XIX.

“Mommy, who’s that?”

“Oh, honey, that’s the man who let us die.”

The specters of the library patrons circled Romel, floating above him. On his knees, Romel swatted at them, desperate to make them go away.

“Leave me alone,” he pled. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“Not his fault, he says.”

“He could have stopped it, but he didn’t.”

“I’d say: that makes it his fault in my book.”

“No,” whimpered Romel. “I just don’t fight. Fighting, that’s all my dad does. Fight with everyone he meets. Makes everyone around him miserable. I can’t be like that. I’m a man of peace.”

“A man, he calls himself.”

“I don’t see a man.”

“I see a boy, too scared to do what’s good for others if it makes him feel bad.”

“I’d do anything for others!” Romel shouted up at them. “I’m a good person.”

Each of them took their turns laughing at him. One finally said, “A good person doesn’t let other people die, chump.”

This final accusation shocked Romel awake. Instinctively, he rolled to his side to reach for Medina Jade. That always brought him comfort after a nightmare. Only, she wasn’t there. All he managed to grab were dirty sheets, ragged and full of holes. Realization settled on him. He wasn’t in his girlfriend’s bed. He didn’t even have a girlfriend anymore. He was in an abandoned home, inhabited by a madman. For a moment, in the haze between dreaming and waking, Romel could feel his own feelings.

None were good.

There was much despair, some sadness, but more than anything, there was guilt. Over his choice at the library, at how he’d treated Medina Jade, and, for who and what he was. If he were a different man, would he be in the mess he was now? If he was a man at all, rather than some childish boy in an adult’s body, would he be in the mess he was now? The likely answer, he knew, was ‘No.’ How, then, could he be expected to feel anything but what he felt?

A “HUFF, HUFF, HUFF!” from down the hall brought a sudden end to this experience. Instantly, his internal systems flooded with alien emotions. They were those of Melpomene, who Romel could see was shadow boxing in the living room. Were he still himself, he might have laughed at the sight. Melpomene was in no way coordinated. Every second or third punch, he’d stumble, nearly tripping. The punches themselves were too short to connect with anyone in a real fight. They came with no power, only a naïve, childish intensity. And funnier still was the expression Melpomene wore. It was one of severe seriousness, lips pursed tight, eyebrows furrowed, like that of a composer conducting before a crowd of important people he wanted desperately to impress. But Romel was not himself. He was possessed of the same self-assurance as Melpomene. Air fighting clumsily against an invisible opponent, this was now the most rational way he could think of to start one’s day.

Not for himself, though. There was still enough Romel in him to keep him from engaging in any act of combat, even if it was simulated.

He got out of bed and walked over to Melpomene. The older man barely noticed him. He was far too focused on his imaginary enemy.

“HUFF…throw a jab at me? HUFF…I duck and uppercut…HUFF…you block? HUFF…catch you with a haymaker, sucker!”

As he spoke, Melpomene acted all this out. Romel watched intently, very impressed.

This went on for about twenty minutes. The end came with a very dramatic flurry that involved not just punches but kicks as well, kicks that climbed no higher than two and a half feet off the ground. The last one was a spin kick which, about halfway through, caused Melpomene to lose his balance, stumble like a comedian about to take pratfall, and collapse onto his back. A final “HUFF” escaped him then, signaling the end of his session.

“You ok?” Romel asked.

“Yeah, I’m ok, kid,” Melpomene said, “I just pushed myself too hard. It’s what a warrior does.”

Romel nodded his understanding. He extended his hand to Melpomene and helped the older man up onto his feet.

“Thanks,” Melpomene said, accepting Romel’s help. Once he stood aright, he turned toward the kitchen. “You want some breakfast? I’m starved. All that exercise got my body into fat burning mode.”

“Sure,” said Romel, following behind Melpomene.

“Let me just wash up and I’ll get it ready,” said Melpomene. As he spoke, he stripped himself of his shirt. A bulging gut came springing out, then settled comfortably over Melpomene’s one-size-fits-all pajama bottoms. He used the shirt to towel his face before tossing it in the sink. “You want more ketchup and crackers? Or do you want to share a packet of tuna? The protein helps with muscle building.”

