(To Connor McManus)
�Take me back to the alley, Roc.�
�Aw, shit, Connor, no.�
�I fuckin� mean it, Roc, take me to the alley.� Connor presses his forehead against the car window and it�s a blissfully cold contrast to how he�s burning up inside.
�Don�t do this to yourself, Con.�
On fucking fire. �Take me BACK to the FUCKING alley, Rocco, you worthless sack of SHIT, or I swear to God I�ll- � He�ll- what? He lifts the bottle to his lips, pours more fuel onto the fire. Doesn�t matter. �Please,� he mumbles, staring out the window at the slow-moving street.
�He�s in the ground, Connor, you can�t keep draggin� it back up, it�ll kill you too- �
White light exploding behind his eyes, blind hand finding the door handle, cold air, asphalt rushing up to meet his face, Roc�s startled cursing-
Painfully Connor drags himself up to his feet and stares at the flaring red brake lights. �Fuck you too, Rocco!� he screams, not caring who hears, kicking the broken shards of the whiskey bottle into the curb. They explode with a crystal sound like a breaking heart. �You can fucking go to hell for all I care!�
The lights go out and Rocco drives away.
***
Back to the alley.
He lies down on the pavement, his movements slow and careful with alcohol, curling himself tightly around the hand that met the pavement first. He�s grateful for the pain, the slowly-seeping blood. Outside should match inside, bloody and bruised. His eyes scan the dirty asphalt, seeking one dark discolored stain. He inches over, lovingly settling his head against it.
�I�m here, Murph,� he whispers to the impression of his brother�s dying blood. �I came back, like I promised.�
His eyes close, his body shakes with weeping, tears run down into the discolored pavement.
***
He can still remember the voices, down in the alley below the open window. He could hear them from where he lay, slumped over the toilet that was now stained red. He�d beaten himself half-senseless struggling to get free, knocking his head against the heavy porcelain. He�d half-sawed through his wrists trying to get them out of the handcuffs. Maybe he�d bleed to death there, listening to some loud-voiced Sergeant Greenly down below directing his fellow officers to haul off Murphy�s body �and for Christ�s sake someone try to find the rest of his head.�
By the time Connor got out of the hospital the neighbors took him to, the body was locked away in its city-issued coffin and moments away from being put in the ground. The casket was nailed shut- �to spare everyone the nightmares,� the coroner said.
And so the last time he saw his brother�s face was when Murphy looked back over his shoulder as the Russians pulled him out the door. The last time he heard his brother�s voice was when Murphy had called out his name, a last agonized scream just a second before the gunshot.
The last he�d seen of his brother�s existence was this bloodstain in the alley. And so he comes back here, time and again. He promises to always come back here.
***
Back to the alley.
�Hey, Murph,� he mumbles, carefully setting a bottle of whiskey in the center of the stain. He raised its twin in a toast and then let it continue its course up to his mouth. �Tha� one�s fr�you.�
He closes his eyes and talks to Murphy as he works his way through the bottle- about how he was on leave from the meat-packing plant, but isn�t sure he can ever bear to go back. Too many memories around that place. Can�t go back to their church, either. He�ll find another one, never worry, but he just hasn�t been able to look lately...
Their friends and acquaintances have been feeding him, letting him crash in corners and closets. Can�t go back to the loft, of course. Can never go back there.
�I just don�t know what to do without you,� he whispers. �It hurts too bad to even live. I just want it to stop.� He takes another drink. �I�ve gotta find something to make it stop, or I tell ya, Murph, I�ll go mad.�
He tells Murphy about something he read once. A thing called phantom pain. Amputees would insist they could still feel the missing limb, even though it was gone.
�That�s what it�s like,� he says. �I can still sense you, hear you, even fucking smell you. But when I turn to look, you aren�t there.� He takes another sip. �Phantom pain.�
When he finishes his bottle, he starts on Murphy�s. He knows his brother wouldn�t mind.
They shared everything, after all.
***
�Your brother�s dead,� the young cop told him, and Connor just blinked stupidly at him. He knew that already. He�d heard the gunshot.
