by Andy Finch
The crescent moon stares back at him, drowsy eyes and wrinkles of sleep. Behind the plastic moon were the minions of slumber. All dressed in pastel blue pajamas, throwing out beads and sleep masks all the same. That was a lifetime ago, Draven realizes as he allows memories from Fat Tuesday to come crawling back from their coffins.
Draven holds the last photo close to his face, eyeing all the different colors molding to become this shot. Bumps of handwriting touch his fingertips. He flips over, on the backside was some of Geneva’s handwriting. Neatly written, full of the pretty script.
Did you know morphine was named after Morpheus? Crazy, huh?
She signs the note with an xoxo. Morpheus. The name invoked an on-the-tip-of-my-tongue feeling. A nostalgia he cannot quite name. He huffs while setting the photos down. He makes a reminder to buy frames for them whenever he gets enough money. Geneva’s work—along with the aid of Draven’s photography—did not deserve to rot in this cheap apartment, full of memories that would be better to forget. Financial strain loomed overhead of him, now that he was without work and any government aid. It was hard enough living solely on Ian’s paycheck.
Speaking of the Devil, Ian stumbles out of the bedroom, still fully nude. His eyes bear a fogginess, absentness. His lips upturn, crinkling his face with soft happiness, but there is a looming curiosity to his voice, “I thought you left,” he spaces the words out, almost as if he were confused. No, he was confused. He expected, fully, for Draven to have left, gone off to find the sweetness that came in a vial with the word morphine to label it.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Draven coos, though he remembers exactly where he left his artificial happiness. Right behind the loose tile in the bathroom. It sits there, waiting, encased in the tiniest cardboard box. Sweet like honey, “I didn’t think you were awake.”
“I am now,” his arms swoop around Draven’s hips, finding their home in the divots that make the barrier of his torso and legs, “Whatcha got there?” His voice was high and light. He knew what was in that envelope, he just wanted to see his boyfriend’s reaction.
“Pictures,” Draven says, “I don’t like them.”
The words come as a shock to Ian, but Draven too. He did not mean to let those words escape his head, but he feels no remorse in letting them fly. A smile dares come to view on his pursed lips. To fight it meant to acknowledge it. Draven wasn’t ready for that yet. Not now, not yet. Ian’s fingers touch the inner part of Draven’s upper arm. Gooseflesh covers the sensitive skin, leaving braille-like messages that Ian cannot read. The silence stirs.
“Why don’t you like them?”
Draven knows the answer, but he must find a way to put it in simpler terms. Ian would wrap his head in all sorts of directions trying to figure it out. Even now, Ian looks lost in thought, trying to sew together the pieces of this fabric that would become his conclusion. Draven touches his skin, sending sparks of gooseflesh to cover Ian’s nudity. His mouth touches Ian’s stomach, a kiss that held no lust behind it. A kiss that said thank you for being here.
“They remind me of who I used to be.”
The silence devours any shred of hope lingering in the air. The argument from weeks ago still lives here, in this too-small kitchenette and living room. Or maybe it was just resurrected upon the ushering of sadness. The energies it pulls seem to stir up that hiding anger. Neither of them speaks, afraid of invoking that tension still in the air. Ian finally does something to wave off the tension. His arms wrap around Draven, his head rests in the crook of his boyfriend’s neck. The collarbone rubs too thin against his skin.
“You can still change, you know.” Ian smiles sadly, but Draven cannot see it, “I believe you still can.”
Draven knows now that Geneva purposefully planted these photos to invoke some sort of midlife crisis amidst all these over tragedies playing out in his life. Perhaps this would reset all the progress the drug had made on him. Perhaps it would hasten the end. Draven likes to think of them later. His happiness came from that bottle, hiding in the bathroom away from the observer’s eyes. Nothing could save him now, he thought. Nothing that anyone here could do.
Draven’s eyes cast downward, not wanting—not daring—to look at the face of compassion before him. He would not betray Ian like that. Once upon a time, he would look at his boyfriend and agree. Then they’d sign him up for help, or maybe they’d take a vacation to Mississippi together to get away. They’d both complain about the nastiness of Biloxi, how the stench hits you before you even enter the city limits. Draven had a heart then, but now that muscle bowed to the powers of morphine.
“I know,” he says, but he knows it wasn’t the truth. He prays to some higher power that Ian would believe him. A pinch of hope shines somewhere, Draven flicks his eyes over to see what Ian was doing. He stares up at Draven, unmoving, untouched. The smile still etched on his lips, bearing a sadness that Draven did not want to see. He would cry if given the opportunity, but it never presents itself.
“I still love you,” he says, a sniffle, “No matter what path you take, I’ll be there.”
Ian would be the martyr. The martyr who’d kill themself in hopes of appeasing a higher power. Draven was the god who had turned his eye, his power, away from the simple life he once enjoyed. Again, a double-edged knife, full of rust and alcohol, digs into Draven’s flesh. This time it does not miss the pulse of his heart. It cuts, it pierces, it carves. He is hollow. A shell, a vessel, made to consume.
