Postcards From No Man's Land
The Violet Hour
Frank's room smelled like sweet Mary Jane and the love between a boy and his hand. Sweetened fantasies dwelled on his pillows and blankets and in the bottle of thermal lubrication tucked under the Sports Illustrateds in his drawer. The monsters had all moved out of his closet long ago.
Even though it was Gerard who had died, Frank thought Mikey's room smelled like death. Or maybe it smelled like Gerard, and so death just hung on the air like a veil.
He laid the wasted boy on his sheets that smelled like Gerard's cigarettes. He could not undress him; not in this room where the memory of Gerard clung to their saturated breaths. Yet Mikey's clothes were stained with Whiskey and perfume, dry sweat and vomit. Alcohol oozed from his very pores.
There was a sour taste in Frank's mouth. Something like pity. He could feel the vapor of misery that wafted from every inch of the boy he loved. His eyes that were blank and glassy. His skin that was pale and slick with sweat. His mouth that moaned, as if in physical pain. Frank knew the spirits that haunted the boy. Yes, it was Gerard who'd died, but it seemed that Mikey was the one who was no longer living. He was simply a robot in disguise, cool steel flesh and metallic breath. And here he was, reaching out, reaching out and pulling back as if he'd been burned.
Frank took Mikey's hands and he settled the tremoring boy with soft whispers that were supposed to be soothing. He knew that words were so raw, but he could not touch him in a comforting manner. He wanted to touch his face, but he had the feeling that his hand would go right through Mikey's skin, into the waste that was rotting him away.
The sun was rising behind the shadowed curtains, and the violet hour fell upon them. It reminded Frank of the funeral, where he watched Mikey die again and again while they carried up Gerard's casket. Where Mikey had gone up and removed all the flowers from the cherry wood when the service had ended, tossing them to the floor in almost quiet reverence. Where he had knelt by Gerard' s cold grave, where he'd been buried too young, and he had stuck violet paper flowers with smooth tissue petals and crooked green veins. But they were paper, not real, and held no life. Neither of the brothers held any life. And Mikey was just the shell of a boy then, not even realizing he was holding Frank's hand.
As the pale-shadow sun painted Mikey's face a lovely pink, Frank couldn't help but think that the boy he loved was dying for a ghost.
Even though it was Gerard who had died, Frank thought Mikey's room smelled like death. Or maybe it smelled like Gerard, and so death just hung on the air like a veil.
He laid the wasted boy on his sheets that smelled like Gerard's cigarettes. He could not undress him; not in this room where the memory of Gerard clung to their saturated breaths. Yet Mikey's clothes were stained with Whiskey and perfume, dry sweat and vomit. Alcohol oozed from his very pores.
There was a sour taste in Frank's mouth. Something like pity. He could feel the vapor of misery that wafted from every inch of the boy he loved. His eyes that were blank and glassy. His skin that was pale and slick with sweat. His mouth that moaned, as if in physical pain. Frank knew the spirits that haunted the boy. Yes, it was Gerard who'd died, but it seemed that Mikey was the one who was no longer living. He was simply a robot in disguise, cool steel flesh and metallic breath. And here he was, reaching out, reaching out and pulling back as if he'd been burned.
Frank took Mikey's hands and he settled the tremoring boy with soft whispers that were supposed to be soothing. He knew that words were so raw, but he could not touch him in a comforting manner. He wanted to touch his face, but he had the feeling that his hand would go right through Mikey's skin, into the waste that was rotting him away.
The sun was rising behind the shadowed curtains, and the violet hour fell upon them. It reminded Frank of the funeral, where he watched Mikey die again and again while they carried up Gerard's casket. Where Mikey had gone up and removed all the flowers from the cherry wood when the service had ended, tossing them to the floor in almost quiet reverence. Where he had knelt by Gerard' s cold grave, where he'd been buried too young, and he had stuck violet paper flowers with smooth tissue petals and crooked green veins. But they were paper, not real, and held no life. Neither of the brothers held any life. And Mikey was just the shell of a boy then, not even realizing he was holding Frank's hand.
As the pale-shadow sun painted Mikey's face a lovely pink, Frank couldn't help but think that the boy he loved was dying for a ghost.