Mercy

“What do you mean by psychic?”

Each passing, skeptical second lingered menacingly about Billie Joe in the form of ropes unbound at his feet after years of silence and repression kept various aspects of his true identity haphazardly tucked under wraps. No longer was he restrained by a subtle ambiguity that made him impossible to categorize with absolute certainty. He exposed himself in all of his raw, emotional glory and was writhing under my cynical scrutiny as I allowed my furrowing brows to persist in their dehumanizing scowl. I would soon become conscious of just how mortifying my disapproval must have been for him, seeing as I had promised not moments before that I would not mock him, but with my hand subconsciously withdrawing from his grasp it appeared as if my assurance meant nothing when the answer I craved was so outlandish, so peculiar…yet somehow it made perfect sense. The old bastard was outlandish. Hell, he was the most fucking peculiar man I’d ever met, though in my moments of disbelief, I shattered his confidence completely. The eccentric old coot who never failed to keep me in check, who called my bullshit with the vigilance of a bloodthirsty varmint honing in on its helpless prey despite the devils that so obviously haunted his own veracity, was crumbling before me without his binding ropes of discretion. I observed in horror as Billie Joe Armstrong fell apart in a situation even he couldn’t evade with a crude joke.

Furtively retreating from my side as he grew cognizant of an absence of fingers entwined with his, the old man balled his suddenly empty fist and kept his eyes fixed upon an indiscriminate area of graveled road in front of him. A tear or two may have slid from the corners of his eyes, though the darkness engulfing us shadowed his eyes from view, donning him with an ominously jaded visage. He was beyond hesitant to shed any light on a subject he initiated, ready and willing to drop it the instant a contradictory thought was either spoken aloud or drifted innocently through my mind, though I was not keen to give up as easily. After weeks of playing smoke and mirrors with this man, I was finally able to dig up something that left him psychologically crippled in the wake of its utterance.

“What do you mean by psychic, Billie Joe?” I repeated, reluctantly sucking the venom from the wound of my premier strike by softening my voice to sound far less critical. I stepped forward to place a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, but he flinched to avoid my touch and doubled his retreat by taking two more steps back.

“I’m like…I’m like their connection with the livin’ whether I wanna be or not. They come ‘n’ go as they please, drivin’ me further ‘n’ further to my own goddamn haystack in the Funny Farm. They tell me shit I don’t wanna know, show me shit I ain’t got no b’ness seein’. They use me, Fairy,” he whimpered, sniffling just audibly enough to be acknowledged, confirming my assumption that the old man had indeed started to cry.

“Who uses you?” I persisted, all doubts left abandoned in a cobwebbed corner of my mind as genuine concern for the old bastard’s mental state dominated any and all other perturbations. I longed to comfort him in some way, yet he recoiled from contact whenever I attempted any physical consolations with a diligence that left me wondering if my being skeptical of his extrasensory abilities ignited a loathing for me deep within that unpredictable core of his. I was left to do nothing more than observe Billie Joe from an uncomfortable distance as he poured his soul out piece by smoldering piece.

“Fuck it, you don’t believe me,” he whimpered, lifting his head to snag a glimpse of the incredulous glower that had vacated my features just moments prior to his sudden retraction of information. A stray swath of light fell upon his formerly pallid skin as his eyes elevated to mine, the subtle luminescence radiating from his tear-stained cheeks flawlessly capturing his grief in a bizarre form of melancholy beauty. His lips were drawn into a crestfallen pout, and his eyes swam with tears that had yet to grace the world in all their sodden, morose glory, yet he appeared absolutely alluring to me in a way I never had the chance to appreciate. In that moment, my savior possessed a regressive youthfulness brought about by unspoken doubt and uncertainty. In that moment, only the cane shimmering beside him brought one to doubt whether or not he was a day over twenty-five.

“It’s…not that I don’t believe you. I just…” My voice trailed off as Billie’s eyes lowered, shadows obscuring him from sight once more. I nearly whimpered aloud at how easily his radiance had been vanquished by my inability to deem his admission plausible, and at once I succumbed to a bitter guilt for having destroyed his perpetual devious smirk and the mischievous glimmer always present in his stare.

“You just don’t believe in ghosts ‘n’ all the fuckin’ voodoo that goes ‘long with ‘em,” he concluded for me. His voice was detached, impassive, and I desired nothing more than to proclaim my confidence in whatever paranormal aptitude he acquired, but something held me back. Billie Joe was a strictly no bullshit kind of person, so to accept his confession with seemingly no hesitation or doubt while having no legitimate feelings of the sort would be the ultimate slap in the face. The old bastard would not stand to be patronized, though in the timid way he evaded my contact in any way possible, it was as if he wanted the empty, misplaced compassion.

