C h a p t e r | N i n e t e e n
Present Day - Mikey
A party just isn't a party for Mikey Way without a heartbreak.
He tells himself this will be the last time he drinks until he's twenty-one, or at least until he moves out of Belleville and builds a new life for himself. He is a gilded, barely roistering youth, up until now intent on ending his own life by the end of the year. Now he can start to imagine a glimpse of January, the thin snow sheets that fall with that blue feeling. Resolutions of weight loss and good habits. He wants a head start, and that begins with cutting out alcohol cold turkey.
This is the last night, he swears.
Patrick and his circle of friends aren't feeling talkative, still unsure what to think about Pete. Rumours have spread like a disease. Mikey neither confirms nor denies any of them. They're some miles out of town, shadows of trees covering their tiny bodies and reckless mistakes. There's a bonfire, a pathetic attempt at making a stand, which roasts their marshmallows and warms their palms.
"Apparently Frank was a vegetarian," someone says in poor jest, "I wonder if he was the kind that ate marshmallows anyway. Screw the rules and all."
Mikey reckons if he were a vegetarian, he'd divulge every once in a while. The fluffy treats are a luxury he wouldn't want to give up so fast. "It's kind of funny," he muses, pouring himself a shot of whiskey into a bottle cap.
The others sip on their own plastic cups, chasing intoxication. He's already halfway there.
"What's funny?" Patrick asks.
"That he was a vegetarian. They're supposed to care about animal rights and then he killed a bunch of teenagers." Okay, out loud, it doesn't sound so hilarious. His sense of humour has gone to hell but if he doesn't laugh, he'll cry or drink himself to death. He's a long way from over it.
There's some low chuckles from the group, trying to make him feel included, but Patrick hardly cracks a smile. "Are we really gonna sit in this clearing all night and talk about the psycho who scarred us for life?" He raises his solo cup filled with cheap beer, making an impromptu toast. "Here's to new opportunities. Here's to Andy Hurley and finally skipping town."
Mikey stammers a 'cheers' then has to ask, "What - who are you talking about?"
"He's our drummer," Patrick informs him, talking about his band, and then his voice goes low in remorse, "who's moving to Chicago."
"You're moving to Chicago?" Mikey repeats dumbly. The whole band? That would include Pete except...
"We've heard enough about the case - or rather, we've seen you refuse to talk about it and we can assume it's pretty bad." Patrick holds a marshmallow over the fire. "None of us want to stay here and we're not going to let Pete's drama hold us back. I know he's getting locked up, Miko." He shakes his head to stop Mikey from interrupting. "So yeah, there's an opening for a bassist." He looks at the younger, vulnerable boy and asks him an impossibly huge question. "Are you coming?"
Chicago. His New Year, his fresh start. But he can't, and this is his heartbreak of the night.
"No," he answers at once and the words are cloaked in shame, "I have unfinished business here."
Patrick nods like he was expecting such a response. "That's okay." He pulls back his blackened candy to eat, the soft licking of the flames tainting his face with orange. "We've got some time before we go. Andy's still looking at apartments. He has family in the industry, connections who could sign us."
"I've never even heard you play." Mikey deflates. He's going to miss Patrick. Christ, he wants to go but something is holding him here - his parents, Pete, Gerard? God only knows.
"We've been doing some small gigs in town over summer, got to New York a few times. It's nothing major but it's our Plan A, and there's no backup. We owe it to ourselves to try make a name for ourselves."
"And Pete?" Mikey presses. This warrants a sour face of uncertainty as Patrick takes a deep drink from his cup.
"Like I said - like you know - he'll be locked up. Whatever he did, I wouldn't be surprised." He's an all-seeing owl, head full of wisdom when he eyes Mikey up. "He didn't treat you the way people are supposed to be treated." It's a statement, not a question.
Mikey says nothing, still conflicted. The urge to get raging drunk eats at him.
"I want to sing about what happened here," Patrick admits suddenly and the confession makes his companion want to weep. "In Chicago, in Seattle, in Las Vegas and LA."
