Malcolm Kane
Birmingham early morning. Strolling around the city at this hour in his favourite casual wear of shorts and a black t-shirt used to be one of those things he just loved doing. Not today though. A brilliant day, but not so brilliant vibes. He looked at Cross. Poor guy was a complete wreck. His usual charismatic demeanor had all but vanished. His face, usually cut-through and steely, now seemed more like that of a wrecked alcoholic. Thin lines were drawn all over him, making him appear almost sickly. His damn headache had taken away anything resembling sleep this night. For both of them, really. They, oh so dearly, deserved a vacation and a damn long one at that. Sure, studying had been hard and a poor existence at that, but he felt they could rest in between the semesters. Working on the other hand, now that was an endless churn of work-work-work and the weekends were never truly long enough to get your feet up before you had to get them down again. But seeing his old friend suffer from whatever the fuck he was suffering from, now that was something else. Aye, Cross deserved something much better.
"What do we think it is?" Malcolm asked. "Stress? Surely doesn't look like it to me."
"No," Cross said. "I'm not sure of anything. That's why we're going to the doctor."
"Can't believe the headache is still there," Malcolm said. "And, that thing?"
Cross looked at him, sweat dripping from his forehead. He looked like shit. "It's burning so clear Malcolm. It's like I am in a waking dream, and the map is just there, like some twisted augmented tech showing me even when my eyes are closed. I don't know what's happening. I don't even know if what I'm hearing is real. It's…"
Cross trailed off, either because he knew the absurdity of the words that left his mouth, or because he was just feeling like crap. A mix of both, probably.
Malcolm put a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. "You're not going barmy my friend. Don't know what it is, and sure as fuck don't hope it's something serious, but you're gonna be alright."
Cross strained a smile and padded Malcolm's hand with his hand, signaling he understood and respected his words, even though they both knew Malcolm didn't have the faintest clue what they were talking about.
They walked for a little while longer, not exchanging any words. Malcolm liked to watch strangers as he walked past them, but today he was only looking at one, whose face was friendly, but still a stranger to himself. He could count the years he and Cross had been best friends, but he couldn't count the times he had felt this worried for him, for it was none. Aye, never had it happened. Not even that one time where Cross had put on that Jack Sparrow costume and discovered the sweetness of dark rum. He had found himself in a hospital bed, alcohol pumped out of him and everything. And Malcolm had been besides him the entire night, laughing and holding his hand. As all good friends should.
They turned at a small convenience store and stopped at a door that looked like all the rest. "We're here," Cross said.
Malcolm frowned. Small doctor's offices always made him feel insecure. "Guess we are," he said, opening the door. A rather boring looking room with a rather bored looking receptionist greeted him, and the stench of old people and mediocrity hit him harder than he thought, triggering a small headache of his own. He and Cross each found a cushioned chair and some kind of trashed up magazines and both began reading in silence. He read a story about a store-owner who had lost everything. A column of some local politician describing the glooming horror story that was the British economy. Sob story after sob story, these were indeed the glorious days of Britain that were before them. Fucking Boris.
"Adrian Cross?" an elderly women yelled. She wore white on white, the classic look that you can't miss. Cross nodded and got up from his chair.
"You want me with you in there?" Malcolm asked.
"No, no," Cross said, shaking his head. "I'm fine."
Malcolm nodded. His eyes followed the doctor and Cross vanishing into her office, or clinic, or whatever you wanted to call it. He could feel the scar on his throat itch. Almost always did that when he was in a clinic or hospital. The past had a way to relieve itself in the present.
"Wish I had a friend like you." The words were coming from a young woman, sitting opposite him. She was wearing a small skirt, a black top and her hair was in a ponytail. Malcolm knew that everyone coming to the doctor had something they wanted to check up on themselves, but he couldn't pinpoint what this woman was in for. Aye, he knew better than to ask, and so he didn't.