“Tuna is good,” said Romel.

“Hell yeah it is,” said Melpomene.

Melpomene retrieved the packet from a cabinet along with two metal forks from a drawer. He opened the packet on the way to the table then sat opposite Romel.

“You get first dibs,” said Melpomene and handed Romel the food.

Romel began to eat.

“When you’re done there,” Melpomene said while waiting his turn, “I want to get started on your training.”

“Training?” asked Romel, swallowing some tuna, “What do you mean?”

“Training to control your powers.”

“Oh. You think you can teach me to do that?”

“Of course I can.”

“How?”

“Heh,” said Melpomene, “Don’t you worry about that, kid. You’re in the hands of an expert.”

Romel gave Melpomene a little nod. With Melpomene’s emotions swirling in him, Romel was sure that what the man said was true.

After each got their turn at the tuna, Melpomene disposed of the packet by tossing it into an open garbage bag he kept by the door. Then, he told Romel to wait at the table, and went upstairs. A few minutes later, he came into the room carrying a pile of his comics.

“What are those for?” Romel asked.

Melpomene did not reply immediately. Instead, he lay the comic stack on the table, picked up the top issue, and opened it in front of Romel.

“This is Gyfteds Issue #407. The leader of the Gyfteds, she’s this bald lady here, Madame Y. She was born with a larger than normal brain which gave her psionic powers. At first, she can’t control them, so she’s hearing everyone’s thoughts all the time. Until…” Melpomene turned pages, searching for one in particular, “…she realizes that if she sits down like this, in the Lotus position, and concentrates, she can focus on one thought at a time. Now, she can sift through minds, reading only the ones she wants.”

Romel looked down at the panel and, sure enough, there was Madame Y, her legs folded beneath her, her palms upturned atop her knees. Her eyes were closed, and though there were several thought bubbles surrounding her, the tail of only one pointed down at her head. The colorist had highlighted this specific thought bubble in blue, to emphasize it’s the only thought she was thinking.

“I see,” replied Romel.

Melpomene closed that comic and opened another. “This one is Mister Mystic #202. It’s about a guy, used to be one of those rock star intellectuals, always in sunglasses and wearing black suits with sneakers, who’d go around disproving supernatural occurrences. Until one day, he goes to a house people consider to be haunted, and in his arrogance, he spends the night. That’s when he has an encounter with the other side and gets possessed with demonic entities he has to constantly keep restrained.”

Melpomene turned to a page where Mister Mystic, just like Madame Y, is sitting on the ground, meditating. “This is how he does it. In quiet, in solitude, he’s able to center himself, to hone in on one voice, his, then push his personality forward, and when he does, he can actually use the entities in him to gain powers.”

Romel studied the page, following Melpomene’s line of logic. He nodded, and again he said, “I see.”

“Here’s another one,” said Melpomene, setting aside the Mister Mystic comic and opening the next comic on the stack, “Nocturnal Man #115. This book is one of my favorites. See, like me, Nocturnal Man, he doesn’t have any powers. What he does have, though, is the most disciplined mind in all of human history. His willpower is so developed, he can endure any pain, push past any human limitation. He developed this skill by spending two hours each day doing…”

Melpomene once more settled on a page where the titular hero sits alone in deep concentration. Pointing emphatically at the image, Melpomene said, “What else?”

What else indeed. Romel could say nothing to dispute what was staring him in the face.

“Kid?” said Melpomene, his eyes wide, his words spilling out fast. “Are you following me here?”

“Of course I am,” said Romel. It was impossible to come to any conclusion but Melpomene’s. His argument was airtight.

“Good! Because this here, this is the key!”

“The key!” repeated Romel with equal enthusiasm.

“Exactly! So, what I want you to do, is I want you to go back to your room, shut off the lights, sit in the middle of the floor like one of these comic characters, and,” Melpomene here pointed with a single finger at his own forehead, “focus.”