"West Coast, then," Mikey alleges but it's not an accusation, "far from New Jersey."
"I'd happily live the California Dream. None of us have ever been out there. Maybe we'll make our way over, steadily aiming for the Pacific Coast. Maybe we'll totally flop and the whole thing will have been for nothing, Andy's connections be damned." He shrugs. "Have to do something though. Have to keep going forward."
Mikey wishes he could have that mindset but something is always holding him back.
>
In The Past
Exactly two years ago, I walk through the door of my house, throwing my school-bag onto the stairs and hanging my jacket up beside it. "Mom? Dad? Are you in?"
It hasn't been a bad day. I got a B in my latest English paper and being Friday, I've completed the stretch of another long week of education. I feel boundless, free from the torment of any bullying for at least the weekend, ready to spend all the time I can with my family.
"In the kitchen!" My mom chirps, and the smell of fresh vegetarian lasagne proves her right.
I must look like a hungry animal from a Disney movie upon smelling a pie, my nose practically lifting me off my feet and toward my dinner.
It's pretty early but my parents know I don't tend to eat breakfast nor a huge lunch so I've built up an appetite over the course of the day. They can read my mind in terms of the menu I would have picked.
"You're home late," she notes as she opens the oven and pulls out a perfectly made meal. I'm convinced my mother is the world's best cook.
"I went out with Ray. Where's dad?"
"He got bored with the car being at the mechanics', so he went hunting with that damn new shotgun of his," she sighs, dropping the oven-mitts on the counter, "you and I, Frankie, could never understand what he finds so enjoyable about slaughtering helpless and innocent creatures."
The way she says it makes it seem harsher than it really is. He doesn't always enjoy it - we make good money out of selling what he hunts and that's the main motive. He's quick and humane when he puts them down. I don't approve of it, especially being a vegetarian, but it could be worse.
"Lasagne's my favourite," I smile, changing the subject.
She makes it from scratch and has spent years perfecting the recipe. I could have it for every meal for the rest of my life and still, she hasn't told me exactly what ingredients she uses. 'They're a secret until you go to college and learn the joys of cooking for yourself.' I, for one, can't wait.
"I know," she sing-songs, "that's why I made it. It's your birthday, of course. Did you think any more about what you plan on doing?"
"I'll probably just go see a movie with Ray tomorrow since it's Friday."
Maybe I'll call up Pete tonight. We could stay up late and I could meet Ray in the morning for the movie. 'John Wick' was just released and everyone can agree that Keanu Reeves is a legend. I need a little action and excitement this weekend since it's not every day you turn sixteen.
"You and that boy are joined at the hip." Mom sighs dramatically but teasingly with a smile. "I can't believe my baby is in his second last year of high-school."
"I've been in it for a while now, mom." I chuckle.
Junior year hasn't been kind to me - the assessments are piling up and I really can't wait to be a senior, and to graduate in 2016. I want the limitless glory of the Earth at my feet, to walk out those double doors and know I'm free.
"Have you considered college any more?" She knows I don't want to go - she knows I want to run off and get tattoos and maybe start a band, and although we're both aware it's unrealistic, she supports me no matter what.
"I don't know." I mumble. Thoughts of the future stress me out. I sit down and pick at the frayed edges of my made-fingerless gloves.
"None of that at the table," she scolds me upon seeing the scattered black thread and the front door slams shut, indicating my dad is back. I haven't seen him all day so I get to my feet and grin when I run over to him.
He smiles back and envelopes me in a hug. "Happy birthday, kid."
"I'm not!" I protest.
"I get two more years of calling you that and I don't plan on wasting them."
"Love, I made lasagne." Mom comes up behind us and kisses my dad on the cheek. He rolls his eyes at her modesty and pulls her in for mouth-to-mouth contact to which she laughs. After twenty years of being married, there's still so much love between them.
I pretend to gag and look away but it brings a fondness to my heart too. If I could ever share half that amount of love with someone else, I'd be complete. But there's something that continuously nags at me.
