The glittering lights of Manhattan twinkled red, like bloody stars in the night sky. Now, dressed in the city’s darkness, I could respond to its funeral song, soar out into the night on wings of rage, and enact vengeance on those who deserved it.

“I am Blacklight,” I bellowed into the rank night air, “and the night is mine!”

I leaped from the edge with a laugh and soared down into the degenerate streets below me.

IFIRST REALIZED that there was something poisonous inside me when I was eight years old.

I’d always been cut off from everyone else, the quiet kid building little houses out of wood blocks or driving toy trucks around on my own. My world was what I made it. When being Locke Vinetti was too hard, I could be Indiana Jones or Batman or, fuck, I dunno, Usagi Yojimbo (he’s the bunny from the Ninja Turtles). Even when other kids picked on me, I just kept quiet, no matter how angry I got. There wasn’t any of that after-school-special nonsense about being the one kid who the bullies picked as a goat; I got bullied just as much as anyone; I just didn’t respond to it. Other kids bawled or spat insults or threw punches, which seemed about as effective as not doing anything, and the latter option involved a lot less futile effort. I wondered, later, if maybe that’s how the venom was first birthed-through my silence, through the containment of my anger. Y’know, like Michael Douglas in Falling Down, only without any of the political commentary crap.

Anyway. One day in gym class, a basketball knocked me to the floor mid-layup, landing me right on my tailbone. At first I thought it had just bounced from the backboard to my head, but looking up, I saw three of my classmates baring three hyenas’ grins. I nearly started crying-my head, ass, and pride were in a state of stubborn agony-but if there’s one thing any elementary school kid knows about bullying, it’s that crying is like stapling a KICK ME sign to your forehead.

The second ball hit me in the face. I saw it clear as day: One of them, Tommy Ferraro by name, called out “Yo, Locke!” in a jovial enough tone, and when I turned around, the cretin chest-passed the ball straight into my nose. The world went white, the ground went unreliable, and my nose went gruesome. I touched my face, and once I saw the crimson smear on my palm, the tears just came.

This, as I had predicted, didn’t help the situation. Tommy jabbed one of his little sausage digits at me and brayed, “Oh, wook! He’s gonna stawt cwying! Pwoor baby!” He laughed again and reached for another basketball.

At this point, something just…broke free.

And it was overpowering. Irresistible. It welled up inside me, like tears well up in your eyes-only this thing was pure, liquid hate, anger and rage and depression, all in a physical manifestation. This was no simple emotional response; this was a real, honest-to-God, all-over change. It percolated up in my head, bubbling, bubbling, and then bursting, overflowing. I felt it burning in my veins; every part of my body was so alive, more alive than I’d ever felt it before. And once the feeling, the substantial emotion, had filled me and solidified, it took control. But the worst part about it was that I enjoyed it-Fuck, I loved it. This thing took me in its smooth, warm, black embrace and guided my limbs, and there was something, a voice without any sound or words, soothing and quieting. The insecurity and instability of what was happening seemed to vanish. I didn’t worry about what to do next, because it had been decided for me. Everything fell into its wicked, brutal place, and all was well.

So then I tackled Tommy Ferraro and bit off the tip of his nose.

Now, in the years since it went down, this story has been greatly exaggerated. People have claimed I did everything from bite off his entire nose to spit the piece back at him. Tommy Ferraro himself spouted some ridiculous yarn about me having razor-edged teeth and lapping the blood off my fingers as I rose up off of him. The true story is sort of lost to time-I was somewhere else entirely, Tommy was pretty caught up in the moment, and his friends just stood there stupefied, so all accounts are questionable. The fact remains that I managed to take a small chunk of nose off Tommy’s face with my teeth. He lay back, screaming, clutching his face (which was bleeding far worse than mine was) while I stood over him and barraged him with swear words and monstrous laughter. I know it sounds sadistic, taking the time to stand there and laugh at him, but it all felt so rapturous that I didn’t give it a second thought.

When the teachers finally found us, I was huddled in a corner, a blubbering mess. They kept asking me what was wrong, saying not to worry, Tommy would be fine. I didn’t care about Tommy. Fuck Tommy Ferraro. Even through the weeping and shivering, it never occurred to me that what I had done was wrong; that little cretin got what was coming to him. It was just that once that pure, black energy had gone back into hiding, I was left with the sludgy residue of it. I felt empty, worthless, overexcited, depressed. I wanted to go home and go to bed.

My mother had to get off work to pick me up, which, let me tell you, was a huge pain in the ass. She kept asking me questions about why I did it and whether or not I liked my school. Answering wasn’t an option, as my face was just flushed creases and snot. The minute we got home, I climbed into bed and passed out until ten o’clock the next morning. From what I’ve read and seen in movies, it was like recovering from your first shot of smack: Once that first blinding feeling had run its course, the rest of my body just sort of shut down for recovery. And just like with a drug, the thing that most irked me was how much I adored that raw, powerful feeling, and how deeply sad I was that it was no longer there. The best sensation I’d ever experienced, and the only thing that could spark it off was utter fucking misery.

From that day on, my life was peppered with outbursts of the venom and its sickly influence. Almost overnight I went from easy pickings for the bullies at my school to someone the new kids were warned to stay away from. Circles of whispering kids went silent as the grave when I passed. Which was cool at first, I admit. Like I said, I had never been THE target for torment-you know, That Kid? I wasn’t That Kid-but now I was a social Typhoid Mary. I’d made it clear that I didn’t want to be messed with, and I was left alone. Whenever new kids came by and tried to show how tough they were, I’d have an outburst and they’d go home to their parents, and the next day the school would get an enraged phone call, asking for my head. It was sort of like prison that way, just not with the whole selling-ass-for-cigarettes and the like.

The first time was indicative of the venom’s style, though, and that was definitely a problem. My books would get slapped out of my hands, so I’d whale on the slapper with my backpack. If someone spat in my face, I’d punch ’em in the throat. If someone shoved me into my locker, I’d slam their hand in the door of theirs. People would constantly ask why I had to go “that far” when someone was a bastard to me, and truth be told, I hadn’t the foggiest, because it wasn’t me doing it. Even if I wanted to beat someone down, it wasn’t a simple punch in the nose or a knee to the balls; something uncomfortable and effective. The venom saw things along the lines of nerve clusters and necessities (fingers and eyes, mostly, but basically whatever would be really difficult for someone to have wrapped up for a couple of weeks). The venom liked extremes-the crueler the better. This wasn’t about getting even, it was about causing the worst pain in the weirdest way possible. It was about being unforgettable.

Over the years, I managed to build up some tolerance for the venom. Sure, after an outburst I’d still vibrate and mumble as though I was attending synagogue, but nowhere near as bad as I did that first time. It helped that the vessel for the hate had been expanded: The level of rage has stayed the same, but I’ve grown enough, both physically and emotionally, to be able to deal with it now. The anger was the same, but recovery time shortened significantly. So the venom got creative and started reworking its game plan. Starting around eighth grade, I found out the venom’s other talent: It made me poisonous.