“Focus,” said Romel, already standing up.

“You got it, kid! Now get to it.”

With determination, Romel marched out of the kitchen. He felt as fired up as he’d ever felt in his life. Not that there were many moments in competition. Romel wasn’t typically the type to get fired up. But here he was, fueled by Melpomene’s infectious excitement, walking with purpose to his room, ready to do as he’d been instructed.

Once there, he searched for the light switch. It took him about a full minute to realize there was no light switch and that the light fixture in the room had long since been ripped out, leaving behind a hole in the roof with frayed wires hanging from it. That problem resolved, Romel closed his door, went to the middle of his room, and sat. Just like he’d seen Madame Y, Mister Mystic, and The Nocturnal man do, he curled his legs up under him, and placed his hands palm up on his knees. Then, he focused.

For a long while, nothing happened. Melpomene’s emotions continued to course through him the way Romel imagined a drug high did. Right now, elation and self-congratulatory pride were the main courses on the menu. They were fun emotions to experience, ones Romel felt rarely. As to why, well, he now had time to wonder.  Were those emotions the exclusive possession of people like Melpomene, men on the fringes of rationality? Was there something about Romel’s typical perspective that lent itself to melancholy? Melpomene lived, as strange as he was, with an unshakeable sense of purpose. Romel, on the other hand, lived questioning. There had to be some utility to this, but it had its cost. And what if the cost was ultimately bearing this power? After all, he must have been chosen for a reason. It couldn’t be that ‘the Calling’ had come to whomever random person Marc Uriah may have bumped into who’d known him. 

It occurred to Romel suddenly that these were his thoughts. They were untainted by the feelings of another. They were his, unadulterated, pure as powdered sugar.

Two things happened then. The first: all his earlier emotions crept back up on him. The despair, the sadness, and especially the guilt. But strangely enough, he experienced them with a measure of relief. After all, the emotions were his. And that had to count for something.

The second thing was much stranger than the first. Though Romel felt his own emotions, he also felt, far out on the borders of his consciousness, a swirl of alien emotions, those of people in the surrounding proximity to Melpomene’s house. As it stood, the emotions were held at bay. Romel was not beholden to them. But…if he chose, he discovered, he could skip from one to the other. Like a bat letting out a screech to echo-locate objects in his surroundings, Romel could pinpoint vessels of emotion, and sort through them, one by one.

This was startling and exciting and worth exploring. He set about doing that. Honing in, he chose an individual. It was a man under a great degree of stress. He was applying himself to some task with single-minded intensity. The task was causing some pain. In fact, the pain was escalating, and with the pain, came in some desperation and some dejection. But then, something happened. A pleasure with the pain. This pleasure built, built, built until it overtook the pain. It peaked, sweetly…and then, nothing but relief.

Romel realized with a blush, the man had pooped.

Quickly, Romel honed in on someone else. This experience was less eventful. The person was merely vegetated, presumably watching TV. The next was equally uneventful and the next as well. But then, he came across a person suffering.

It struck him right in his chest. A woman, frightened for her life. He knew the feeling well. It was the same feeling he’d felt from all the library patrons while the library burned around them.

Around her were a number of others, taking pleasure in her pain. Her assailants? Likely so. And it seemed they had it in them to do worse than whatever it was they were doing then.

But what was Romel expected to do? In an instant, he was disconnected from her and the men around her. He was back in his own head, experiencing his own feelings. He felt pity for her, but also, he felt helpless. He wanted to help (or did he?), but, how? Do battle? Never. Shaking his head he concluded engaging with her had been a mistake. All he’d done was add another victim’s voice to the ones that’d haunted him in his dreams.

It doesn’t have to be like this.

Romel’s head cocked, his ears perked. He looked around. Who’d said that?

Have you not let others suffer enough? Have you not suffered enough?

Oh, no. The voice had not come from an external source. It’d come from within him. ‘The Calling’ had come back.

I suppose not, ‘the Calling’ said, Well, then, more suffering it is.