Syphon

Chapter 14: October is a very long month

Edward was ashamed of himself, but it was dissimilar shame, different, all the while unchanging. It was not for the things that he had already done, which was an encompassing shame, lingering, like smoke, but for a single moment of hysteria. Hysteria was deeply provocative, and suggestive, however, amassing. It was never a single moment, just an accumulation, growing, like vines, eventually smothering itself out. Hysteria was like panic, but panic was sudden, singular. But hysteria was small, like a seed, sprouting, but death was forthcoming, because the roots had become rotten. Root rot, they call it, death in the midst of life. Desperation was the cornerstone of hysteria, because desperation fed fear, not the greatest of fears, but the smallest insecurities. There was weakness in all things, even impenetrable things. A nick, or even a crack, could crumble mountains, just as a scratch could rust through metal.

Edward knew why he did bad things. There used to be a crack, but it had become a rift, wrenching itself apart. Edward tried to pull himself back together, but there was nothing strong enough to suture the split, the fissure, the fracture, because it was a wound. A wound was only as strong as the host, and once the wound was rotten, there was only one option. Amputation. Edward never cared for his cuts, for his bruises, preferring to leave them be, as though they would resolve themselves. There was no real resolution, though, just prolonging, as the infection set in. A fever would follow, but the fever was immaterial, just like the wound, and no medicine in the world could control it. Not the morphine, or the steroids, the alcohol, nor the needle, nothing. And at some point, Edward would have to look at himself in the mirror, just to acknowledge his reflection, knowing that there was no cure, not for this.

In a moment of weakness, Edward latched onto Alphonse. Edward knew that it wasn't weakness, but what was left of his humanity, and his desperation, because he was ultimately human. Alphonse didn't say anything, he just let the conversation go. Edward couldn't control the words, he had been hysterical, and now, something like regret was settling inside his stomach. Edward was still lying in bed, Alphonse had left a little while ago, leaving the door open, occasionally walking by to check on him. Edward had lost track of time, he wasn't even sure of how he had gotten there, to Alphonse's house, to the bed, it was all a blur. He was watching the clock, it was almost a quarter to twelve, time passing in hour increments. Edward thought about getting out of bed, but he lacked the physical strength, he felt tired, heavy, like he couldn't sustain his own weight. Edward's resolve was weak, surrendering to something much stronger, like depression, and despair, so Edward remained in bed, awake, but unresponsive.

Alphonse had called a doctor, Edward had overheard the conversation through the door. His ribs were broken, the plate on his chest was crushing his lungs, and he couldn't breathe. But the doctor was out of town, and Edward was alive, so he had to wait until the end of the week. By then, Edward would be a mess. There were no drugs in Alphonse's house, nor was there a decent drug trade in Resembool, so Edward would have to withdraw. He couldn't leave, he had to stay, because leaving would only result in something far more gruesome, far more grotesque, than painkillers. And besides that, Alphonse was watching him, Alphonse couldn't trust him, because Edward tried to kill himself. It was the first thing that Alphonse mentioned to the doctor, Edward took too many painkillers, he was trying to kill himself, and I don't know what to do. The doctor gave Alphonse a small set of instructions, which he relayed back to Edward, that Edward wasn't allowed to be left alone, no sharp objects, no medications, check his breathing, his heart rate. The most important thing, if anything, was that Edward was supposed to rest, stress might aggravate his condition, and that was all.

Edward knew what he had done, he had gone home with the sole purpose of blowing his brains out. But he couldn't remember what went wrong, he was confused, the events convoluted. The only thing that he knew for sure, with certainty, was that he was still alive. Edward did not regret his decision, it was his choice, and it was his life to take. And yet, Edward wanted to feel something, anything, but there was something in his brain disallowing him to feel, to really feel something. That was, until Edward heard the voice in his head, he's not looking, take off your leg, let it bleed. Edward sat up, stood up, and walked out of the room.