Morphine. Ian was saying something, anything else. But Draven could not spare the room in his memory. The hunger had consumed his mind. Morphine, morphine, morphine. It would heal the hole in his heart. It would give him the strength to stay here with Ian. It would pave the way to a life they once enjoyed.
Or it would ease the pain if they crumbled.
“I love you,” Draven isn’t sure if he had cut off Ian or not, “More than you’ll ever realize.”
He hopes, he tells himself in the emptiness of his mind, that he means those words with every little morphine-starved fiber of his being. Ian seems satisfied enough, and that was enough for Draven.
“Do you know why she sent those?” Ian asks, disregarding the comment Draven had just made. The wrinkles of his smile don’t crease all the way. There is something forced, projected in the way his lips turn.
“No,” Draven shakes his head, his movements sluggish with the last breath of morphine still being drunk by his veins, “I got a good idea, though,” his lips part to reveal his teeth, “She did it to fuck with me, huh?”
“No,” Ian scolds, “She did it because you helped her. You’ve been in outer space for too long, Dray,” his eyes downcast. Dark suitcases full of anxiety hang off them, “Remember way back when you submitted those pictures of her mural to those companies in Pensacola?” Draven shakes his head after a moment of thought. Memories do not bubble up when called, “Well, one of them really liked her work, babe, she’s got contracts to paint more. You changed her life,” Ian sniffles, “You changed her life, and now she wants to help change yours.”
Tears poke along the edges of Ian’s eyelids. His fingers come up and dry them before they leave and drip down his cheeks. Draven does nothing. He isn’t sure what to do. Tears were the emotional purge of the brain. It was better to let them flow than to fight them. Now, Draven finds his own hands cradling Ian’s plump cheeks. They share a kiss before the world goes silent once more.
“I wish you would change,” Ian near sobs. His tears no longer restrain themselves. They paint a river of emotion down his cheeks. A few hiccups block any other words from coming up. He gains composure, “I want my Draven back. The one who was happy—the one who didn’t need fuckin’ drugs—”
“I will change,” Draven says to hush him. He knows how he could not change, but he would not dare tell that to Ian, “I will, I will,” tears leak out of his eyes now, too. The grave realization hits him.
He would only change when he is six feet under. This kind of sickness couldn’
t be cured. Not with any medications, or meditations. He would be sick his whole life, he realizes. The only cure was death. It was so clear now. More tears fill the silence. Another kiss pressed against his skin. Ian had stopped his cries, but the red rim of emotion still colors his eyes. Draven hates himself. He knows his end, he knows his fate, but what comes after is what truly irks him. The shame that would follow his beloved. It was always the shame.
No, it would not be the drugs that kill him. It would be himself. The noose has already been tied; the gun already cocked. He was playing Russian Roulette with himself. Each prick of the syringe fired the gun at his head. Each time, he’s been lucky enough to be greeted with an empty chamber. His luck would run out, soon. Sooner than he could imagine. He hates it, really. Men know their fates, know their dooms, but it’s what comes after that was truly scary. Would he be here to watch Ian weep? Would he be tormented with the shame of addiction all his ethereal life?
No, he cries in his head, please give me another chance. Someone, anyone.
The universe was unforgiving. There were eight billion people here, on this planet alone. Each one calling out to some higher power for change, only to never see it even once. The universe had bigger things to worry about than a person suffering from the disease of addiction. So cruel, it was perfect. Draven would have to applaud it for that if anything. The universe focused on Man, not a man.
Draven shuts down his worries by matching Ian’s kiss. The trickles of vanilla beans and coffee spur forth a sense of relief, just for a moment. That was all that Draven needed. For now, they would know happiness. Even if just for a short time.
14
To Ian, shaky handwriting reads on the cheap parchment. Draven’s hands weren’t what they used to be. Even with the morphine running through his system. The withdrawal had left scars, both mental and physical. He has aged beyond repair. Withered to the bone. The pen resting in his hand had more meat on it than his fingers. That alone should be enough to scare him, but he has stopped caring. The world goes by much faster when you let go, but it brings the end closer and closer.
I know you’re mad at me, he writes, you have every reason to be. Prose was never his strong suit. He tries to keep his writing short and to the point. It would be easier on Ian, he decided. Something that wouldn’t invoke tears when he came home from his weekend work trip, trust that I write this from a good place. And that I am happy.
This was hard, he realizes as he circles a punctuation mark. Tears threaten his eyes, but he chokes them down. Reminding the emotions that still swim inside that he was writing this for peace of mind. That it was means to an end.
You’ll be happy, too, one day, the pen scratches. The ink begins to fade. Ian would need to buy a new set of pens soon. Maybe some with black ink instead of blue. Or maybe he could splurge and get a red-inked one. That would make him happy. Ian’s favorite color was red. In fact, he would write old love letters to Draven with a red pen, the ink would bleed through the papers. Draven would always be able to trace over the hearts Ian would draw on the inside, I know it’s true.
