The Blind Dragon

by Noah Harris

  He shook his head, smiling queasily.

  “As you wish,” Akihiko shrugged, finishing the champagne in one gulp.

  “Alright, centerpiece, get ready to walk,” came the woman again, this time walking up behind him and tapping him on the shoulder. He smiled at Akihiko, who gave him a solemn nod, and approached the entrance to the stage. “And…one second, we’ve got a delay,” she said, and paused for what felt like merely half a second before she hissed in his ear. “Go!”

  He strode out, the magical windchime sound of the glass pieces filling his ears. All he could hear, see, was the crowd, oohing and ahhing as he walked, eyes serious, lips pouting. He felt like a prince, showing off for his subjects as they stared at him, untouchable.

  He’d forgotten how it felt to walk down the runway, to leave all the anxiety behind. All these people cared about was his beauty, and he’d never see them again. This was the exchange, he received their attention and attributed value, and they received the chance to see someone who reminded them of how stunning life could be. He was a creation of the universe, just existing, his only responsibility was to be that person who could exhibit the beauties of nature, someone to flow like wind, no, water, smooth and submerging, down the runway and take their breath away.

  He felt his own breath being knocked out of him by their amazed faces and he finally reached the end of the runway, pausing for a moment to flash his gapped teeth in a self-satisfied smirk, cock his hip, and show off the masterpiece that he’d brought to life.

  “Shaeffer, here, look here!”

  “Gipson, this way!”

  “Shaeffer, at the camera, sweetheart!”

  “That’s it!

  The cameras flashed in his face, and the shocking light that blinded him seemed to multiply. He tried to focus on just one, or maybe the face behind it, and then suddenly his vision was turning black, and then he was staring at the ceiling, and he could hear someone screaming in his head, two people screaming, hundreds of people screaming in different languages, and he couldn’t feel his hands or his feet. The back of his head felt wet, and he couldn’t breathe.

  “Gipson’s down!”

  “He’s hurt, someone get help!”

  And then he could breathe. He raised his head groggily, feeling a strange déjà vu, feeling sick to his stomach and dizzy. He reached behind him, but the back of his head was dry. There were only a few lights flashing now, and people had climbed up onto the stage to look down at him, their faces contorted with worry and fear.

  “I’m fine,” he mumbled, and then he watched all their eyes trace down his body and widen. He looked down, reaching with shaky hands, and felt a puddle of blood spreading, pooling around him. He felt the world spin, the people above him merging into one another, the screams far away. He thought he could hear Konrad’s voice, strained and shouting his name. His eyes saw the ceiling again, just for a moment, and then they were in the back of his head, and he was in the darkness, the lonely, infinite darkness.

  Flying Solo Pt. 2

  Konrad Fontaine

  “Jesus, Konrad,” Fiona gasped, pushing her way into the apartment loudly. Konrad didn’t bother getting up from the floor where he was lying. “What the hell happened in here?” He wasn’t sure what it looked like exactly, but he had a pretty good idea. All the furniture, decorations, collectibles, trinkets that Shaeffer, no, his dragon had pushed back painfully, had been moved to careful, safe spots. Claw marks in the walls from when he would reach out, half-shifted, half-asleep, growling and roaring and scratching in a doomed rage.

  “We rearranged the furniture, don’t you remember?” he droned, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice, and she snorted derisively.

  “Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure Shaeffer didn’t destroy it all when he was moving it.” He shrugged, knowing she was probably watching him expectantly, waiting for him to explain.

  He didn’t have an explanation. Well, he did, but not one he wanted to talk to her about.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Konrad.” Her heels clicked over to him and suddenly she was pulling on his arms, trying to get him up. He let her pull him into a sitting position, and then she struggled for another moment before dropping his arms.

  “I was comfortable, you know,” he grumbled, and she scoffed.

  “Are you going to explain to Clara why we need to buy you new furniture? I didn’t know arrogance and selfishness was a side-effect of blindness,” she snapped, and he groaned. “Out with it!”

