Mercy

Baby Blue, what did I do
To turn those eyes so gray?
Momma’s gone; it’s just me and you
Yet those eyes still dampen the day…

While staring down upon the mangled mess of bandages that encased my trembling hands, an ethereal voice hummed softly with a subtle southern twang from an area of my mind which refused to lie dormant despite the pain it never failed to inflict upon entrance. I hadn’t even been aware of the eerie murmur until the words solidified themselves into a solid mesh of harmonious syllables that mocked my sanity with each soft-spoken utterance. It was maddening to have such a significant part of my past haunting me at a time when finally, finally, I was given an insider’s glimpse into the mysterious life, or con of a life, of the Billie Joe Armstrong not currently reduced to dust, yet all my mind could focus upon were a series of past events that pertained to everything but the deceitful old bastard. The only parallel between Jakob’s rambled stories and the song wafting lazily about my psyche was that goddamned southern drawl.

Hush now, Blue, and dry those eyes
You have nothing left to fear
Momma left with all her lies
But Daddy’s always here…

The song danced, quickening its pace until it consumed my soul completely with dizzying efficiency, and all too quickly I succumbed to a sorrow so devastating that I doubted whether I’d be able to gather the pieces of my broken heart along with the items Jakob and I had initially set out to retrieve. Something was bound to get left behind in that silent, battered car, and given my staggering lack of self-worth, fixing myself while the life drained from an innocent victim of his parents’ neglect with each passing second was simply not an option. Never mind the elusive car and driver that had managed to stalk me down to the last place I could consider safe, and forget the poorly assembled lullaby that threatened to steal more than my consciousness as it viciously reigned supreme in each corner of my mind. Neither mattered until Phoenix was healthy. Neither mattered until those haunting blue eyes, so much like(my own) my daughter’s, no longer possessed such a confounding sense of anguish.

Leaving my own unresolved issues undetectably cluttered among the forgotten morsels of rubbish that littered the floors of Jakob’s car, I snatched about half of the bags which held everything we could possibly need to relieve an ailing child and damn near bolted towards Frankie’s house. Not even that miserable old cunt’s mysterious double life could successfully distract my attention from the solemn task at hand, though the song clamoring about my mind in its vertiginous broken-record fashion came dangerously close. It clouded my vision and impaired my motor skills to a point where I doubted if I’d even make it to the front door.

How you hate to see her leave
Waltzing right out through that door
But your Momma’s not naïve
She knows Daddy is a whore…

I lurched forward, all but colliding with the wooden frame which bordered the entrance to a potential felon’s home, and maneuvered a wrist about in the handles of flimsy plastic bags until my hand was free enough to grasp the doorknob. Jakob fumbled with his share of our findings, verbally expressing his frustration with me through hushed, irritated mumblings, yet I couldn’t quite catch which exact obscenities he chose to throw my way due to a conveniently deafening slam of the driver’s side door that reverberated off every goddamn tree within a fifty foot radius. An equally disturbed flock of crows took flight the moment the sudden noise disturbed their precious and generally peaceful sanctuary, croaking and cawing in their inarticulate rage until their bodies melded with the blackened sky and their hoarse voices were reduced to nothing more than eerie echoes. By the time silence engulfed us once more, Jakob was by my side, face flushed, and his demeaning mutters had ceased completely. Under his expectant gaze, I opened the door only to allow every single bag to fall from my grasp the instant I heard Jakob latching the door into place behind me.

