XXIII.

Romel stood outside the fence, holding tight the bars and feeling it all. He went, via his empathic powers, right along with Melpomene into the house. Every moment, from the smashing of the window, to the threats, to the battle, to the gun, Romel experienced Melpomene’s emotions at each stage. Most consistent throughout was that sense of self-assuredness Melpomene had, that faith that, because he was on the side of good, nothing, ever, could stop him. It was impossible, at the very least for Romel, so intimately chained to the man’s psyche as he was, to not get swept up in the man’s delusion.

It made the knockout blow that much more painful.

When, inside the house, Mathis struck Melpomene unconscious, Romel, on the outside, at first felt the hit himself; the sting in his jaw, the flush of nausea, the warbling of his vision. But when Melpomene was out, it severed Romel from his crime fighting partner, leaving him destitute of Melpomene’s delusion. Now, all he was, was a grown man, dressed like an idiot, mere yards away from the home of a very dangerous group of men. Shame and fear overcame him.

He turned to go. Seeing Melpomene’s bicycle, he resolved to board it and ride away. To do just as he’d done at the library and flee. “Only this time,” he thought to himself, “I’ll call for help.” He figured, eventually, he’d chance upon some gas station, he’d use their phone, and call the police. After all, it was their job to handle situations like this. Yes, that’s right, their job. Not his. He walked toward the bicycle all set to leave, when, suddenly, a familiar voice from within him spoke.

By the time you get to a phone, Melpomene will be dead.

Romel ignored it. Shaking his head, he said to himself, “No. Do what you resolved to do.”

Romel, I know you heard what I said. If you leave, Melpomene will die.

Romel mounted the bike. “You can’t know that,” he said.

I can know that. And I do.

“Well, what do you expect me to do?” asked Romel.

What you’ve been called to do.

Again Romel shook his head. “This is crazy. It’s crazy! You can’t think I’m going to go in there. What would that accomplish besides getting me killed?”

Relief.

“Relief? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Relief from what?”

From yourself.

“Myself?” Romel asked, confused. “You think, maybe,” Romel’s voice was rising now as he spoke, “you could be a bit more precise?”

Gladly.

The world surrounding Romel began to ripple, as if the empty air around him were turning liquid. Terrified, Romel turned his head in every direction. Everywhere he turned, a figure appeared, not from nowhere exactly, but rather, from some unseen place beyond the ripples. The figures all wore familiar faces. All too familiar. They were the faces of the ghosts from his dream. The faces of the library patrons whom Romel had left behind to die. They swirled around him in circles, saying nothing this time. They didn’t have to. Romel knew what message they were meant to impart.

Hanging his head, defeated, Romel asked exhaustedly, “How are you doing this? Why are you doing this? Why can’t I just be left alone?”

You ask stupid questions, Romel. And we’ve no time for stupid questions now.

It was true. Inside the house, Melpomene had been awakened and awakened to brutal results. Within moments, Romel felt the pain of a dozen punches, delivered expertly, aimed at Melpomene’s face and chest. Strangely enough, though Romel was once more linked to Melpomene’s emotions, he wasn’t overpowered by them as usual. Perhaps it was ‘the Calling,’ keeping him himself. Or, Melpomene had been humbled gravely by his defeat. Or, the acuity of pain caused by the punches served to sober Romel, keep him grounded. Regardless of the reason, if things kept up like they were going for Melpomene, ‘The Calling’s’ prediction about his death would soon become a prophecy.

Sighing, Romel uttered an unenthusiastic, “Ok. I’ll do whatever you say.”

Good. You’ll only rarely regret it.

The activity around Romel ceased. The spirits, all at once, retreated to the place from whence they came. All the world was as it should be, no hint left that it had ever been anything but. Romel lifted his head and said, “Now, what is it I’m supposed to do?”

He waited for an answer that never came.

“Wait. Hold up. So you’re just going to leave me now? After I agree to listen to you, you just go quiet?”

It seemed that way. Quiet was ‘the Calling’s’ only response.

“Perfect. Just perfect,” Romel said. Then, he winced. He once more felt Melpomene being struck. And this time, the pain came even more intense, as if things inside him were breaking and bleeding. This wouldn’t do, Romel hurting like this. There was no way he’d be able to save Melpomene in this condition.