After the initial shock had worn off, anger aside, Winry had relented to helping Edward, removing some screws, loosening some bolts, releasing some of the pressure on his chest. Things had been strained between Edward and Winry for a long time, and it wasn't Winry's fault, more so Edward's, because he was an asshole. Winry voluntarily helped Edward with his automail, she was a mechanic, and the doctors that installed his arm and leg disappeared after the operation. Winry traveled to Central to repair Edward's automail after the war, after Edward purposefully severed the wires, after he ripped out the siphons and drained the oil, leaving the metal to rust. Winry had been kind to him, she had always been kind, because she liked Ed, because she wanted to be with him. But Edward was fucked up from the war, from pain, from death, and when Winry tried to touch him, he reacted violently, just like he always did. Edward didn't hit Winry, he pushed her away, Winry falling to the floor, Edward seething, malicious words escaping his mouth. Edward didn't apologize, he walked away, leaving her there, weeping. Edward was angry, strung out, manic, malevolent. He needed to project his anger, his agony, at someone, and Winry just happened to be standing there. Edward didn't hate Winry, just himself, because he had hurt her.

But that had been years ago, and Winry had already left for the venue, Alphonse staying behind, because Edward was there, because Al had to watch him. Alphonse was in the kitchen, half dressed, wingtips, suspenders. Alphonse looked up when he noticed Edward, trying to smile, however, failing, "Ed, I was just about to check on you."

Edward was having trouble looking Alphonse in the eye, "I was, I was just," but he couldn't form the words. Edward couldn't tell Alphonse about the voice in his head, his own voice, trying to rip himself to shreds. Edward closed his eyes, took a breath, and grimaced, "When are you leaving."

Alphonse frowned, "We are leaving in an hour."

Edward swallowed, nodding in understanding, but it was really in compliance. Edward wasn't going to fight Alphonse, not now, he didn't have the strength, "OK."

Alphonse had moved from the kitchen, he was standing in front of Edward, "Do you have something to wear, Ed?"

Edward shook his head, "Yes."

Edward walked back into the bedroom, to his bag, removing what little he had packed. He had brought a shirt, slacks, a cardigan, clothes that he wore to work. Edward walked into the bathroom, then, flicking the switch, brilliant, bright, Edward squinting against the light. He should have been horrified by the sight of himself, but concern was exhausting, so Edward just let it go. His eye was red, the blood vessels broken, the skin bruised, like he had a black eye. His skin was pale, his fatigue evident, his lips colorless. And when Edward removed his shirt, a bruise, black, encompassing his chest, the stain spreading, just below his jaw. For a moment, Edward felt nauseous, knowing that he had done this to himself. But he pushed the thought aside, pulling his shirt over his head, with great effort, and yanking his cardigan on. Edward was underdressed, but nothing that Alphonse owned would fit him, because Al was taller, with more mass. And before Edward left the bathroom, he looked back into the mirror, at his eye, bloody, and his neck, black, and he vomited into the toilet.

The drive to the venue wasn't very long, the destination only a few miles south. It was late afternoon, the sun intact, like it was still summer. The wedding was taking place at a farm, retired from service. The weather was still warm, the wildflowers still in bloom, the surrounding fields full of vibrant yellows and pinks. There was a small pond where the ceremony was to take place, sunset the backdrop, twinkling lights leading back to the venue, which was a barn, adorned with ribbons and lace. There was a house, just before the barn, where Alphonse parked the car. Winry was inside, getting ready, and Alphonse was in the parlor making last minute arrangements. Edward was standing outside the door, which was open, Alphonse occasionally glancing up at Ed, who was craving a cigarette. Edward wasn't sure what to do with his hands, as they were beginning to shake, and he shoved them into his pockets.