"Well, when you get to have a friend like him, the reverse often follows," Malcolm said, realizing what he said was so off that he wasn't sure he'd want to comment anymore. The woman merely giggled, in a cute way. She leaned over, her eyes locked on his throat.
"Is that how you that scar?" the woman asked. "Being a friend like him?"
Malcolm took to his throat, concealing his scar with his palm.
"I'm sorry," the woman continued. "I didn't mean to bring anything up."
Malcolm took a deep breath. Slowly, he removed his palm. He could still feel the outlines of the wound with his fingertips. Or could he? Nah, it was all in that thick head of his. That incident was a long time ago now.
"No worries," Malcolm said, leaning back in the chair. "That thing brings itself up every time I look in the mirror. And you're hardly the first one to notice it and give it the attention it craves."
The woman leaned forward and folded her hands. She was now a little too close for comfort, but he decided not to mention it. "Sounds like you're almost ashamed of it?"
Malcolm kept silent.
"Let me show you something," the woman said and began removing her top. For a second, Malcolm didn't know how to react. Was he hoping for a bra? Was he not? His curiosity kept his eyes firmly placed at his breasts through it all, but to his disappointment, there was a bra. And a large tattoo spelling "Jason's Jugs" right below it. Malcolm couldn't hide his grin. Brilliantly childish, and at the same time so white trash he'd expect her to already have five kids stashed in a white minivan somewhere in the local trailer park.
"You find it amusing?" she asked.
"I do," Malcolm said, still smiling. "I reckon you don't?"
The woman frowned. "Why wouldn't I?"
"Because you can't be much older than I am," Malcolm said. "You'd be young enough to find these things amusing but old enough to be smarter than inking that on your skin. This is old stuff. Jason is an old flame. And this is your way of showing me something that you're ashamed of too. Forever marked on your body. With some lecture attached to the end of the whole thing. Right?"
For a few seconds, the woman merely looked at him. Then, she put her top back on again and leaned back in her chair, arms crossed and not all that smug no more.
"You're not wrong," the girl said. "You just took all the fun out of the lecture I was about to give."
"Maybe its because I've heard too many lectures about such things already," Malcolm said. "I don't want them. Just like you don't want that tattoo."
"Aren't you a shooting-straight-from-the-hips kinda guy," the woman teased. "But oh so serious. Why so serious? You don't look like the serious type."
"I'm usually not," Malcolm said. He leaned back a little more, folding his hands, thinking if he was too hard on her. On the other hand, he didn't really have the emotional capacity to deal with the flirting of some stranger in a doctor's waiting-room. Aye, he was more than happy to burn that bridge. "There are bad days, and there are bad ways. And then, there's both."
The woman didn't respond. Instead, she took out her phone, and that was the end of that. Malcolm was happy to spend the remaining waiting time in silence, reading those garbage magazines for another quarter before the door opened and Cross walked out. He thanked the doctor, then marched out the waiting room, Malcolm stumbling after him.
"So?" Malcolm asked, as they walked down the stairs in the old building. "You going mad or?"
Cross scoffed and shook his head in disappointment. "If I had to sum up her advice in one sentence, it would be: sit tight and assess."
"Blimey," Malcolm said. "So, you will – "
"Sit tight," Cross finished. "And assess."
Malcolm nodded "Assess, aye." Most of all, he just wanted to go into the doctor's room and shout a few not-safe-for-church words at her but knew it would matter little. His frustration had to be dictated elsewhere and not at the expense of Cross.
"Maybe she's right, you know," Cross said. "Maybe a few days off would do the trick."
Malcolm shrugged. "Surely wouldn't hurt to try."
"Except the economy," Cross said.
"Ah, I'm sure you can excuse yourself with a sick-day or two," Malcolm said.
This time, it was Cross who put a comforting hand on Malcolm's shoulder, squeezing it gently. "Did you even read our contracts?"