A picture came into his mind. It was of Melpomene, back at his headquarters, pointing to his own temple and saying to Romel, “Focus.” No longer under the spell of Melpomene’s personality, Romel could not help but think the advice was stupid. It’d come, after all, from comic books, and been delivered in that over wrought growl. And yet, Romel thought, regardless of how stupid the source, the advice had worked. When he’d sat down and concentrated on filtering out all the emotions surrounding him, he’d been able to do it. It just required that he, as Melpomene said, “Focus.”

Sitting atop the bike, he closed his eyes. Initially, this only intensified his connection to everything around him. Until he began applying some analysis to the sensation. It was like his consciousness, which was usually housed in only his head, was stretched outward, tugged out past its natural barriers. As if his mind were being subjected to the torture rack, one side pulled this way, the other side another, yank, yank, yank, until the tendons of his perception tore and came apart, unwinding like frayed strings, all the while knowing that what was being done to him was unnatural and inhumane but there was no way to stop this unrelenting abuse to his Being.

Except, it had stopped. There was peace within him. A glorious, painless peace. Or, at least what passed for peace inside Romel. The examination, the activation of his reason, had centered him. He was back in the state he’d been in back at Melpomene’s headquarters. The world’s emotions were again driven back, safely quarantined away from his own.

Now, to maintain this state. He opened his eyes up slowly, fighting in the face of even this simple act, to maintain his concentration. And wouldn’t you know it? Success! He was still himself and now able to see as well. But what next?

To move, of course. Could he, without giving up his control? He lifted a hand from off the handlebar of the bike and raised it to eye level. So far, so good. He did the same with his other hand and was met with the same good fortune. He wanted to celebrate but he didn’t dare do something that drastic. No, his dominion over his “powers” as Melpomene had called them was far too precarious. He was forced to settle for a little self-satisfied smile.

Alright, it was time for the heavy lifting. He turned his strained attention to the fence. He, like Melpomene, would need a boost to get over it. But what could he use? He didn’t have the luxury of a zombified sidekick at his disposal. His eyes scanned his surroundings. Nothing of use. “Dammit,” he said to himself and leaned forward to rest his forearms on the handlebar of the bike.

After a second, the obvious dawned on him. “Heh, oh yeah, right,” he said.

Pigeon walking, he rolled the bike underneath him over toward the fence. He did this cautiously, struggling with every step to stay focused. But he managed. Once he’d made it to the fence, he lifted the front wheel of the bike off the ground and poked it through two of the fence’s iron bars. Then, he let the tire drop on the other end, causing the bike to stay upright where it stood. To insure it was stable, Romel shook it a bit. It seemed like it would hold.

The real question was: would he?

It would take a great degree of exertion to climb up the bike and vault himself to the other side of the fence. Was it possible to do so and not be overwhelmed by his powers? Did he have any choice but to find out?

Using the bars of the fence to steady himself, Romel slowly stood up on the bike seat. At first, all was well. He stood, still clutching the fence, completely upright. But then, the bicycle underneath him shifted. The back wheel skidded beneath Romel’s weight. The sudden destabilizing of his bedrock caused him to lose his balance. And for just a second, his focus. The emotions all pressed down on him again and he had to fight to force them back. Scrunching closed his eyes he concentrated hard. And wouldn’t you know it? He was able to regain control.

“Nice,” he said to himself, re-opening his eyes. “Maybe I’m starting to finally get a handle on these powers.”

Powers, huh? He’d never called them that himself. Never even allowed himself to think of them that way. Up until this moment, they’d registered in his head as nothing more than a curse. But he’d said it. Maybe Melpomene was rubbing off on Romel, even when Romel was not interlinked with his personality?

“Not that I’ve got time to think about that now. I’ve got to get over this fence,” he said and moved his hands so they gripped the upper ends of the bars. He readied himself to jump by bouncing up and down on the bike seat several times, until finally he felt ready, felt confident he could make it up and over, and then, he took the leap. With his arms he tugged himself upward, with his legs he vaulted himself up. Like a skateboarder doing an ollie over a guardrail, he tucked his feet up close to his body and cleared the top of the fence. On the other end, he landed without incident.

“Heh,” he said aloud and allowed himself another smile. “I did it.”

