A terrifying cold and absolute darkness. The clinking of metal clashing. A figure clad in black armor. And the sensation of being burned alive. These were the things that dominated my nightmares that first night together.
It was around four in the morning when I woke up, sweating and gasping. I sat on the bed and looked at my reflection in the mirror ahead. The room was dim, lit only by the faint light coming through the window from the street. My reflection was in the mirror. Just as it had always been. But something was different. Out of place. New.
At first, I tried to ignore that feeling of strangeness. I knew I wouldn't fall back asleep, so I opted for a cold shower to wake up. My mind was foggy, but the way my sore muscles contracted under the cold water was proof enough that last night had been real and not just another nightmare.
With the streets still dark outside, I sat on the couch and stared at the ceiling.
"You're there, aren't you?" "Yes." It was strange. You know when you imagine an object and see it? You see it with your mind, not your eyes. It was like that, but with a voice.
"What are you?" My question was met with silence, no words were spoken, and none were needed. I could feel it. "You... don't know?" "Alone, lost, I was one. Now I am new, I am us." "What do you want from me?" I yelled angrily, bringing my hands to my head. "To survive." "You need a host... you're a parasite." "Not a parasite!" The voice protested irritably and ruminated for a moment, during which I could feel it searching for a word in my memories. "Mutualism... symbiote."
I pondered for a moment before responding. It wasn't lying. What I experienced that night—the enhanced strength, the sharpened senses, the smoothness with which the blade danced through flesh—we were capable of many things together.
"You killed those people." I said aloud, not sure if it was for it or for myself.
"We killed them." The voice retorted in my head, and I didn't have the courage to respond. I could still feel my blood boiling. It was an old feeling, one I knew well, nostalgic and... comforting.
...
Something most of my friends know is that I'm not a New Yorker. Actually, I was born in San Francisco and moved to the Big Apple when I started high school. But I never told them why I moved alone.
My father was an Italian-American, hence my last name, Bacchi, but my mother was Latina, and taking after her, I didn't look anything like the other kids in North Beach. If you think white kids are racist, imagine those with European blood. On the streets and at school, my life was hell. Not a single week passed without me having to fight four or five kids bigger than me. Obviously, I was always hurt, but I never fought back because I knew it would be bad for our family's image, even if it wasn't for those jerks' families.
Everything got worse when my father died and our financial situation tightened. He always tried to protect me and integrate our family into the community, but without him, all the fake sympathy from people ended. Adults snubbed my mother, and kids physically attacked me.
That's when I snapped. One of the neighborhood boys cornered me alone in an alley near home. Then, everything turned red, just like last night. Years of repressed anger took over. My body trembled and burned with flames. When it was all over, my hands were red, just like the boy's face.
We moved less than a week later. My mother sent me to a special boarding school here in New York. Years passed, and I managed to stay out of trouble and got into Empire State University. But that day, that feeling of adrenaline and the heat of battle never left me.
...
Standing in front of the bedroom mirror, I watched as the dark mass of the symbiote oozed from my pores and covered my body in that dark uniform.
"There was someone else there last night." "What?" It replied, confused.
"A woman. She was being attacked, and you saved her, didn't you?" I asked seriously.
"The guy just seemed to taste better."
"Disgusting," I muttered with a weak laugh. "But you know..." I pondered over our reflection in the mirror. "Together, I think we can find a... healthy way to channel our violent impulses."