Bogart & Sons

When I was young, I used to chafe at home. I would run away to other countries, meet strange people, thoughtlessly risk my life… fall in love.
I’m still young, if age is but a number.
However, these days my feet seem to stick to the same paths over and over. Through the wrought iron gate, up three quarters of the slope, to my pole – the needle of my internal compass always points in this direction.
I’ve moved to this city so I could spend time with him.
I touch the gravestone with my fingertips and tell him: “Hello, lover.”

“If you don’t shut up, I’ll rip your arm off and hit you in the face with your own elbow.”
The wailing sobs rapidly cut off. I check on the surviving hostage. He’s not dead, although he looks it, bathed in the villain’s arterial spray.
“I think I pissed myself,” he informs me.
I don’t ask God for patience only because I’m an atheist. “Do you realise what I’m trying to do here?” I glare down at the balled up string of wires.
“Stop the bomb blowing?” he guesses.
This would be so much easier if my hands weren’t shaking.

Almost midnight, but lights are still on. Brace myself. Ring the bell.
Try to listen for footsteps, but cicadas scream loudly enough to wake the dead.
Finally, there’s a rustle. The door opens and despite sunglasses I must squint against the brightness.
Granddad huffs: “Look what the cat dragged in!” but he grabs me and pulls me inside. I’m kissed. Smiled at. I belong.
In my grief I pushed away everyone – except those who would not let go. And Genet, may he rest in peace, was the one who taught me to see how lucky I am to have them.

It’s disgusting how much of my life consists of exercise.
I like capoeira and knife-fighting feels cathartic, but I’m not doing another sit-up today. Bored and achy, I deserve a bath, a book and a pizza.
Whose brilliant idea was it to establish a secret identity? The office hours are crappy. The people I meet crappier. And even though I refuse to appear in public wearing only a swimsuit or a skin-tight latex overall – I’m not getting
paid nearly that well – there’s a sort of general expectation that superheroines should be in perfect shape.
For kicking arse, though. Not modelling.

Holding onto my bruised ribs, I watch as Mithra remands Genet’s murderer into the hands of the police. It’s finally hitting me.
Genet was an autocrat. Without him, I’m once again aimless.
“Are you hungry?” Mithra asks, pausing next to me.
A confused policeman is loading the perp into the back of the cruiser.
I nod. “A bit.” Hungry. Cold. Exhausted. In pain. In need of loads of alcohol.
Sad.
“Follow me,” she commands. “I’ll feed you.”
I surprise myself by obeying - but I need someone to take care of me, and sometimes care comes in the form of orders.

“I don’t need a psychology degree,” I protest. Just my luck that Genet’s using me to satisfy his unfulfilled yearning for progeny, not trying to fuck me.
“You need years of intensive therapy,” he informs me benignly. “This is the next best thing.”
*
Half a decade later I know he was right. Genet rebuilt me into a whole, vaguely sane person.
Genet also taught me this: “Look through the subject’s eyes. Speak in his voice. Don’t become him – but fill the inside of his skin so precisely, no one would notice the difference. You know his weakest spots.
“Now strike.”

“Pacts with the Devil need not be honoured!” the priest snaps.
“So, you’re less honourable than the Devil?” I’m not surprised. “He tends to keep his side of agreements.”
“My child-”
“This is why some people consider Church the Devil in our lives. You might have a lease on this place for the next decade, but they want to build a business centre right here and the convent is sort of in the way.”
The priest pales in stark contrast with his robe. “W-what should I do?”
“Hire a bodyguard.” Leaving, I press a business card into his trembling hand.

He’s a sum of what he’d ever been.
An ordinary baby. A skinny little boy. Son, brother, friend, student… I’ve never known any of them, but they’re mirrored in my lover. Sharp teeth and a sharp sense of humour. Strong arms and a strong protective instinct. Rebellious hair and a rebellious nature.
I know the smell of his tears and the taste of his laughter.
People tell me, it’s been years, I should be over it. But the fact that he’s dead doesn’t change the sum of all he’d ever been.
It just means there won’t ever be any more.

How do you live with half a heart?
It must be possible. I know plenty heartless people, and they have no problem living. I’m one (half) up on them.
So, half of your heart suffers exitus and leaves for Eden after a short stint in Purgatory… and life becomes Hell on Earth. A Hell of your own making. I suppose I could follow him, but the idea feels off.
Maybe I’m punishing myself by living?
Or maybe someone mixed a little bit of Heaven with a little bit of Hell, and made me this bottle of sixty proof.
Right, Yorick?