And with his “powers” still in check. How about that?

Only now, he was confronted with a new dilemma.   He’d been so distracted before, trying to control his rampant empathy and getting himself over the fence, that he had not dedicated any thought to how exactly he was supposed to rescue Melpomene. Especially considering that he had to do it without getting into any sort of physical altercation. It seemed impossible. It likely was impossible. But what was his alternative? To allow Melpomene to die, adding yet another ghost to the group already haunting him? No, no. It was better to die himself, he’d decided. After all, what exactly did he have left to lose?

He was, now that he was in his right mind, coming to grips with the fact that his past life, where all his provisions were gifted to him, where his physical needs and desires were all met approximately as soon as he wanted, that life, it was over. All that lay before him was struggle and suffering. Oh, woe was him. He figured, if he was meant to suffer, he might as well get a big old dose of it all at once, and go out in a blaze of suffering glory. Better than stretching the whole thing out.

He inspected the house. In his immediate gaze: the front door, a garage door, some windows, and some scraggly bushes beneath the windows. Melpomene had gone in through a rear window and was now being held in a rear room of the house. Romel could detect this with his powers. The powers also informed him there were three other men in the room with Melpomene, along with the girl Melpomene had come to save. The key to Romel’s unlikely success was getting all three of the men out of the room so he could sneak into the room undetected. But how to do this? He was sure any sort of noise or commotion coming from another room would be investigated by only one, or at most, two of the men.

Unless…

Unless, he made a commotion so outlandish all three’s interest would be piqued. It was worth a shot. But how would he generate the sort of commotion that’d get the job done? He applied his imagination to the task. That rich imagination, all full of stories. Fed by years of watching movies and reading books. The first idea that came to mind, as is typical to men his age, was an explosion.

It honestly wasn’t too bad an idea, considering his circumstances. He ran toward the garage. Around the corner, he found a window, set about six inches deep in the wall, high off the ground and very narrow. Were Romel a thicker man, there’d be no way he could get in through that window. But, he wasn’t, especially after a few weeks of the Melpomene diet. The real trouble was getting to the window. Reaching it was going to take one hell of a jump.

“It’d be nice if you gave me back that strength you gave me at the library,” said Romel. ‘The Calling’ still wouldn’t answer. Frustrated, Romel spit out a curse. “Yeah, whatever, I’ll do it on my own. If I even can.”

He tried once. His feet propelled him upward, his hands searching for the window ledge. He didn’t make it. From the ground, he sighed. He tried again. This time, he kicked his feet against the wall, his sneakers scraping against it. He got closer but nowhere near close enough. “Dammit,” he said when he came back down. “Maybe if I get a running start.”

He backed up. Looking upward at the window, he tried gauging how far up it was. It seemed to him to be a good ten or eleven feet. A moderately good basketball player would reach it easily, Romel thought. But Romel was no basketball player. He’d never been athletic enough, coordinated enough, to play. What made him think he was going to reach that window? The fact that he had no choice. He had to reach it, and dammit, he would. After a couple of words to encourage himself, he ran. He reached the wall and, using it as a springboard, he jumped. It was an impressive effort. He bicycled his legs, he stretched out his arms as far as they’d go. The edge of his fingers even touched the tip of the window ledge. But ultimately, he fell.

And this time, he didn’t land on his feet. He’d jumped with such abandon that he lost all sense of balance on his way down. His back made first contact with the ground, then his head, and finally his feet. The fall was jarring, so jarring, it broke Romel’s hold over his powers. An onrush of emotions, of sensations, overtook him, Melpomene’s strongest of all. The man was very close to death. His captors had been wailing on him for a long while and if they didn’t stop soon, there was no chance he would make it. Worse still, even than the physical pain this caused Romel, was sensing Melpomene in despair, just about ready to give up. Never before had Romel felt any semblance of such an emotion in Melpomene. It couldn’t be so.

This had a startlingly profound effect on Romel. But why? What difference should it make to him if Melpomene, like any human would, succumbed to despair in his final moments? That sort of brazen conviction could only last so long in the face of stark reality. And there was no starker reality than the approaching End. Just as there were no atheists in foxholes, there were no heroes in the face of death. Humans are delicate, weak things, poorly constructed. How could they forever resist the urge to give in?