Or perhaps what he was probing for went much deeper than misplaced compassion. Perhaps his aim was a bit more compatible with the likes of blind faith.

“Please…don’t cry for me. My approval’s not even worth getting worked up over,” I whispered, self-degradation being the only option I saw fit to boost his confidence.

“That ain’t true,” he growled, body inches from mine so abruptly I nearly toppled to the ground to correct the sudden lack of disquieting air between us. The intimacy I craved throughout the entirety of the conversation had been effortlessly earned, though I never fathomed Billie would have been the one to fill the space that parted us. He scowled up at me, eyes nearly dry, and brought an unsteady hand to gently caress the bandages that covered the wound on my neck before muttering, “You’re the only person I’ve needed in a long time, Fairy. Don’t you go tellin’ me otherwise.”

“Why, though?” I demanded, hoping to convey the lack of faith in myself by dousing my words with hopelessness that would be deemed unnecessary to the average person. For me, however, no other emotion could passably transmit my tentative inquiry.

“You…didn’t leave. You coulda switched with one o’ them other pretty little nurses once you figured how much a heartless bastard I am, but…my Fairy stayed ‘n’ waited it out ‘n’ actually trusted me ‘nuff to live with…not to mention that fantastic blowjob you gave me when I didn’t fuckin’ deserve one…” His voice faded to nothing more than an insecure sigh, once again making it abundantly clear that he was uncomfortable with staking such heartfelt, bold claims. It was simple enough when making audacious declarations when inflicted callously and without remorse using humiliation and his own damn amusement as his sole motives behind such remarks. Once the bitterness evaporated to an uncertain, introverted attempt at affection with absolutely no hint of malice, it was evident Billie Joe was so completely out of his element, his comfort zone, that I found it hard to believe he was the same raving old cunt who poked fun at my profession and sexuality within the first few minutes our initial encounter.

“If you don’t stop grinnin’ at me, boy, I will slap you. This ain’t easy for me…hell, I’m worse’n you right now with bein’ all emotional and…and…”

“Faggy?” I offered, assuming he had finally reached his sentimental peak for the day and had rapidly begun lapsing back into condescendence.

“Your word, not mine,” he stated clearly, making sure to hold eye contact to further prove his sincerity. “You really need to stop bein’ so goddamn hard on yourself. Sucks the fun out of me doin’ it.”

I couldn’t tell you what morbidly maudlin conception coerced my body into pressing itself against Billie’s, eradicating every inch of apprehensive air that divided us, but within seconds my fingers were lost in a tangle of silver and my lips were latched upon his, delivering him with my own distinctive version of unspoken gratitude. I couldn’t even conjure up a proper sentence to thank the old man for everything he had done and how obstinately he tried to keep his words from wavering back into their habitual rounds of insensitive criticism, so I chose to take a more corporeal approach by mauling him in the gentlest manner I could manage. For a moment, he did nothing but stand rigid with shock, stunned by the sheer unexpected quality to my kiss, yet he relaxed against me and, to my astonishment, returned the favor with such vitality, such force, that I felt my back colliding with the trunk of a tree jutting out on the side of the road. I sensed the bark scraping at the flesh of my back through the thin material of my shirt, and the fresh wounds on my limbs and extremities continued with their ceaseless sting, but in that instant all I was capable of focusing on was Billie Joe’s tongue snaking its way into my mouth, sensually brushing against my bottom lip before delving in. With his cane left abandoned in the gravel, both of his hands were allowed to roam every inch of my body they deemed worthy of their touch, slinking their way up my shirt to tease the goose bumped flesh beneath.

Before long, I became the one with an embarrassing problem poking at Billie through my jeans, throbbing and desperate for any kind of contact. Once he felt me harden against his leg, he detached himself from my lips and giggled through his labored breathing, elated to find that he was no longer the only one of us unable to control certain urges.

“Aww, Fairy, I think it likes me,” he chuckled, removing a hand from under my shirt to furtively grope the growing heat ensnared within denim, “but that worries me. I ain’t pretty like you are anymore.”

“Bullshit,” I moaned, thrusting my hips into his hand. “I think you’re sexy for a dead man…now please. Ungh, do something to make this little problem go away or let me go jack off somewhere.”

“Even with them damn squirrels watching? Shit, it must really like me,” he marveled, latching his lips onto my neck. I squirmed the second he hit my sweet spot and bucked into his hand once more. He was driving me mad with his incessant prolonging of my sexual needs, and I nearly laughed aloud when I realized that Billie Joe Armstrong was a fucking tease.

“Y-yesss,” I whined. If that little bastard didn’t do something soon, I would end up with an even more mortifying problem below…one a bit stickier and additionally uncomfortable compared to the present predicament.

Bringing his lips within inches of my ear, he whispered seductively, “I do owe you for that dirty, spongeless bath…”