Malcolm shook his head. "Only the part where it says you get paid more than me for being a twat." Cross and himself shared a silly laugh and marched out the doctor's office, back onto the streets of Birmingham. The prior brilliance of the day had vanished behind the clouds and put a dim vibe across the streets like a see-through blanket made of light fog and grey filters. People were walking past them with no care in the world, until his eyes met those of a young woman, looking suspiciously like that prowler in the doctor's office. This one didn't seem to care though, and just sort of looked away awkwardly.
"You saw the woman in the waiting room?" Malcolm asked, turning his eyes away from the woman. Cross was looking like shit.
"I noticed someone was there," Cross said. "No more details than that."
"She wanted me," Malcolm said. "Bad,"
"Did you tell her what you do for a living?" Cross asked.
Malcolm frowned. "No."
Cross sighed painfully. "That explains it." Malcolm heard himself chuckle at his own expense. Although Cross and him had the same job, so he reckoned they were both the butt of his joke. Cross took his shoulder. "I need to sit I think."
Malcolm scouted the streets and quickly found a target. "There's a bench over there."
Hunchbacked and seemingly thirty years older, Cross managed to get himself on the bench, and with almost all the help Malcolm could give him. It was getting worse. Cross was completely out of air, and he kept taking to his head, massaging his temples.
"Painkiller?" Malcolm asked.
Cross shook his head. "Think I already exceeded the recommended dose, and it isn't even working."
"Maybe if we gave you an overdose the doctors would start to take you more seriously," Malcolm said, leaning back in the bench. "They'd start to give a fuck."
"Right." Adrian chuckled lightly and looked at the sky, seemingly pondering like the cunt he could tend to be. "A trip to the hospital solves all problems."
Malcolm caressed his scar. Surely, it had helped him. Of course, he hadn't exactly faced the same opposition Cross was facing. Any doctor would have looked at his open throat and thought this shit needs attention. Or any sane person for that matter.
"He called himself the Midnight Star," Cross muttered, his head still held high.
"Who did?" Malcolm asked.
Cross looked at him. "The man in my dreams. He went by multiple names, but I only remember this one clearly. What do you think that means?"
Malcolm took a deep breath. "Cross don't try to give whatever lives inside your head an identity that's separate from your own. It is you, through and through. It has to be."
"I know that's what I'm supposed to think," Cross said. "And a part of me does. But another part – "
"Another part just fuels your millennial desire to have a special place in the world," Malcolm interrupted.
Cross scoffed. "I'm not like that."
"Oh, but you are exactly like that," Malcolm said. "Certified James Holden wannabe."
They looked at each other. Cross took offense in the way that he did when he knew Malcolm was right. Cross had always been righteous, always the protagonist, always the guy who didn't mind speaking up if he believed it would give him a spot on the polio to make him seem more important than he actually was. Not out of ego. Well, actually, it was out of ego, but not that bad kind. Cross didn't think he was above others, no. He just needed to be above himself and his menial place in the universe as just another sheep. He couldn't bare to be nothing, and so he aimed for more. At the expense of being a self-righteous cunt at times.
"All stars shine brighter when the surrounding night sky is nothing but dark void, and the void is darkest at midnight." Cross said. "Midnight Star? Or maybe it's something more poetic than that?"
"Aight, that does it!" Malcolm said, raising himself from the bench. "Bringing you home and in front of a telly. Your mind needs other things to think about."
Malcolm grabbed the hand of his friend, but for some reason, there was no strength in the pull from Cross. His eyes were turned back, revealing an eerie white color, soulless.
"Cross!" Malcolm exclaimed, shaking his shoulders. Nothing happened. "Cross!"
A harrowing scream greeted him back. A scream so loud, half of Birmingham could hear it echo through the streets and alleys. A scream so full of anger, Malcolm was forced back, tripping over himself and landing on the sidewalk, surrounded by strangers who too had found themselves stunned. A scream so full of pain, that Malcolm finally started to believe.