People always ask about my childhood. They look in my dark eyes and glare at my structure and grimace at my words. I live and breathe fear and I can see by the way the spot between their eyebrows creases, I can see that they wonder how I got this way. They try to figure out my childhood, and once they realize they can't read minds- like me-, they ask with hesitant tones and flexing nostrils, "How were you as a child?" and I'd give a short laugh that would leave them with cocked heads, and walk off with a strut that leaves them with wild eyes.
The thing is, I don't really have anything to hide. I just get a kick out of confusing people, for some odd reason. My childhood was full of wealth and success. My mother's arms would protect me and graze me and flay me. My love for her scourges me, a codependency that not even I feel right about. Her shoulders were strong and her body, towering. She would play Beethoven for me and read me a story of romance every night before bed, after brushing my teeth with 204 strokes.
The skulls that my mother would prance about would fascinate me. "That is the Occipital, right around the Parietal." and how could I get bored of that? I eagerly let myself be taught because I knew in the end, I would be rewarded with something so beautiful and something so irreplaceable. "Yes, and the average human chin is 1 to 2 inches." and her worn cheekbones would flex and her smile will cover her face and, yes, that was it, the gold, the love, the reward, her smile. I would reach out my fat, swollen hands to touch it and she would gently bat my hand away.
Everything was perfect. I felt true joy and I cherished my brother and my father and my mother. My father was a lazy drunk and would stay out late, but I was so young that I never really minded his presence or the absence of such. The joy faded like wringing out a blood soaked rag. I watched the red rust get sucked down the drain. I woke up to the sound of my mother's rippling screams, echoing through the country. I rushed down the stairs to my mother's aid, but I realized my small legs didn't take me there fast enough because blood was curtaining the walls and carpeting the floors and I couldn't focus on the clues, the details, focus on the details, Sherlock, because my throat was flexing and acids were boiling and puke rushed out of my mouth as my spine fixed itself to a hunch and my hands grabbed my knees to stop from falling in all that blood.
The police made no effort to fix this, to bring justice. I remember my father chugging a glass of Pabst Blue Ribbon as DCS (Department of Children's Services) carried my brother and I off into a distant land that I knew in my mind the wind would take me away from. I would run away, and Mycroft would to. "We must leave." I said, climbing on my brother's foreign top bunk. We never had bunk beds before, it was alien to us and we hated it. "Yes. Who will take us?" He ventured, his voice as quiet as mine. "We must trust in the moon. It will lead the way." and as anticipated, Mycroft answered with a snort, "You never did like that big rock." and I answered automatically, feeling braver than ever since Mother died, "Nor you, Mycroft!" and so we left the morning after, hiding in a barn after hitch hiking and having innocence drained from us in gallons from mean looks of the bearded Jesus-looking drivers and the snorts of pigs in the back that we had to endure for weeks and weeks.
I'm not proud, but I did steal. I stole food for Mycroft and... heroin for me. I felt a numbness without my mother's teachings and my mother's yes, that was it, the gold, the love, the reward, her smile. In the barn we stayed at for a home for the following 4 years, I would flex and fidget and scar the skin that I take from my father. I hated how I looked like him. How could he not be looking for us? Well, fuck, he probably was but the police don't care. I didn't know that at the time. The drugs pumping in my veins, fueling worse behavior that I ever thought I could complete years ago, those drugs numbed me and excited me in all the same way. Mycroft never messed with it. He only cried over the polka-dots over my pale skin, once so gold. "You're gonna die." He whispered one night, right at 5:00 AM. "Yeah. I'll die happy." I yelled to God, Jesus, Buddah, who ever the fuck would listen at this point.
The DCS found us one day. They took us in, and we were forced into school and surprisingly, I did well. It was easy, and boring as anything. I was not rewarded with angelic smiles, and I already knew all of this.
"Children," Mycroft said, nursing my bruises. "can be cruel." I punched him in the shoulder gently, wincing inwardly at the pain in my bruised knuckles. Mycroft huffed a laugh.