  “Alright, you’re insufferable, you know that?” he started, and she was silent. “Fine. I’ve been having trouble controlling my shift.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to shred my face right now,” she said, and he heard her take a step backward.

  “I’m not going to shred your face, Fiona,” he said irritably. “In my sleep.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve been having weird nightmares.”

  “Such as?” she sounded impatient with his short answers, and he felt even more hesitant to tell her. But he knew if he didn’t, she’d tell Clara, and Clara would probably show up here. And that he couldn’t have. He couldn’t handle her being disappointed in him, too.

  “Well, I guess the most recent one was last night, but I think they’re always the same. The firebird, from my show, the little one that has the child, is flying in and out of it. It’s struggling to fly, though, because it hasn’t given birth yet. There’s smoke and fire everywhere, and I can’t see anything clearly, and there’s blood on my hands and all over my chest, but it’s not mine. And the firebird is so far away I can’t reach it. It’s like I’m in this room that’s completely pitch black, or painted black, or something, and the bird is just flying on the outer edge of it, too far away for me to reach.”

  “Jesus, Konrad,” Fiona said, her voice hushed. He heard her sit down heavily, felt the vibration of what was probably the last untouched chair in his apartment skid backward slightly. “What do you think it means?” The darkness in front of him was endless.

  “I don’t know,” he lied. The silence was too much, though, how could he be so alone with another person sitting a foot away from him? “I think it’s just my fear that I’ll always be alone, and I’ll always ruin my relationships.”

  “Right, yeah,” she said, clearly unconvinced.

  “Well, what’s your analysis?” he asked sarcastically. She’d folded her arms, or maybe her legs, he could hear fabric dragging across itself and smell the frustration on her skin. Then she stood up and started sweeping things up, cleaning. The sounds reminded him of Shaeffer. His dragon whined.

  “I don’t have one,” she said coolly, and he shrugged again. Then he lay back on the floor again. “I think I know how to fix all this,” she said, her voice kinder now, after the pause.

  “Clara’s going to have to get it all sent out to someone,” he said. He’d broken things before. Clara had some guy in Russia she sent all her antiques to, to either get fixed or refurbished. That wasn’t what he was worried about.

  Fiona only sighed, clicking back across the apartment.

  “I’m going to fix this. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Stupidity is never my intention,” he said dryly.

  “But always the result,” she sighed tiredly before leaving. The door shut quietly behind her, and he found he couldn’t blame her for wanting to get out of the apartment, and away from him.

  He got up carefully, sliding his feet across the floor to avoid any splintered wood or broken glass, which, it seemed, Fiona had cleaned up, and flopped onto his bed. It felt cold. Maybe he’d try to sleep. He had no idea what time it was, it had been like that for the past few days, Konrad floating through the morning, afternoon, and night, barely knowing what time it was unless he listened to the street below.

  People talking about work, coffee, breakfast, their plans for the day; that meant it was morning. People walking swiftly and not talking at all, or else talking quickly into phones; afternoon. People stagge
ring, laughing, shouting, the smell of leftovers in doggy bags and alcohol-scented sweat; night. Now, though, it was oddly silent, like the universe was trying to unsettle him. He’d accidentally smashed all the clocks in one of his half-conscious rages, so there wasn’t even the reassuring tick of the seconds passing.

  He lay in the bed for what was probably hours, tossing and turning to find a cold spot when he felt too warm, sometimes reaching over in his half-asleep state to find Shaeffer and pull his little body against him, warm and clammy from a deep sleep and murmuring happily when Konrad wrapped his arms around him. But Shaeffer was never there.

  The last hour or so, he was awake, totally awake, just lying there with his thoughts, on soft sheets that felt like sandpaper. He finally started to hear people outside, screeching about the new bar that had apparently opened down the street and didn’t allow people in until eleven o’clock, and was open until five the next morning. They were heading that way, though, so he realized it must be close to that time, the darkness outside matching the darkness surrounding him.

