Love was the cure all along. It’d be disgustingly predictable if it wasn’t so great.

Then there’s the party.

The door booms open, and the city skyline glows around me. My coat flutters in the rooftop breeze, but I barely notice.

“Where’d this…what is…”

Casey slaps me on the back. “Told you this’d be worth your while.”

The rooftop, lit by the harsh fluorescent glow of nearby Times Square, is covered with artists. Kids dressed like redneck circus performers scamper across the concrete, spraying tags and slathering canvases. Great swaths of poster paper have been laid out and thoroughly marked. Every place I look, someone is creating, illustrating, building. The whole process moves at a steady rhythm. No one takes a break; they just move from one strange emotional expression to another. The whole thing makes me think of an ant colony.

Off to the side stands a table covered with bottles. I ask Renée and Casey about it. When Casey informs me it’s the bar, Renée and I decide that we have our work cut out for us.

As we’re mixing up White Russians, Randall appears beside us and mumbles, “What’s up, guys?”

Renée gives him a huge bear hug. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in ages!”

Randall shrugs and says something about it only being a few weeks, which isn’t that long. There’s something wrong with him tonight, I can tell. He’s not in his normal master-of-ceremonies mode, but instead looks like I normally do at parties, shifting his weight constantly and glancing around with a severe look on his face. After a little small talk, Renée kisses me and excuses herself to hug and chatter with a massive raver-looking guy who has glowsticks somehow braided into his dreadlocks (classy). I turn to Randall and smile.

“Are you okay, man?”

He shakes himself off a bit and shrugs. “I’ll be fine.”

“That statement right there doesn’t make me think you’re okay.”

“Just a little-” Before he can finish, Casey shoves his way between us, grabs the bottle of Jim Beam on the table, and slugs down about two shots before disappearing into the crowd with a whoop.

“That why you’re worried?” I whisper, throwing a thumb at Casey.

“Yup.” He sighs and stares down into his drink.

There are a million things I want to do to help, but I have no clue what they might be. Randall’s the one who’s supposed to be on top of things, taking charge, keeping all his insane friends in check. Me, I can barely tie my shoes, much less control a herd of emotionally unstable teenagers with my very presence.

I open my mouth to say something, but then Renée is at my side. “SPRAY! PAINT! THE WALLS!”

Randall waves his hand in the air at me. “Go make art. I don’t want to ruin your night, anyway.”

“Randall, you’re not-”

Renée tugs at my arm. “IT FEELS GOOD TO SAY WHAT I WANT! IT FEELS GOOD TO KNOCK THINGS DOWN! SPRAY! PAINT! THE WALLS!”

Randall shoots me a vicious look. “Go have fun.” It’s an order. I’ll trust him tonight. I follow Renée, who keeps screaming “Black Flag” like it’s her fucking job.

The can feels heavy but satisfying in my hand. Every shake gives me the clak-clak back-and-forth of the propellant-widget, and a mere touch of the head sends an invisible jet that shines black against the gray stone. I curve my arm, and a curve appears; I pull back, and the black breaks up, gets fuzzy. Renée and I dance with our spray cans, hooting and hollering as our hands shoot magical markings on the wall before us. Our nostrils burn with the deathly exhaust and our ears seem to vibrate with the thing, the KRRSSSH! of the art leaving the can, until the whole rooftop and skyline seem to be leaning in and watching us, mesmerized. From nothing it builds, growing larger, more intricate; it begins to have a point, a destined design. Finally our cans give their last pathetic aerosol whisper and fall from our hands with a metallic rattle.

We step back and observe, beaming. It’s a reaperlike figure, cloaked and hooded, rising from an ocean of black and red swirls. He hangs in a Christ pose, claws extended, with his heart glowing red, sending wisps of crimson out of his chest and like an aura, the bright red wheeling out of the blackness in his cold, dark center.

I’m the only one who knows his name. Blacklight.

“Whoa! Dudes, come here and look at this!”

The crowd takes me by surprise. Ten, fifteen kids, all beaming in awe at our spray-can creation. Renée and I lock eyes and share a smile. We rock.

“What’d you fucking say to me?”

The shout yanks the whole group out of our dumbstruck creative love and back to the party. Casey stands across the rooftop, swaying drunk, pointing at a couple of kids and laughing like a madman. I register the kids: Terry and Omar, friends of both Andrew and Randall, staring down at my friend as though he were an insect.

“It’s just that by the way you two’re whispering and talking,” slurs Casey, “you’d think that you’re playing on my team.”

Renée bursts through our onlookers and jumps between Casey and Terry. “Listen, guys,” she says, “there’s no reason-”

“Out of my way,” yells Terry, and-

– shoves her.

Knocks her on her ass with a good, hard shove.

Something familiar opens its eyes, and then rockets through my system.

Two minutes later, Randall is pulling me off Terry by my elbows as I wrench and pull. The noises coming out of my throat are primal, a mix between the shriek of some jungle bird, the snarl of a wolf, and the cackle of a hyena. Blood is everywhere, on my fists, on my shirt, all around Terry’s face that he’s now clutching as he rolls back and forth. There’s blood on my glasses. Spit runs off my lower lip, and tears course down my cheeks. Renée stands on the sidelines, her hands to her mouth, looking aghast. Omar is crouched by Terry, suddenly wishing he weren’t as drunk and stoned as he looks. From the wet sounds spurting out of Terry’s face, he owes Randall a thank-you before he heads home. The motherfucker’s still breathing.

By the time Randall gets me over to the one secluded corner of the roof, all eyes are on me. Not in artistic appreciation like before. Now it’s horror. My hand crosses my eyes, and the grainy touch reminds me that I’m covered in someone else’s blood.

Randall stands over me, eyes accusing. “I thought you were getting better.”

“It’s never…” I try to get the words out between quiet sobs, but my throat keeps spasming. Focus on each word before you say it. “It’s never happened like that before. I’ve never done anything that bad before. I’ve never wanted to hurt anyone like that before. It’s always been me losing control.”

His laugh is like the rattle of bones. “Oh yeah, and you weren’t losing control back there. Fuck, Locke, FUCK. What the fuck do you want us to do?”

“It-it was like-like I had a direction. I channeled it. As if the venom latched onto him like a grappling hook and pulled me in. It was all intentional. There was no regret or care or worry.”

“It was pure,” says Randall.

“Exactly.”

“Fantastic,” he spits. “A record low. I’m so proud, buddy, I’m-”

“Locke?”

My eyes come up on Renée. She’s holding her purse with both hands in front of her, her entire body turned into one rigid line. Her eye makeup is running down her face in inky black rivers, making her look even more Goth than usual, which breaks my heart and makes the venom laugh. The old familiar discomfort and guilt, the knowledge that anything bad about tonight came out of me, it’s all right there in front of me, staring at me like I’m a fearsome animal.

Randall shakes his head and makes his way past her, back across the roof. I immediately hear people inquiring about what happened, and his awkward responses. It’s of no concern, though. I’ve got my problems right in front of me.

“Hi,” I rasp.