School passed eventually, and I decided to get into college. That, too, passed like a single wave in a lonely sea, obviously too far out to be anything bigger than a foot. Just a gust of wind velveting the ocean, making a small, sad wave. I became a detective and Mycroft left me, left me, left me, left me. He left me ugly, and angry. "You've lost it!" He screamed, his voice raw and hoarse. "You're insane!" His face was open and venerable. "Yeah," said I, quiet. "I'll leave you to it." His eyes widened with my calm, and his throat flexed insanely with hesitation. What was he trying to say next? I could guess if I wanted, but I didn't. I just stared at him with virgin, human eyes. He saw this, and moved his hands out in front of him. He reached for me, and I stepped back. "I'll leave you to it." I repeated. His bawled his hands into fists. He turned on his hill and left.
Years later, I found myself so human. I stared with a gaze that would make therapists cry at papers marked "murder", "murder", and "deceased", and "unknown", and "john" and "jane" doe. I opened my throat one day and threw papers across the room. "Fuck!" I screamed, my voice high and much too loud to not be embarrassing.
I got used to the pain, and it kind of faded as I learned that we're all just robots with a god complex. I looked men dead in the eye and told them everything they did the week before and as I watched their pained expressions with misunderstanding and confusing, I felt cocky and let it consume me. This was the plan all along, I realized. I was never meant to be happy, no, not in this life time. I knew it from the moment I felt those unhealthy, codependent feelings toward my mother. No one should want their mother to wear their skin, no one should want their mother to live forever and ever and ever, no matter how boring and cruel the world is and no matter how much they scream for the gift of death. I knew it ever since heroin was the best thing ever once, even when I had the warmth and love of Mycroft, and ever since I took advantage of that. (I don't have him anymore, oh god, I. ) and I knew it ever since I found it so easy to be honest and ever since I found it such a breeze to numb myself, to objectify myself.
But you had to go and ruin it didn't you? I was numb and then you had to tear everything up. "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." and Mike said words, and I said them back, and your voice was there and open and honest when you had said, "Uhm. Here... Use mine." and I fell in love with your lack of grimace and wild eyes. There was just something I couldn't place about you. I couldn't figure out why you looked at me with such awe and comment, "Marvelous!" and "Fantastic!" and "Wonderful!" and, yes, that was it, the gold, the love, the reward, your smile.
I let myself fall in love and I fell in love harder on top of that roof, staring down faith. This was the plan all along, I realized. I called you because my heart ached like it never did for your voice and my throat flexed like the night mother died for your touch. I have a stronger stomach now though, and a heart to please you. "I- I-...I can't come down, so we'll ... we'll just have to do it like this." I stuttered, scared to open to you like this. Scared, so scared. "Wh- What's going on?" The worry in your voice and the anxiety and your heart pounding fast, for me, made my eyes feel up with tears, bottled up for so long. I shuttered, crying for you. "An apology. It's all true."
We talked, longer than I wanted. Tears stained my skin, so golden now. "Nobody could be that clever." I told you. "You could." You argued, so sure. I wanted to go down there, step over Moriary's body, and reach you and touch you. Touch you over your face, your hair, your shoulder, your scars, your nose, your lips, all of you. But, I couldn't live with you hurting. I'd rather me than you. Oh, a codependency that stings. "This phone call – it's, er ... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they– ...leave a note." I explained, my voice frantic. "Leave a note when?" but you knew when, did you? "Goodbye, John." I hear your shift, I hear your throat flex, I hear the gears in your hand start working in earnest, I hear the friction and the smoke and the pain, and I fall deeper into love with you. "No. Don't." I drop the phone. I step on the ledge. I think of mother's smile, or I try to. But the thought has left me. I don't remember it. Which is odd, if you ask me. I spread my arms out wide and hear your yelp with all that emotions that I've lacked for too long. I fall in love, I fall out, I fall in the pits of shame, I fall in the pits of insanity, I fall off a hospital building, I fall into baskerville, I fall into every case I spent with you, and every case not spent with you.
I fall.