Sometimes I feel there's something wrong with me because I really can't - God knows I've tried - feel so strongly about anyone, not even them. Of course they're my parents and I have a connection with both of them, and they're almost tragically perfectly lovely people, but I don't love them, and this scares me. I'd never tell them, though. Maybe I'm a sociopath or just incapable of love.
I mean, okay, I love them a little - they brought me into this world, nurtured and protected me, and I'll always feel close to them. I owe them everything. But sometimes I simply confuse affection with obligation.
"I only got two rabbits today." Dad pulls a face at his lack of progress and it's only then that I realise the pair of dead, furry things slung over his shoulder. I grimace and step away from him.
"Well, you can put them away before you sit down for dinner - somewhere they won't smell." Mom rolls her eyes, remembering the time he left a bird in the cupboard for a week before it stank out the entire house for a month.
He has some unnerving hobbies and habits but nobody tries to stop him.
He hides them away then we all sit down to dinner. Dad pipes up with a mouthful of quorn, "have you opened your present yet?"
"I—"
I'm interrupted by the sound of the door opening then closing and quiet footsteps. My mom almost calls out presumably to ask who's there but my dad slaps a hand over her mouth in panic.
"Sh," he whispers to us, "I'll get the shotgun."
She stares at him wide-eyed with confusion but he's quick to act, hardened in the way of the hunt. I'm just a kid, totally clueless and reliant on them to protect me like they always have. I trust them. I tremble in my seat, fearing I'll swallow my own tongue in attempts to keep silent.
He stands up and his chair scrapes back noisily. We all flinch and the stranger at the door's footsteps quicken in our direction.
A middle-aged man with a dark beard, black beanie, combat boots and beady eyes appears at the kitchen doorway. He holds a knife up and has a large bag in his other hand.
He's a stranger, clearly intent on mugging us. His clothes suggest he was meant to be in stealth mode, probably having seen the lack of car out front - of course it's at the mechanic's shop, timing be damned - and the kitchen light is round back, hidden from the dark skies of dusk. His back straightens in mild surprise when he spots the owners of the house.
"Thought there'd be nobody 'ere," he comments in a strong Southern accent, watching how my family stand and huddle together, my dad in front of us and spreading his arms out. "No car in the drive, ain't that right? I was gonna steal some things from ya then take off, but I ain't lettin' no witnesses go free." He lunges for my dad.
A lot of things happen at once. The memories are foggy because maybe I'm so terrified that I'm on the brink of passing out. In years to come, I'll wish I had eaten breakfast or a larger lunch for the energy it could have provided me - I wish for my muscles to grow, to give me strength and courage in the face of danger. But I'm only sixteen.
Dad fights him off, landing a swift kick to his abdomen and punching him in the throat, leaving him to bend over and choke. But the criminal does have a knife and he captures my dad in a headlock, collapsing back onto one of the chairs at the table and pressing the blade to his neck.
"Frank!" Mom cries out, her arms protectively tightening around me.
She's shouting out for my dad who shares my name, the bulge of his Adam's apple scraping against the knife. The burglar coughs out, stunned from the attack on his own neck, quickly regaining the upper hand.
"Mm, your wife sure is pretty, Frank." The invader eyes up my mom and I feel vomit threatening to spill from my mouth. "Maybe I'll have some fun with her 'fore I chop her up, huh?"
It feels like I'm inside the box of an old television, staring at the scene from the outside in. Biting my nails, hiding behind a cushion or clutching the edge of a loveseat. I can hardly watch.
"No—" My dad tries to elbow him in the ribs but the burglar leans back before purposely digging the blade into my dad's neck, sliding it across his throat in a single clean motion. A thin red line manifests from his flesh, bright and clumped. Blood spurts and he claws at his enemy's arms before collapsing onto the floor, lifeless. A pool swims around him.
"FRANK!" My mom screeches and launches herself at the man. He also gets her in a headlock and tugs at her hair, licking his lips.
