Matters of the Heart

Alicia Way unlocked the door to her own home hesitantly. The fear of running into the ghost of the man that had once been her husband ran too deep in her veins. Did she love him still? Of course. Could she love him anymore? She didn’t know.

“Mikey?” she called, placing her bag and car keys on a side table, “Mikey?”

There was no answer. So he had dared to step outside the walls of his hideaway. This was better than nothing, at least. But oh—now the walls echoed with her footsteps. The floorboards creaked and moaned under her body. The windows muttered and whispered their secrets and still, she moved on through the house.

There were messages on the machine, but she didn’t listen. There were letters from the mailbox, but she didn’t read. There was food on the counter, but she didn’t clean. Instead she sat down, slowly, surely and picked up the one last picture of Gerard Way that hadn’t been overturned and/or thrown out.

Perhaps it was because Mikey was in it as well. Perhaps it had been forgotten by her husband’s restless hands. Perhaps it was there by chance, or by divine rule. No. It was just there. No conspiracies behind the appearance of a small, silver frame.

It was old, no doubt. The Way brothers hadn’t looked that way in years. Mikey no longer had glasses, he hadn’t smiled in a picture in nearly four years. Gerard had cut his hair, Gerard had died. Gerard, Gerard, Gerard.

Alicia was fucking sick of hearing all about Gerard.

And as she slammed her palm to her forehead for daring to think such treason, she didn’t apologize to the face in the picture. Why should she be the one to hear the aftershocks of an untimely, inhuman death of a hero, when there were six billion other people who could? When she had married Michael Way—this had not been what she signed up for. She had married a rather happy, easygoing, loving, wonderful man. A rock star—but that was beside the point. She hadn’t been in it for the money, the fame, the MySpace friends. She had loved him and everything that came along with him.

But this was unexpected baggage. She hadn’t thought that the man she loved would be reduced to such a…child. And a child was so hard. Oh, she had no idea if she even wanted children at this point.

Her hands slipped to rest on her stomach as she let the picture lie on her knees. Her eyes closed slightly and she lay back against the soft cushioning of the chair. One of the cats pawed at her feet. The clock ticked. Life went on. Alicia Way (nee Simmons, pseudonym Pain) did not move.

She sat for a long time. She thought she heard her husband come home, but when no one came through the front door, she figured it must have been the neighbors. She wanted to open a window but she didn’t want to disturb her position. She wanted to stay—to never move.

She heard her husband come in. She opened her eyes. She put the frame back, picture down.

“Hi honey,” she cooed sweetly, moving up to meet him, to intercept him before he ran off to solitude.

“Hey.” The response was short, stupid. Not. Enough. Oh good god, Michael Way. You are pushing your limits with the woman.

“Where were you?” The question was asked sweetly. Not mean. Just as a wife asks her husband.

“Out.” Looked down. Eyes to the floor.

“With who?” Interrogate the suspect Alicia. You’ve watched too much CSI: Miami, haven’t you?

“Frank.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Alicia bit her lip. “Mikey—I’ve got to tell you something.” She prodded her husband’s chin so he would at least come close to looking straight at her.

“Mhm?” This was not an attentive sound.

“I’m…pregnant.”