Scene.III

oo.oo.oo

The blowtorch was heavy and awkward in my hand the first few times I'd used it. Twist the knob, pull the trigger, don't aim at anything flammable. Simple enough. What was tricky was also having to keep up with the thin metal rod at the end of which resided a small blob of what my roommate had called shatter. Because it'll shatter your world, bro. Whatever, anything to pass the time.

I aimed the blue flame spewing out of the blue torch at the perfectly clear glass of the nail. In order to smoke shatter, You had to heat up this half-cylinder of glass that was sticking out of a water pipe until it was orange-hot. There was another, smaller cylinder inside of the large one. The smaller one is hollow. Once the glass had cooled back down to colorless, you had to place the ball of shatter in between the two walls of glass, then this thick white vapor would form and get sucked down the opening in the smaller cylinder. The vapor would then enter a larger glass chamber where it was bubbled up through a few milliliters of water, then it rocketed up into your mouth and down into your lungs, where it sat comfortably until you tried to exhale, then you started coughing.

I could always gauge how high I got from the feelings in my face. A long, slow smile meant that I was still very in control, but feeling alright. Tingling in my forehead was a sign that I was getting somewhere. Tingling, sensitive lips meant I was in for a comfortable night. And sweat under my eyes meant I was home, and had work to do.

I set the rig and blowtorch aside, not caring that if I set the torch down too quickly it could fall off of my desk and burn another hole in the carpet. I pulled my keyboard closer to my hands, then opened up my notepad on my computer. Tonight, tonight I'll finally get something concrete done with Tom.

Inhale, exhale, be confident for a split second and get started.

I've never been much for tedious tasks, which is why I might come off as pretentious while explaining this to you. My name is Tom Corrin, and I am the best human on the planet. This is not pride, this is not boasting. This is fact.

I paused. I'd always considered Tom's abilities near god-like, but his attitude had never been this way. I'd always tried to play him as this nice guy who happens to be able to control everyone around him so he does, but this was a new flavor of Tom. Maybe he isn't a nice guy. In fact, maybe he can't be a nice guy. Maybe he has to have a different attitude to be able to wield his powers the way he does. I considered myself a nice guy, and the more I thought about it, the more trouble I had picturing myself doing the things Tom did.

I didn’t think I needed to make him into a mean guy, but maybe I could give him a sense of judgment that was less affected by emotion. Actually, wait… he discovered his powers early on enough in his life that his own emotional development was probably incredibly skewed. Then again, he's a master manipulator, he doesn't take over people's minds. This would probably mean that he would need a basic if not incredible understanding of emotions so that he would be convincing one hundred percent of the time. Maybe he didn't have a set personality. Maybe there was no one behind all his masks, but because he always had a mask on even he didn't notice his own lack of a personality.

I pushed the chair back from my desk, closed my eyes and looked at the ceiling of my room. My thoughts about myself were bleeding into my work again. I'd read articles on women who painted with their vaginal bleeding. I'd thought it was an interesting concept, making art out of yourself. But every time I ended up doing to myself, it wasn't beautiful. It wasn't interesting. It didn't reveal to the observer anything that they didn't already know. All it did was drag me out of my hiding place and force me to look at myself.

I took another dab and went to sleep.