I scream. My knees shake and I force myself to look away from my father's corpse, backing into the counter and trembling in shock horror. I've never seen a dead body; I thought I would never need to, and especially not like this. The lasagne grows cold, its smell wafting to our noses, mixed in with iron and the stench of fear.
The man pulls tighter on my mom's hair and she gasps, going rigid. His gloves tangle in her hair. The imaginary TV box I reside in has switched off, leaving a blank screen I'm trying to fight through.
"Please." My voice cracks beyond recognition. I don't know what I should say - what the right move is to make. No amount of nature and nurture in the world prepares you to negotiate for your mother's life.
"Please what?" The man taunts.
This is all a game to him. We are pawns in his chess set, pieces of carved wood that can be knocked over and disposed of if he's careless enough.
I blanch. "We have money, o-okay? Just - just take whatever you want and p-please leave, please! I'll do anything; don't h-hurt her! Oh, God."
Maybe he'll take the offer. It's what he came here for, right? He wanted our valuables, to sneak around and stuff them in his pockets when he thought no-one was home under the cover of a dark October night, disguised more effectively than a Halloween mask. But this is no ordinary burglar and the dead body of my father on the floor proves it.
He laughs. It's low and dangerous before he stops. "No witnesses." Then he slits my mother's throat.
I yell again, collapsing to my knees then scrambling away from the pool of blood, clutching my head with my hands.
It's everywhere, the red. I think I'll recall the colour for as long as I live and even after that. The flawless texture worms its way to where I sit, ruining the tiles like acid in a bathtub. It unfolds in slow motion like I'm drowning. The threat of blacking out is there at the back of my scorched mind.
I was about to eat my favourite meal with my family, a perfectly average Friday night. I was supposed to call Pete, ask him for company on my birthday, go to see 'John Wick' with Ray in the morning. We would have stared at that big screen in the movie theatre without a care in the world, getting lost in mindless entertainment. That was as much of a thrill as I craved.
The murderer starts toward me before shaking his head. He wipes the knife clear of fingerprints, making sure nobody will ever find him, and drops it by my feet. I cover my eyes and hear him run out the back door.
I briefly open my eyes, turning to gag at my parents' bodies, before the lights go out for good.
Of course, the lights stay out for a long, long time.
It's a shame that my dad couldn't reach his gun in time. If he did, I would have never come into possession of the thing, would have never had to pull the trigger on it myself. It's funny, the wedges that time and fate push into your psyche.
A year and a half later, my psyche will totally and irreversibly break down. I will take that weapon and use it to kill as I've seen others killed. I will hear their screams and release them from the burdens of their life, from their grip on reality.
I remember what I ask Pete less than forty-eight hours before it happens, before I make the decision to commit my unspeakable crime: "Do you believe in hell?"
He smokes those damn menthols, the cool air flooding his lungs. He sucks on one like a lifeline, like it tethers him to the ground and himself and keeps him from being yanked up into the clouds, far out of the atmosphere he hates so much. I bet he wishes he could leave it sometimes too. Maybe that's why I don't tell him I don't want to leave the scene alive.
"I believe," Pete draws out like a great philosopher, "in nothing. No heaven, no karma, no hauntings." Another puff, another poisonous breath in then out. "No God, no soulmates. People spend their entire miserable existences helping each other - trying to get their loved ones on the right path to the great gig in the sky. But those pearly white gates have never existed, and if they did, no human being on this earth is worthy enough to escape their fate of rotting in the ground."
He turns to me then, a real sinner. He pauses to consider a wicked idea, an encouragement to my evil. "I would make it hurt," he divulges, referring to my plan, "there's no use for a shotgun. I'll tell you this: one by one, a baseball bat would be my weapon of choice." He smirks to himself, a finite hint of his own insanity much to my obliviousness. "It feels good to make people hurt."
This is what I want. This is all I have: pain. I'm absorbed in it, collecting it at every turn of my life story. And in my delirium, I take his word for it and think he's right. It will feel good to do what I plan to do.
This is the end of all good things.