaking, I should be paying more attention or he'll be furious, but the shaker is so fascinating, and inside I know I like him when he's angry. Well, not angry, more slightly vexed. Trust me, the sex is wonderful. There, I said it, sexe, sexe, sexe. I think I might just have to revise my opinion. I am drunk. But it's not just that; with everyday that passes I grow more free, more joyful. And I grow under Leon, Leon is my sun and I am a prized plant, so this must be the Quebec Gardening Circle come to admire me. There's a guy at the back of the room who keeps on looking at me, stealing glances, maybe he's a fellow gardener looking to steal Leon's special fertiliser recipe. I don't like the way he's looking at me.
Non, that's just the drink, I've gone and drunk too much and now my mind is babbling on about prize roses and garden fetes, it would be risible if it happened to anyone else, but to me it's disturbing, disorientating. I wobble slightly on top of the bar. I miss the catch and the shaker tumbles to the floor in slow motion. I make no move to rescue it before it hits the floor, even though I can move in the blink of an eye, it's all so very far away, everything's so very far away. I hear the crash of glass inside the silver vessel impossibly loud in the packed room. And I realise everyone's looking at me. Leon's moving towards me. He's worried. His words are muffled and unclear.
Dear God, I'm embarrassing him. I am embarrassing him in front of these gentlemen of the partie, those of them who are of our number, our kind. He had gathered them here to meet his little protégé, to introduce me to société, to make sure I met the right people and made the best start in life. Friendships, acquaintances even, are useful, Leon says, your face remembered halves the work you have to do. And here am I drunk. I've failed him. My heart sinks as if it has hit an iceberg.
Leon, of course, sends all my doubts, all my fears away. The mere look of his eyes, so alive and vital, raises my heart. The excitement's got to me, he tells everyone, it's past my bedtime, I'm not used to being kept up so late. There are a few sniggers, but the look in Leon's eyes reaches out to them, it's not so much a look of worry as one of compassion and care.
And so, I leave the lounge and make my way to our bedroom, to get what rest I can with the party still in full swing and the end not even in sight. I undress slowly and carefully. I stand in my shirt and my socks and go over my waistcoat and trousers with the lint brush. That'll save me a job in the morning. I take out my cufflinks and put them away neatly in their place. I stand amongst the shadows unbuttoning my shirt, letting it fall back towards my skin as I undo each button with slow and meticulous care. I've turned the lights down low, the brightness was beginning to hurt my eyes, and so it takes me a minute to acknowledge the figure silhouetted in the doorway. I should have shut the door, what if somebody sees? I have no cause for alarm, though, as I do not doubt the identity of my visitor,
"Leon. I'm just getting ready for bed. I'm sorry, I think I lost my head out there, there were so many people, not like one of our usual little parties."
There's no answer. I turn to look at the figure in the doorway, there's something strange about it, I screw up my eyes trying to make it out, and my heart skips a beat,
"Excusez moi, but I'm trying to rest, the bathroom's down the corridor."
I try to sound calm and self-assured, it's just some lost party guest, I tell myself, but there's something terribly wrong, he's not holding himself right, he's not confused, he's not lost.
He strides into the room. I can barely see him, I lost my night vision when I stared out into the corridor, I can barely make out a single feature. He's come close and he's pushing me down onto the bed. I'm slow to react. Too slow. His weight is holding me down. Dieu, he's heavy, he's holding me with only one hand. Pushing me down into the bed. I try to squirm, to scream, to do anything; but I'm frozen, frozen still. The brothers… I've seen this before… I thought I'd scream, scream with all I've got, scream until the world shattered into a million pieces… yet I do nothing, can do nothing, except stare in mute fascination as his other hand reaches down towards the brass buckle on his trousers. The light from the corridor bounces off it. The light shifts as he fingers it, as he pulls the long length of black leather loose. As it falls down beside his thighs. It has become my world, my universe, my prison. And still part of me, not entranced by the play of light, the part of me that can still reason and has not given itself over to mute terror, burns at me to shout out, to scream, to do something anything at all, as I watch him far away yet close, pull down the zipper on his trousers and lower himself down closer and place his hand over my mouth…
And my universe explodes. His body slumps onto my chest, my body, and I scream, I scream until I've pushed all the air from my body and the world sparkles like cut glass. Leon is standing over us brandishing a table lamp. A very large brass lamp. I will never mock his taste in interior décor again. I'm trapped under the body, I panic, I desperately wave my arms. And Leon braces himself and rolls the immense weight of me. And then he sits down beside me and I throw myself sobbing into his arms.
I don't know how long I cried, making incomprehensible apologies with every breath, desperately wanting to assuage my guilt, pressing myself into my lover's arms as if to make sure that he wasn't a figment of some cruel dream and the nightmare was about to return. I don't know how long I cried, before I realised there was an audience drawn here by the noise. When the body on the bed moved, I screamed and clutched Leon closer, seeking desperately to hide within his arms.
The body moved off the bed groaning. And my saviour, my hero, spoke
"Get out of my house. Look about. Everyone knows you for what you are. Get out of my house, get out of town, get out and never come back."
And the monster slouched away and I was safe again with my guardian angel to watch over me.
I wasn't safe. Not then. The monster would return and he would bring a gun and my knight in shining armour would fall never to rise again.
I was afraid then, terrified, I'm not now. I am the Northern Star and I bring light wherever I go, and there are no more shadows and no more monsters. Power resonates within every atom of my body. I travel at the speed of light. I am unto a god. And he… he is but a bad dream driven away by the coming dawn and made powerless.
And I am a vengeful god…