  He needed a drink. He couldn’t go to a bar, though it sounded alluring. Maybe he’d have some wine, or tinker around and create some poorly-made cocktail with ingredients he couldn’t see. The wine was probably safer.

  He rolled off the bed and headed into the kitchen, knowing the path by heart now but having to avoid rubbish on the floor from his nightmare-induced riots. He opened the wine cabinet and pulled one out at random, not bothering to feel around for a glass. He unscrewed it, grateful that the one he’d chosen hadn’t had a cork, and took a deep drink from it.

  The sour headiness of it made him feel warm, and he took another. Then he picked his way to the window leading to the balcony that could fit probably one and a half people on it. He and Shaeffer had never even bothered trying to sit out there together, it was simply too small. Maybe they should have tried. His dragon clawed at the inside of his lungs until they were raw, and he took another draw from the bottle. Then he put the wine down, the clunk of the bottle meeting the wooden floor somehow satisfactory, and cranked the window open, forgetting which way it turned for only a moment. He felt the cool breeze blow in as the huge glass window glided haltingly open.

  He wished, suddenly, achingly, that the moon’s rays felt warm like the sun’s. He didn’t need his sight for the sun. He knew the moon was up there, shining down on him, bringing his dragon closer to the surface as it yearned to reach up into the sky, but he couldn’t feel it on his skin. How desperately he wanted to feel the moon’s light on his skin. His dragon could feel it.

  Then there was a shriek below, and Konrad shuffled backward in shock, almost knocking his wine over. He picked it up, listening again, hearing the beginnings of rain pattering on the sidewalk, plinking on the metal bars of the balcony. Someone hadn’t packed an umbrella.

  He didn’t need one. He sat down on the edge of the window, reaching his hand out and letting the rain fall on his palm. He drank his wine, leaning back against the window frame, feeling some of the rain blowing in to mist his face, his hair, the front of his shirt. His mind was devoid of thought as he sipped his wine, letting the rain cool him off. He didn’t need to think about anything. The future would come, and he would meet it when it did. He would survive. He always had.

  A crack of thunder startled him, the half-empty bottle’s contents sloshing around inside. Then the rain started to fall harder, more insistently, like pebbles popping against his skin. He drew his arm back in, taken by surprise. He usually knew when a storm, a real storm, was coming. That was when his flight would take off together, looking out for one another but allowing each their space. It was the one time they were allowed to fly, when the rain covered their massive forms, and the thunder and lightning made people hide away in their homes. Houston had the best storms he’d ever flown in, warm and foggy and occurring fairly often.

  Rugged, flushed embarrassment coursed through him, his cheeks feeling warmer from the wine. He set the bottle down clumsily, feeling distracted and bewildered by the sound of the rain and his own frustration. He reached down, desperately trying to feel around for the crank that would close the window, and when he finally found it he couldn’t remember which way it turned, no matter which way he rotated it, it seemed like the window wouldn’t close. His mind was foggy, and his dragon was hyperventilating.

  Rain splashed into the loft, soaking the floor and his clothes, hammering into his face. He laughed hopelessly, squeezing his eyes shut and throwing his hands in the air. The rain came down harder, and he stepped backward splashing into a puddle. He laughed harder, feeling completely lost, turned around, the rain feeling like it was coming from every direction. Tears started to stream down his face, was he really laughing that hard? His stomach clenched and he grabbed it, the wine-induced haze making him feel dizzy. He cried harder, laughing angrily, spitefully, almost roaring with it, and then leaned forward, feeling for the window frame again. He fell forward, just barely catching himself, another crack of thunder filling his ears.

  Then he screamed. It was almost a howl, the thunder in his head drowning it out but unable to drown out the feeling of his heart leaking in his chest, like it was being squeezed until he couldn’t breathe, until he had to cry out in pain. Shaeffer.

