To Heal All Wounds

Phoenixes

Behind his eyelids, Billy could see two versions of Max.

One hovered over him, sobbing his name and the word "no" as he choked on his own blood and finally sputtered a weak apology. Nothing even remotely close to what she deserved, but it had taken the rest of his strength to deliver.

The second was three years later, standing still like a prey animal in Billy's sights. Her little fists clenched tight at her sides, her body trembling with the force it must have taken not to flee or fight.

Or both.

Billy wasn't sure which image of her made him feel worse.

Maybe it had been the state of him, Billy had wondered as he looked down at his hands once she left again, still covered in tar and blood. It was a weak hope, but it was there, fluttering against his chest like some small bird trapped in the cage of his ribs. So he'd showered, cranked the water to scalding because he liked it cold and Billy would do anything to keep that chill from his bones again. Maybe if he could be warm enough and clean enough, Max would love him.

The sudden, childish thought made him lurch into the shower wall, catching himself with his hands against the tile. Something inside of Billy twisted horrifically, causing him to retch uselessly into the tub. There was nothing to purge. He hadn't eaten yet. He was empty.

Look at you, you're filthy!

It was a memory Billy had pounded down with fists and rage and alcohol. And yet it had bubbled to the surface like soap suds -- clear and iridescent and crystal. How had it risen so easily from its cage? Billy wanted to be angry about it. He wanted to scream and slam the memory back down, but it was a little soap bubble and it kept dancing out of reach of his tiny little hands.

He'd been playing in the mud because he was a kid and that was what kids did. They played in the mud with their friends after the rain.

He'd tracked mud on the carpet because he was a kid and kids didn't understand that mud was messy and messy didn't belong in the house.

His mother couldn't tell what was mud and what was dried blood but she cleaned them both off with soft hands and a warm washcloth and smiled so sadly it made Billy want to break apart. She kissed his cheek and said All clean. Go show your father how clean you are now.

The sound had drawn Susan's attention and her voice.

"Billy? Billy are you alright?"

"Yes."

The sound was choked and he hated it, but it was enough to get Susan to leave him alone. She lingered, he could tell. Billy was really good at listening because he had to be. He knew how to detect footsteps outside of doors regardless of whatever sound pollution there was. He could have his stereo on full blast and still be able to hear if there were footsteps outside of his door. He didn't release his grip on his own nerves until he heard Susan walk away some thirty seconds after he told her that he was fine.

Billy's skin was sunburn-red from the temperature of the water and still, he shivered. He'd cranked it as far as it could go but he was still cold and he didn't know why. He kept the next pathetic choking sound behind his teeth and forced himself to move. Moving would make it better. Get the blood pumping and his body temperature up. It was all in his head. It had to be.

Right?

Rivulets of ink and blood ran down his body and gradually faded to pink-ish-grey and then finally clear but Billy didn't feel any cleaner. He could still feel a thin film of... something on his skin. Something oil-slick and invisible. He ran through another thorough scrubbing with Susan's body wash because he didn't have his own because he'd been dead for three fucking years as tried not to scream.