But, no. Melpomene had been different. So potent was his conviction that’d it swallowed Romel up completely, overtaken every element of Romel’s mind. And maybe, Romel had let all this occur. He’d spent his whole life questioning his every act, his every word, questioning even his questions. Maybe, he’d grown tired of such a state. Maybe he’d felt what Melpomene felt and liked it so much, he’d given himself up to it. This was why Melpomene doubting himself, it was something Romel could not abide.

Though groggy from falling, he ventured to open his eyes and get his powers back under control. With effort, he planted one hand on the ground, then, with equivalent effort, the other. It took him barely a second of laying like this before he managed to sit up. He slapped the ground at either side of him with his palms, gave out a bit of a war cry, then got up.

The first thing he did on his feet was determine, with conviction, that he was going to reach that window. No matter how hard, he was going to grab that ledge. As he’d done before, he backed up to give himself some running room. Then, without hesitation, he took off sprinting. The same look of intensity Melpomene wore when he’d run to get over the fence, Romel now wore as well. He was determined to get to that window. And this time, he did. He gripped the ledge with both hands and held on for his life.

“Yes!” he said to himself hanging from the ledge. “Now…all I’ve got to do…” he clambered up the wall as he spoke, “is get past the window.” He managed to make it high enough so he could rest his left forearm on the narrow ledge. “I’ve got to break it.”

And there was only one way to do that: punch the glass. He wasn’t about to do that with his bare fist, though. Using his teeth, he gripped the end of his right hoodie sleeve and yanked it over his hand. As far as makeshift shielding, this would have to do.

Romel had never punched anyone or anything before. So, he did his best to imitate what he’d seen on TV. He reared his fist back and struck the glass with all his strength. He was surprised by how much it hurt.

“Augh!” he said, shaking his hand at the wrist, trying to rid it of pain. He looked at the glass to see if he’d done any damage. Didn’t seem like it. “Well, crap.”

He took in a breath, held it, and punched the glass again. Having expected it, the pain was more tolerable this time. And, as a reward for his persistence, he heard a small CRICK come from the glass. He inspected where he’d punched and saw the sliver of a crack forming like a nascent spider web. Inspired, he struck it again and again. Fueled by all his recent micro-successes, he became nearly possessed in pursuit of his goal. It was only when his fist finally found its way through the window that he finally relented. By then, he was breathing heavy and his face was all hot and covered in sweat. But, he’d done it.

He smiled to himself again.

Romel retracted his hand to shake the glass from his hoodie sleeve. Once it’d all come off, he stuck his hand back through the hole he’d made and searched for the window lock. It turned easily. After sliding the window up, Romel looked into the garage and found exactly what he was hoping to find: a car and a number of car-related items, including a five gallon plastic gas can. Romel’s plan might work out after all.

But first, he had to get into that garage. He reached in with both hands and took hold of the window sill from inside. Pulling, he managed to get his head and chest past the window frame. It was a tight fit. Like a black man trying on a white man’s underwear, Romel thought. He found his own simile very clever. It seemed he was really feeling himself at this point. He continued forcing his way through the window, twisting and wriggling, guiding himself downward by hand-walking on the wall. That is, until he got past the thicker parts of his anatomy. Then, he lost his balance and tumbled the rest of the way down, almost landing on his head.

“Ugh…” he said aloud, grasping at his neck. “That hurt.”

Maybe feeling himself at this juncture was a little premature.

He got up off the floor with some effort. Still holding his neck, he went over to the gas can and picked it up, gauging by its weight how much gas was still inside. A good amount, enough for what Romel was planning. After stretching his neck to alleviate the pain some, he got to work. He started spreading gas all around the car, pooling a good amount of it underneath. Next, he created a trail with it, along the ground and then the wall, leading to the window. Now all he needed was something to light it.

Wait, something to light it? Had he seen something like that laying around? No, no he hadn’t. The garage was fairly bare. There were no shelves or work stations. Just the car and car parts littered around the floor. There was nothing there to light the fire!

Romel took to punishing himself internally. How could he be so stupid? How could he go so far without thinking of this, the most important step to his plan? All the self-confidence he’d built up drained away like dirty bathwater. It had been a nice ride while it lasted. That he ever allowed himself to go for the ride was his biggest mistake. He slumped back against a wall and moped.