You’ll be sad soon. Maybe a bit mad, Draven imagines the day they first moved in together. It was on December 29th. They rented an apartment in the ghetto side of Gretna. They had nothing except each other and a gift from Draven’s mom. The gift was their first photo together, framed in a nice case of metals. It was his mother that supported them since the beginning. Both Ian’s parents and Draven’s father had abandoned them as soon as the words ‘gay’ left their lips, it’s to be expected. But I have faith you will grow strong. And you will move on. And you will be the man I never could be.
Tears now dot near the bottom of the parchment. Their sadness bleeds through the paper, also threatening to make the ink fade and the message forgotten. Draven wipes them away as fast as he can before continuing his letter. A bout of writer’s block hits him and he is forced to reread the few sentences scrawled. That was enough to keep the tears flowing. He covers his mouth with a lanky hand, hoping to stifle the sobs that claw at his throat.
You’ll be a better man, actually, he finally writes, better than I’ll ever be. And know that I’m so proud of you. And that I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you, he gets carried away there. He must force himself to punctuate again. Emotions were powerful, even in the realm of pens and papers, you’ll have a beautiful life one day. I know it’ll happen. You’re destined for great things. Things beyond me. You’ll be happy. You will. And I will be happy for you.
Draven considers rewriting that last bit, but he only has the strength to continue forward. Ian would understand what he meant. Such was their way. Draven was the unintelligible and Ian the scribe sent to translate. Their opposites supply the means for their relationship to function. As it has always been for them.
I want you to know that I’ll be happy no matter what you do in life. I love you, okay?
He reads that last line over and over and over again. His mind drifts through various memories shared between them. Teenaged Ian almost getting them into a car wreck a few years back was one of his favorites. They were on their second not-so-official dates. Ian had just gotten his license, though he never practiced driving. They had gone to Sonic and… and… Oh, the memories were too painful. Draven cannot control the flood that seeps from his eyes. He was going to die, he had known it, and his Ian would be alone in this world. The guilt was more than he could handle. If given the choice, he would hasten his demise and end his life right now.
His phone rings just as he was about to sign his name on the unsent letter. It was Ian. He couldn’t bear to pick up, but he knew he had to. He clicks the answer button before putting the phone to his ear. Ian greets him with a noise of excitement. Almost as if he wasn’t expecting Draven to pick up.
“I was worried about you,” Ian says. The rolling of hills echoes in the background. He was on the road again. Draven pictures the phone held between his shoulder and ear as he steers the cheap truck they owned down I-10. He’d be crossing the border between Mississippi and Louisiana now, “I passed by PJ’s and thought of you.”
Or maybe he was closer than Draven thought. Maybe somewhere near Slidell, or maybe he’s in Metairie on another job. These big contracting jobs usually had him leave once or twice a month. Mostly to Biloxi, but sometimes he had to hang around in the deeper part of the West Bank. Draven usually hated those days, but for once, he was happy that Ian wasn’t here with him. Having him here meant Draven would have to admit defeat. Admit that the morphine had stolen his heart. Admit that it became the virus that would ultimately be his end. Admit that he has given up. He couldn’t. He would never admit the truth of Ian. He didn’t deserve that kind of pain.
“Babe?” Ian calls out into the phone after Draven misses the opportunity to reply.
“Sorry,” he hopes that Ian doesn’t hear the strain in his voice, “I was just thinkin’.”
“About what?” Draven can hear the smile hiding behind the phone. Draven hates it.
“Nothing important,” Another lie, but it was all in good faith. Suicide didn’t seem to roll off the tongue, “Just thinkin’ about what I’m gonna cook for dinner.”
“Oh,” Ian swallows something thick in his throat. Draven imagines it as words he’s been wanting to say but knows it’s not the time, “I’ve been thinkin’ too. Maybe when I get back, we should treat ourselves to some Brazilian steakhouse. I think we deserve it.”
Draven wants to laugh. He wants to tell Ian how it would be a great idea. But his mind is made up. Draven has decided that he deserves no happiness. Staying here with Ian was more than he should accept. He was poison. One that would infect Ian sooner or later, if he stays. So, he says nothing for as long as he can. Ian calls back out to him, ushering him back into the conversation.
“Sorry,” he says again, “The new one? Downtown? Or in Baton Rouge?”
“The new one,” Ian’s smile can no longer be identified, “Fogo, I think it’s called.”
�
��I like that,” Draven says, a smile trying to form on his lips, but the tear stains reaching down to his chin refuse to give any room for happiness, “I like that a lot.”
“You sound upset, babe,” Ian points out. Damn his intuition, “I’m getting that bad feeling again. Fuck, should I—Should I come home? Do you need me?”
“No, babe,” Draven responds, “I’m fine. I really am. I wish you were here,” he sucks in his breath, swallowing the pit of shame that comes through, “But I know you’re a working man, makin’ that coin.”
A giggle comes through Ian’s phone. Finally, Draven gets a chance to smile, though he still must resist the urge to sniffle.
“I can come back, you know.”
“I know,” Draven says, “But you don’t need to. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”