  He howled again, his body wracked with sobs, and felt his claws digging into the wood of the window frame. The convulsing of his cries was made worse by the feeling of his spine popping. He gasped for breath, moaning in pain, anger and frustration, clambering out onto the balcony. The rain thundered against his back and he moaned in agony, barely knowing what he was doing, where he was going. His dragon clawed more insistently, trying to reach the surface. The skin on his face stretched uncomfortably as he climbed mindlessly up to the roof, grunting and groaning as he shifted uncontrollably.

  His wings, the last step in his transformation, sprouted from his back, and he sat there, stretching his muscles, feeling his scales shudder against each other. The shingles shifted beneath his enormous clawed feet, old and rotting. He took a deep breath, stretching his neck, raising his face to the sky, letting the rain wash over him.

  He listened, his senses always heightened even more than when he was in his human form, and heard people walking toward downtown, the way he was facing, talking about that same new bar. Another sudden shot of thunder, crackling across the sky, and then he heard the crash of lightning hitting something, a nearby tree, maybe, cracking it in half. He recognized the flutter of the shocked leaves, the creaking of the wood splitting.

  He breathed in deeply, feeling his dragon starting to take control, and spread his wings swiftly, so swiftly that the moment he opened them, symmetrical and spread wide, the wind lifted him into the air. He closed his eyes tightly and beat them once, twice, three times, and soon he was in flight, his mouth wide open, tasting the sweet rain.

  Then he opened his eyes, and realized he still couldn’t see. He hovered in the air, beating his wings, his heart beating twice as hard. The air lifted him higher, and he twitched his wings to steady himself. Feeling more confident, he opened his mouth again and let out a giddy roar, the flames licking the sides of his face. He stretched his wings farther, feeling the wind pulling against them, and then shifted in the air. He was gliding, finally, after what felt like a century of waiting in the dark.

  He roared again, feeling the currents and riding them confidently. It was almost like sonar, he could feel the way the wind traveled between the buildings, along the sidewalks. It helped him locate himself above the city, and his heart soared with him. His fears about flying blind, Fiona and Clara’s fears, they were all exaggerated, unreasonable. He was fine. He was more than fine.

  Flying without his sight felt better, almost. He was relying on his other senses more, feeling more in touch with his animalistic side. His dragon was his truth. Art didn’t matter, he was a dragon, and nothing was important than that. Actually, being a dragon, simply being this majestic, violent creature was his art. He was a creatio
n of the universe’s magic, as natural as the water falling on his wings as he flew. No, he was the wind, wind incarnate, floating on it and through it and with it. He didn’t need to be defined by anything but who he was.

  Relief coursed through him, a feeling so good it was almost erotic, making him feel powerful and hungry and charged. He wished—his dragon reminded him, whining—for Shaeffer to be here, experiencing this with him. He shuddered in the sky slightly, the wind cutting underneath him, and he felt his stomach and his heart dropping at the thought of Shaeffer, that charged feeling more painful now, like the lightning that was doubtlessly lighting up the sky above him was actually striking him.

  He felt the strike so physically it made him waver in his flight, like he needed to turn back and get out of the sky, like he was in danger. Another crash of lightning struck so near him he felt the electricity in the air, the force of it sending shockwaves through the air.

  Something was wrong. The universe was warning him of something, and he felt it deep in his stomach as he glided, dark and unknown but still a bad, almost premonition-like feeling in his gut. He was in danger; he had been foolhardy and stupid to take off in a storm when he couldn’t even see.

  Don’t do anything stupid.

  But, somehow, he felt like he and Shaeffer were still connected, and Shaeffer was in danger, too. They were experiencing this at the same time, whatever it was, and it was warning them of something. He needed to get out of the sky, save himself, and then he would call Shaeffer, he would, and he would make sure he was safe. He needed to go home and save what was left of his loft, of his art, of his relationship with Shaeffer.