Postcards From No Man's Land
Demons and Regret
The eye is the best artist, but Frank wasn’t sure if the picture his were painting was beautifully tragic, or tragically beautiful. Sometimes he looked at Mikey in the months after Gerard’s death, and he could see the wound. It was raw and bloody and open, gory in all senses of the word. Torn, bone fragments piercing through the skin pale as a corpse. That wound looked so painfully fresh, as if it wasn’t healing one bit. Just as fresh as the day the blood they shared was strewn about the cold highway.
Times like those he placed his palm over the wound, the shredded heart, and he imagined that his life line would stitch up the wound. That his pressured kiss would chase away the loss so that all that was left was the love and the memory. That his heated skin, slick with sweat, would simply absorb all the pain so that he would be burdened instead of the boy he loved. That their bodies, so tightly connected in almost every way, would simply tie up all of Mikey’s loose ends.
Frank had always been the observer. He watched with a hunger to learn all that he could about Mikey. Was it possible that he knew more about Mikey’s habits than anyone else in the world? Yes, it was possible, and even probable. Frank knew how Mikey clicked his teeth together during times of anxiety and trial. He knew that the boy laughed most when other people hurt themselves. He knew that the only thing holding Mikey to this earth was Frank’s calming palm over heart and a ratty old Anthrax t-shirt that was more rag than clothing.
But did he know Mikey? No. No, he did not actually know what made his lover tick. At times he would look up, lying across Mikey’s bed, and he’d see a stranger pulling on Frank’s t-shirt over his brittle frame. The jaunty face was warped, unrecognizable. So broken, so fragmented. Silver chrome, cold hard metal. He wanted to know what Mikey was made of. He wanted to see his insides, and he wanted to wrap the boy’s body around him. He wanted Mikey. He wanted all of him.
Sometimes, he wondered if Gerard knew the things he knew. If they’d been that close. The truth was that Gerard probably knew more. He had to know more. Did he know that Mikey cried every time Frank made love to him? When they were at their highest, riding course waves that threatened to drown them. When Frank was screaming Mikey’s name into the pillow, and Mikey was screaming through sobs and memories and lies. Did Gerard know that Mikey chewed his nails until they made bloody streaks across Frank’s bare back? That sometimes, sometimes Mikey began to sob, and he just couldn’t stop. His muscles would begin to scream and ache and he would cry even harder, but the hiccupping gasps wouldn’t cease. He’d cry so hard that he’d throw up, and he’d just make himself even sicker. He’d cry until he simply passed out from exhaustion, and Frank would wake up later that night with Mikey’s tears soaking his chest, even in sleep.
Did Gerard know the anguish that Mikey felt? Did he understand that he’d made his brother a living ghost story?
Mikey was full of bad things. Demons and regret that just made him sicker than anything. Demons in his head and in his heart. In his breath and in his lungs. In his step and his dance. In his sleep and in his mask. Regret that ate his heart and killed him. Ruined his Eternity smile and killed his brother.
Regret did not kill his brother. Love too strong killed them both.
Sometimes, Frank was happy that Gerard was gone so that he could be the one under Mikey’s sheets at night. He thought he could kiss him and they would make it. They'd make it under the stars, despite the blood that was shared. But most nights he prayed to God for Gerard’s return, even if it meant losing the only boy he’d ever loved. He simply prayed to God for Gerard to come and complete Mikey the way Frank knew he never, ever could.
Times like those he placed his palm over the wound, the shredded heart, and he imagined that his life line would stitch up the wound. That his pressured kiss would chase away the loss so that all that was left was the love and the memory. That his heated skin, slick with sweat, would simply absorb all the pain so that he would be burdened instead of the boy he loved. That their bodies, so tightly connected in almost every way, would simply tie up all of Mikey’s loose ends.
Frank had always been the observer. He watched with a hunger to learn all that he could about Mikey. Was it possible that he knew more about Mikey’s habits than anyone else in the world? Yes, it was possible, and even probable. Frank knew how Mikey clicked his teeth together during times of anxiety and trial. He knew that the boy laughed most when other people hurt themselves. He knew that the only thing holding Mikey to this earth was Frank’s calming palm over heart and a ratty old Anthrax t-shirt that was more rag than clothing.
But did he know Mikey? No. No, he did not actually know what made his lover tick. At times he would look up, lying across Mikey’s bed, and he’d see a stranger pulling on Frank’s t-shirt over his brittle frame. The jaunty face was warped, unrecognizable. So broken, so fragmented. Silver chrome, cold hard metal. He wanted to know what Mikey was made of. He wanted to see his insides, and he wanted to wrap the boy’s body around him. He wanted Mikey. He wanted all of him.
Sometimes, he wondered if Gerard knew the things he knew. If they’d been that close. The truth was that Gerard probably knew more. He had to know more. Did he know that Mikey cried every time Frank made love to him? When they were at their highest, riding course waves that threatened to drown them. When Frank was screaming Mikey’s name into the pillow, and Mikey was screaming through sobs and memories and lies. Did Gerard know that Mikey chewed his nails until they made bloody streaks across Frank’s bare back? That sometimes, sometimes Mikey began to sob, and he just couldn’t stop. His muscles would begin to scream and ache and he would cry even harder, but the hiccupping gasps wouldn’t cease. He’d cry so hard that he’d throw up, and he’d just make himself even sicker. He’d cry until he simply passed out from exhaustion, and Frank would wake up later that night with Mikey’s tears soaking his chest, even in sleep.
Did Gerard know the anguish that Mikey felt? Did he understand that he’d made his brother a living ghost story?
Mikey was full of bad things. Demons and regret that just made him sicker than anything. Demons in his head and in his heart. In his breath and in his lungs. In his step and his dance. In his sleep and in his mask. Regret that ate his heart and killed him. Ruined his Eternity smile and killed his brother.
Regret did not kill his brother. Love too strong killed them both.
Sometimes, Frank was happy that Gerard was gone so that he could be the one under Mikey’s sheets at night. He thought he could kiss him and they would make it. They'd make it under the stars, despite the blood that was shared. But most nights he prayed to God for Gerard’s return, even if it meant losing the only boy he’d ever loved. He simply prayed to God for Gerard to come and complete Mikey the way Frank knew he never, ever could.