He wanted to tell the man to go fuck himself, or just wring his goddamned neck, but he was too doped-up on morphine to speak and anyway, they�d strapped him down to the bed to keep him from getting up and running away.
***
Back to the alley.
�I found a way to make it stop,� he tells the now barely-visible stain, after he moves bags of the neighbors� garbage off of it. Fucking disrespectful pigs. �Now, I know you would�na approve, but be reasonable, Murphy. You don�t know how awful bad it hurts to be left here by yourself, after all, you�ve the saints and angels to look after you...� He blinks tears away. �What have I got? I�m here all alone. No one to watch my back anymore.�
He settles himself carefully in his habitual spot; no bottle today, but he drops the cap from a beer down for Murphy. Figures that�s all a spirit needs anyway, is the memory of a drink.
He talks to his brother as he sets up the few things he pulls from the pockets of his worn-out coat. He�s not imposing on the neighborhood anymore; he�ll find his own way. Formally quit the plant; it just hurt too bad to go back there, even walking into the building to quit had sent him to the bars for the rest of the night. Doesn�t have a place to stay just now, but it�s summer yet and there are abandoned buildings aplenty down by the docks. Murphy doesn�t need to worry about old Connor. He�ll get by.
He�s already found something to help.
He arranges them in a painfully neat line on the pavement. Needle, bag of powder, spoon, lighter, tourniquet. All present and ready.
�Now I know you wouldn�t approve,� he says again, glancing at the bottle cap. �But try to understand. Or don�t fucking look if it bothers you so much.�
He revels in the comfort of a new ritual for his hands, just as he used to when they went through the motions of the rosary. He couldn�t bear to even look at his anymore, much less touch it; not since its twin had gone into the ground.
�Forgive me, brother,� he says as he seeks out the proper vein, still awkward and unpracticed, �but I just can�t stand it any other way.�
***
Mother had screamed into the phone, she always fucking screamed, and he�d had to hang up in the middle of it because her anguished cries fed back into the ones in his own head and heart until he couldn�t tell what was him and what was her anymore and he couldn�t stand it. And then he was ashamed for hanging up on their mother, so of course he couldn�t call her again.
***
An alley, shadowy, hidden, no one could see.
�Come on,� he whispers, hoarse and panting, hands shaking with fevered need, �let me see the fuckin� money.�
Flash of bills in the dim light. He lunges at them, every nerve ending raw and screaming, but they vanish away again into a coat pocket.
�Y�can see it, but y�can�t have it till y�do yer part,� the man scolds mildly. Connor trembles with hate and revulsion and need, but nods and takes a step deeper back into the alley.
�Come on then,� he growls, eyes flicking anxiously at the street. �Don�t wanna be caught by some fucking cop...� His voice trails off as he looks around him.
�What? What�s wrong?� the man asks, suddenly fearful. He clutches at his pocket and moves as if to leave the alley. Connor�s heart leaps up into his throat- no, he couldn�t leave, the money couldn�t leave, he needed it, fuck, he needed it, Christ, needed it to buy his medicine for the fucking crushing numbing pain...
�It�s nothing, it�s nothing,� he mumbles, hands fluttering about anxiously. �I just realized, I used to live by here. It�s nothing.� His eyes flick to the spot next to the dumpster, the oozing mountain of trash bags there.
At least they covered up the stain. Murphy couldn�t see a thing through all that garbage.
�Come on,� he says. �Let�s get on with it then.�
�You druggie bums,� the man says contemptuously, leaning back against the wall and opening his fly. Connor sinks to his knees without instruction, stomach clenching in disgust and anger. �You�d sell your fucking soul for a week�s stash, so what�s selling your mouth for a twenty?�
Connor clenches his jaw and closes his eyes and keeps thinking about the money. The medicine- he clings to the word with stubborn feverish devotion- he needs.
Rough hand on the back of his head, fingers pulling at his hair, pushing him forward.
Has to have it. Only thing that works. He�ll do anything.
Anything to numb the phantom pain of having half of him blown away.
Feedback is like oxygen.
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