Moped while Melpomene neared ever closer to death.

“No,” he said to himself. “I can’t give up. I can’t let Melpomene give up. I have to rescue him. That’s what heroes do.”

He forced his way up from the floor and searched the garage once more. Still, he found nothing there. But this time, he didn’t settle for the garage. His eyes landed on the door to the inside of the house.

“I’ll find a lighter inside,” he said, “These guys are gangbangers. They sell drugs. They’ve got to have a lighter inside.”

But should he chance going in? He had to. But what if he was caught?

Then, an idea occurred to him. He could tap into the torturers’ emotions. This would alert him if they noticed any noise he made. Yes, that would work. Should work, at least. Searching about at the peripheries of his mind, he found the three men’s emotions, and gave himself up to all of them at once.

It was an unpleasant experience. The rage-lust was the worst of it. Romel was not the type to get angry easily so to suddenly feel unbridled desire to harm and destroy, it was not something he was prepared for. It was a struggle to make it to the door. By the time he reached it, his heart was racing, his blood boiling. He turned the knob, ignoring these sensations as best he could, and went into the house. On the other side of the door was the torturers’ kitchen.

Into the room Romel walked, trying hard to suppress an urge to grab things and throw them. He grit his teeth and began searching the drawers. Not finding a lighter in the first, he almost ripped the drawer out and smashed it against the floor. Good for him he didn’t or he would have been heard. Instead, he pushed the drawer back cautiously, his hands shaking with fury all the while. It took three more drawers before he found what he was looking for in the form of a little square-shaped silver lighter. By then, Romel was aching to kill someone himself.

It caused him to close this drawer harder than he’d intended.

Like a frayed circuit, the emotions in him suddenly shorted out. They were replaced with something more like caution, albeit a caution still tinged with rage. Had the torturers heard him? Were they on their way to him now? He felt to see if they were nearing him not really knowing what he would do if they were. The part of him possessed by the torturers’ emotions told him to grab some sort of weapon and fight them, to, in some fantastic last stand, take each of them out even if he went with them. But the Romel part of him knew that not only would he not fight, even if he did, they would make short work of him and that would be that. He readied himself for this outcome as best he could, connected to their rage as he was. Fortunately, they never neared him, and soon enough, the part of them that had gone cautious dissipated away.

He went back to the garage and closed the door, instantly retreating into his own mind. It took him a minute to calm his insides. It was like coming off a roller coaster and straight away hopping into bed and trying to read. The transition was just not natural. It forced Romel to harness a discipline he’d not spent much of his life cultivating. But he was able. It was remarkable what he was capable of with the proper motivation.

Having calmed, Romel now made his way back to the window. The pathway to it was covered in gasoline, but, Romel had actually planned ahead to get around this conundrum. He stripped off his hoodie and tossed it up at the window. It landed as he intended, about half way in the garage and half way out. Then, Romel climbed atop the car hood and leapt from it to the window. This jump went much more smoothly than the ones outside.

Learning from his first trip through the window, he made it down this time without hurting himself. He hand-walked down the wall just as he’d done the first time. But, this time, rather than force his way through, he went down cautiously, keeping his feet hooked into the window. When he was down far enough he let go with his feet, flipped, and landed softly on his ass, the only part of him with cushion. All in all, not a bad best case scenario.

The hoodie even fell to the ground next to him as he’d intended. He grabbed it and stood up. Drifting up from its folds came the liquorice-sweet aroma of gas. Hanging from the window, it’d soaked in a good amount of the flammable fluid. Like Romel wanted. He retrieved the lighter from his pocket and lit the whole thing up.

For a second, he looked at it, burning there in his hand. He couldn’t help but think back to the library, to the building burning down as he ran from it. The fire then had been a tool for evil. It’d killed many, swallowed lives which haunted Romel still. But this fire, the one in Romel’s grip, this fire was different. It would be used not to kill, but rather, to save. Just as he thought this, the spirits from before, the ones from his dream and who’d come to him when he tried to run, he saw them now, deep in the orange of the flame. Only, they were no longer menacing, no longer judging. Instead, to Romel’s great relief, they looked back at Romel with approval.

He didn’t dare disappoint them again. Without wasting another second, he tossed the hoodie through the window.