Standoff
What do I do?
He’s ready. Why aren’t I? I can fix it. Everything’s his fault, everything that I have ever suffered, born from him, the things he’s taken from me, the people he’s turned against me, those fucking dreams. HE did it. If I’m Icarus, he’s the sun. Fuck, he’s my white whale, the mirage to my Sahara, the quicksand that kills me before I even think about the mountain. Is he the mountain?
No.
I’ve climbed mountains. Ground out past pain, stood still in blizzards, watched the flakes rush in and run away, seen a sunrise after pitch black, stitched together broken hearts, not all of them mine… But every victory, every time I stand tall, he’s there, stripping the muscles from my legs, bored before I finish falling.
Cold air, goddamn paper thin jacket. Paper thin resolve. If he touched me I’d fall apart like the dying leaves dancing between us. Spinning. The world is spinning again. The ripples in his face aren’t helping. Shit.
Just squeeze. Just squeeze. Fucking SQUEEZE. PULL THE TRIGGER YOU COWARD!
Why isn’t he scared? Not a twitch, no expression, no stranger to fear. He terrifies me.
A monster.
No.
A brother. He’s not there anymore, not looking at me. He’s with the younger one, the baby, and she’s giggling. A smile so wide I can feel her cheeks hurt, and he holds her up, spinning her, and
she laughs louder. Is he laughing? I can see his teeth. A smile I think, mild, unaggressive, I know that, but those teeth, sharp- is he snarling?
The older one now, and she cries, and he holds her, and she sobs, and he grows, soft, protective, warm. I can see his eyes. They burn.
Love? I can see the mechanics, the molecules of the flame, but feel cold. His honey colored eyes burn bitter and cold.
I don’t understand. He’s back. Should he die? Should I die?
What do I do?
I'm so dizzy. The lines on his face zig-zag, drag out, stretch until they don't make sense. I run my fingers through my hair, he does the same, breathes in sync with me. He's mocking me, my indecision, my fear.
He smiles at me, that snarl, lips curled back over wolf's teeth. That's the smile, that none but me can see through until it's too late, that almost no one can escape. His eyes are so empty, so bored, but that smile makes them seem full, keen and discerning. Disconcerting. If he spoke, the words would move me, a glacial voice, an avalanche of words. He knows me.
I know him. I knew him. He knows me.
He makes everyone feel like he knows them. That hiding is nonsense, just time spent avoiding the inevitable. His face ripples, and the world is fucking whirling
What
the
fuck
is
HAPPENING.
That boy, the one with fingers like guitar strings, the one that plucks and strokes and serenades. The one I love like a brother. Why couldn't he be a brother to him?
He smiles, and demands, and speaks, and insults, and juggles words. I can't hear them but I see them cut and pin and isolate and reshape. The boy is smiling. He understands this fucker's reason. He swallows it, accepts it, falls in line.
Why would he do that to someone? How could he? So many words, they make sense, but they don't, like waves. Illusion of order, just chaos. A monkey on a type writer, slapping the keys so hard and so fast that he writes a novel.
but
Those smiles are genuine. Are they happy? Is he, that wolf, that monster, happy? Not at his expense, with him. He moves like a snake, speaks in serpent tongue, a nightmare, but he wants to be a nightmare to his nightmares. To the musician's nightmares.
A nightmare. A friend.
Heartless. He looks heartless, like a black hole, empty. How can you be an empty friend? You have to love. Does he love? How can you love without a heart?
What do I do?
His teeth clack on the bit in his mouth. The barrel.
I pull the trigger.
I do that. I should do that. My fingers aren’t moving though. He’s controlling me. I can’t move. Let me collapse, you prick. The red and brown and orange trees sling around me faster now. They blur together, a burning hurricane.
I’m in hell, I must be
Can’t be, she’s here. So is he. I hate him so much. They just met, and the leaves are dying, like they are next to the lake. I hate him so much, but my gun is gone. I can’t kill him. I can only watch. Something isn’t right. His eyes are warm. He isn’t snarling. She looks so happy.
They walk hand in hand, the hollow wolf, and her, wispy, sad, but sturdy. Next to her he looks so small, so innocent, so real and human and full of life and worth something. No malice in his empty eyes. Like a dream.
He has dreams. He must dream. Not inhuman.
Different.
Monstrous. Not a monster.
He must. He must hope. What if he’s gone? What of his sisters? What of the others he might meet? He will hurt and they will hurt, but they might grow, and so might he. I know, I’ve seen. He does good.
His eyes are sad now. And it starts to snow. It’s too early in the year for snow, but it snows.
He watches snowflakes like me. He stands still while they whirl, he loves them for the shapes, how they aren’t the same. He used to catch his favorite.
I used to catch my favorite, but they melt. I’ve learned to watch now.
Now. I think we’re ready. No clicking. No retching, no bleeding, no twisting, no straight line.
No cold iron in my mouth.
