The Dove Keeper

Something Concrete

When the azure sky rained down on us, encasing me in a moment in time, a moment in Gerard’s artistic fantasy, it seemed like nothing was real. It felt like we were all as fake as the flecks of lead that were seeping into our round pores, creating something that would never be washed away. It made no sense to me then, but I still was in awe over it. I felt like I was trapped inside a painting that I couldn’t get out of. But the worse part of it all, as I felt the paint harden against my own skin, constricting me and my dry flesh, that I didn’t want to escape this painting. I wanted to live in the artwork that Gerard had created because it seemed like it was something more secure than I had ever known. It was too much, especially added to the initial shock of the blue bombs that we were all still recovering from. 

When we did convalesce, there were three clear emotions that echoed through; confusion, anger and amazement. Only instead of us possessing all three at once, we divided the task among ourselves, each taking the sentiment that suited. 

Sam, of course, was fucking angry. He had choked down some of the paint into his windpipe – his own damned fault for yelling as soon as the sticky substance took hold of him. He ended up coughing and sputtering, not making any sense whatsoever as he retched over to the side of our mess, spewing swears and vomit on the sidewalk. When he was done, or merely composed enough to continue being pissed off, Sam looked up at Gerard who was still looking down on us, admiring his art from a safe view. 

“I’m going to kill you, you mother fucking homo!” Sam yelled, shaking his bright blue fist into the air at Gerard. The artist merely took a long drag on the cigarette he was smoking, and smiled to himself. 

“You’ll have a hard time getting up here,” Gerard smirked, blowing out a cloud of smoke around his glowing face. Despite the dirty act he was doing, sucking on a stick made out of tar and ammonia, he looked like an angelic being, the way the sun hit the back of his head, lighting up his cherub like face. But Gerard was no angel, and he continued to mock and taunt the poor boys beneath him, especially the bluest of them all, Sam. 

“And besides,” Gerard added, his smile brimming at his earlobes. “You kill me now and you’d leave blue everywhere. They just have the find the boy stained with excellent haute couture.” 

Sam’s face immediately twisted up at the mention of a word he did not recognize. Sam had a very limited vocabulary as it was for English words; let alone French. The only things he knew synonyms for were swearing, and he was a master at that by now. He could call you an asshole in a variety of shapes and dialects. But this French shit Gerard was pulling? Fuck no. This only proved to provoke the young blue boy more, which really, had been Gerard’s intention. 

“Are you calling me a faggot?” Sam shouted up at the artist, who let out a breathy laugh. I couldn’t help but smile as well. For someone who was pretty damn sure he was straight (Sam had always confided in me that there was no possible way he could like men because he ‘liked tits way too much’) he thought people were calling him gay an awful lot. I saw a brief glisten into Sam’s weakness then, not only about his sexuality but his fighting abilities. He may have swung his fists at Gerard, but the man was on a balcony; too far to hit and a safe enough distance to threaten. Sam was small and afraid, but he needed this big voice to survive. I probably would have called him out on all of his fallacies, but hell, I would have done the same thing as Sam. 

Gerard seemed to pick up on this weakness, and did the unthinkable yet again. He pouted his lips and made a kissing face at Sam. 

“Fuck you!” Sam shouted up again, not bothering to wave his fist around this time, but to continue retching on the sidewalk, spilling his fear onto the ground.