She knows what I do at night
She knows exactly where I go
And if you ask her just right
She’ll make sure to tell you so…

That song, that melancholic little melody, had grown louder. It was no longer caged within the confines of my troubled head, for somehow it had managed to manifest itself into reality exclusively to torture me with what I had lost. I needed to find the outside source, the medium through which the song was travelling through, and destroy it before it drove me through the final stretch to absolute insanity. Each menacing stroke of the piano drew me that much closer to the room in which the resonance originated, and I found myself clawing at the walls for support as my panting body incessantly insisted that my perseverance was not an option. I was fully aware of how absurd I looked, virtually climbing the walls and drooling at the prospect of slaughtering whatever vile creature settled upon this particular piece to play when it didn’t belong to them. It didn’t fucking exist. I’m sure my torn t-shirt, blemished abdomen, and wounded fingertips merely added to the lunacy I’d created of myself, but I was unable to give a flying fuck.

I was on a mission destroy that fucking morbid lullaby.

Your Daddy’s not a dirty man
I promise, it’s not true
But Momma’s got an evil plan
To get me away from you…

Two steps away from the back room and it suddenly made sense. The southern twang and the phantasmal voice were not quite the figments of my imagination I’d grown to loathe over years of stewed resentment for the mother of my child but rather an outsider’s adaptation for the cynical movie-reel memories that never relented, never giving my weary spirit a break. It was the Billie creature, Frankie, who was taunting me, egging me on with his frustratingly adept vocal chords and skilled fingers. Sure enough, the old bastard was seated upon a piano bench, infant grandson propped lethargically against his chest, as he persisted in performing Cady’s song.

Three feet away and he abruptly paused, lapsing into a violent coughing fit that seemed to rip his lungs to bits. I smiled when he looked about the room in search of a handkerchief or tissue he’d neglected to bring with him, and my grin broadened at the way his body shuddered after being forced to swallow his own blood-infused phlegm. I would later be horrified by how significantly watching his pain alleviated a microscopic portion of my own misery, but a combination of sleeplessness and a raw parental compulsion to remove the child from the old bastard’s fraudulent aura prevented me from recognizing just how disturbed I’d become.

Momma’s gonna take you away
Once Daddy’s surely sleeping
And here I will forever stay
My Blue Eyes always weeping.

The piano ceased its bittersweet trill, and Billie’s weary voice dissolved into a distant hum which hung ominously about the air. Without turning to face me, he grunted, “You were fucked up ‘fore that damn fool Elliot got to you the first time ‘round, Fairy. ‘Fore the whorin’ ‘n’ the baby ‘n’ the ex-bitch…someone fucked you up bad. Maybe that’s why he was able to so easily mess with your pansy ass in the first place.”

He knew.

He plucked the memories right from the goddamned movie-reel and knew which pieces to pick and prod at to get the greatest rise out of me, but I wondered…had he seen Jakob and me traipsing through that graveyard? Was he aware of the squirrel nailed to his fucking headstone?

“Well, I dunno, Frankie…tell me who fucked you up because a pretty little grave out there says Billie Joe Armstrong is fucking dead.”

He substituted his response with a chuckle and a malicious encore of my morbid lullaby, drowning me in the cadence I’d created of my only daughter’s disappearance. All that was missing from his malevolent charade was the steady creaking of rusted springs and a soiled armchair.

“You’re an asshole,” I whimpered, feebly attempting to retain some form of an upper hand in a heated discussion among hundreds I would never truly succeed in.

“Hey, you ain’t the only one who lost an ol’ Blue Eyes, so quit your bitchin’ ‘n’ climb ‘board the pity train ‘cause it sure as hell ain’t stayin’ in the station much longer,” he commanded, patting an area next to him on the piano bench. “‘N’ don’t you ever call me Frankie again.”

“Fine,” I snapped, collapsing next to him with a dejected sigh. For a moment, I merely sat next to him and watched as tattooed hands brushed against the keys with alarming precision, even for a psychic. I may have lapsed into an unprecedented bout of admiration for the old bastard, but I immediately stemmed the urge by wrapping my arms under his, muttering, “But I’m not doing this for you,” before gently weaseling the child away from him.

“I know, Fairy. I know,” he hummed.

We both paused to look down upon the drowsy child, wondering if the new Baby Blue Eyes was the answer to our inconsolable losses.