Edward was trying to distract himself by watching the cars drive by, one by one, and at some point, Edward sat down on the steps, resting his head against the railing. Edward felt out of place, but that wasn't unusual, he always felt out of place. Edward was only there because he was a burden, because he lacked self-control, because he couldn't just be happy for Alphonse. This was how everyone was going to remember him, Edward, Alphonse's problematic older brother. Anyone with eyes could see that Edward was fucking mess, he looked sick, it was almost too obvious. Suddenly, Edward was ashamed, again, thinking that he had ruined yet another phase of Alphonse's life. But that was what Edward did, he fucked things up, he showed up high, got wasted, all the while running his mouth. Edward was going to do better this time, he wasn't going to ruin Alphonse's wedding, because Al was trying to help him. Alphonse was going to help him. But there wasn't much that he could do, there wasn't any alcohol and he didn't have any drugs, just an uncontrollable shaking, in his hands, his teeth, Edward clenching his jaw, tight. Edward knew that he was going to fall apart, it was only a matter of time, but he was going to hold himself together, he had to, for Alphonse.

Alphonse walked through the door, then, placing his hand on Edward's shoulder, "Are you OK, Ed?" Edward looked up, taking Alphonse's hand, finding comfort in him, but he didn't speak. Alphonse kneeled down next to Edward, "The ceremony is about to start soon," and Alphonse paused, pulling Edward's sweater across his chest, "Are you cold, Ed?"

Edward was cold, even though it was hot, but he denied it, "I'm OK."

Alphonse stood, "We should go find you a seat."

When Edward tried to stand, he faltered, but Alphonse held his arm, keeping him upright. Edward was gripping the railing, suddenly out of breath, like he couldn't breathe, and it took a moment before he could catch his breath. Alphonse was watching, concerned, and maybe, concern wasn't the right word, maybe, it was something more like terror. And when Edward felt as though he could walk, he descended the stairs, Alphonse holding fast, as they headed towards the pond. There were a decent amount of guests at the wedding, Alphonse had many acquaintances, as did Winry, old and new friends. Winry's parents were there, sitting in the front row, watching, because all eyes were on them as they walked up the aisle. Alphonse took Edward to the front of the row, there was vacant seat there, one that was reserved for Edward. Edward was Alphonse's family, it was where he belonged, opposite the aisle from the Rockbell's, one side for Alphonse's friends and family, and the other side for Winry's friends and family. But there was no one quite as disgusted by Edward's appearance as the Rockbell's, who's expressions were dour, to say the least. And no one else was more surprised by Edward's attendance than Roy and Riza, who looked surprised, or apprehensive, it was hard to tell.

Alphonse released Edward's arm when he sat down, and when he was satisfied by Edward's situation, he walked towards the gazebo, joining his best man. Alphonse was still watching Edward, like he would get up and walk away, but Edward did nothing. Edward kept tugging the collar of his shirt, trying to cover the bruise on his neck, resting his hand there, bowing his head. But the bruise was too large to cover, Edward conscious of the bruise, ashamed of it, feeling manic. Again, Edward wasn't sure of what to do with his hands, so he pulled his braid over his shoulder, anxiously trying to hide the bruise, fiddling with his split ends, then, his hands in his lap.

Edward was trying to act normal, calm, with some kind of composure, but he found that it was almost unbearable to sit still. Everyone was looking at him. Edward could feel their eyes, but he remained, no matter how much that he wanted to run. At some point, Edward looked up at Alphonse, who was talking to the priest, smiling. Alphonse was truly happy, and it made Edward feel sad, sadness in his emptiness, and then, just emptiness. And the voice, his voice, echoing inside his head, slit your throat, let yourself fucking drown, just fucking do it, already. Edward was distracted, though, by the quartet, Beethoven's fifth, and Winry, walking down the aisle. Everyone in the congregation stood, even Edward, somewhat haphazardly, as Winry took her place next to Alphonse. They said their vows, their daughter standing beside them, and they kissed, the ceremony ending. Alphonse and Winry walked away, hand in hand, heading towards the barn. Edward waited until everyone else had walked away, the usher urging him to follow, and he did, eventually, his pace slow, deliberately slow.

Edward was almost to the barn when Alphonse emerged, Alphonse exhaling, relieved. Edward took a breath, still misplaced, and he spoke, softly, "I'm here." Alphonse smiled, it was small, and it was sad, but he took Edward's hand, nonetheless, and led him inside.