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BRAIN
TO HEART
Murphy's been thinking a lot lately, and he
doesn't like it. Not that he's not smart--he is, smarter than most people
you'll meet and twice as fuckin' pretty, as Connor is wont to tell the entire
bar when he’s shitfaced. Murphy can think in six different languages if he
wants to, and discuss philosophy or physics or the fuckin’ English classics if
that’s what floats your boat; that’s not the problem. The problem is what he's
is thinking about.
If you'd asked him, back when he was a kid, whether killing people was
brainless work or not, he'd have told you, "Fuck yeah, its brainless! You
pull the trigger and boom--no more brains in the bastard's head." It was a
joke, yeah, but he'd have meant it. He'd never kill anyone unless it was the
right thing to do, and he doesn't need brains to tell him what was right. Just
his heart, and his gut, and his soul.
Killing does make him think, though. Most of the real action stuff, thats just
instinct. When he's got a gun in his hand and blood on his face, he's all gut,
no brains. The thinking usually comes before, and after. The in-between times,
between killings and drinks and sleep, when they can get it.
Lately, he's been thinking about him and Connor, and what they did as kids. The
euphimism isn't entirely accurate, of course, but its more comfortable than
calling it what it really is, whatever it is. What they did as kids is
something they still do now, when its late and they're drunk and there's no
girls around. When Da is out for the night and they finally have a moment alone
together. Whenever they can.
Murphy has a hundred memories of his brother, from age nineteen to now, rolling
over and whispering, "Hey. Murphy. I'm hard as a fuckin' rock over here.
You wanna do what we did as kids?" A hundred memories of Connor's eyes,
sparkling from lust and drink.
Its 'what they did as kids' because its something they started at twelve and
stopped at fifteen, when Ma walked in on them.
"Well, what've I got here? My own twin pair of wee cocksuckers,"
she'd cackled, then walked out the door and promptly forgot about it the next
morning. Whether she really forgot or just pretended to was questionable, but
either way it was no doubt aided by the copious amounts of whiskey she'd
ingested the night before.
Connor and Murphy didn't forget, though. The minute the door opened and they
saw the image of their nude, entwined bodies reflected in their mother's glassy
eyes, they moved as far away from each other as they could get in their tiny
room. Later, they tried to get even further from each other--seperate jobs,
seperate homes, seperate lives.
It never worked though. Blood calls to blood, especially in veins that once
shared a bloodstream, and it wasn't a month later that they'd quit their
seperate jobs and moved to America, together.
It didn't happen again til they moved to America. Maybe it was the loneliness,
being so far from their home and their friends and everything else familiar to
them. Maybe it was their way of returning to each other, after that month of
seeing each other just every Sunday, at church and dinner with Ma. Or maybe
they were drunk and horny, and just in need of a fuck.
That last one seems the most likely, although the others are probably true as
well. Murphy can still remember stumbling home with his brother's arm around
him after their first fight in America, drunken and bruised, mouths bleeding
and fingers swollen. They sat down on the floor for a celebratory drink--the
couch being a bit too far up for consideration--and Connor turned to Murphy
with a grin, blood still streaking his teeth. "Hey, Murph--you wanna do
what we did as kids?"
After that, the memories become a little fuzzy. Hands, rough and familiar, and
the way Connor moaned as if in the presence of God Himself. The most vivid
memory Murphy has of that night is the vodka from his brother's mouth, burning
his split lips. Murphy hadn't cared. He'd just kissed back, hard as he could.
Before all this started, it was all right. He could fuck Connor all night and
say his Hail Mary’s in the morning and it was fine, even if it was nothing he’d
ever confess to a priest. Besides, he’s not gonna stop eating clams, and when
he had a girlfriend he didn’t kick her out of bed when she was on the rag, so
why should he stop this?
Its different now. Everythings different now. “You can’t be the same person
with blood on your hands as you were without,” Connor’s said, and it’s the
fuckin’ truth. Killing makes him think, and it makes him think about this.
Still, Murphy has never been the thinker. Thats Connor's job, him and his
thinking and his planning and his fucking rope. Murphy's the one with the
instinct, the one who follows his gut and his heart and the way his blood pulls
him. But sometime your instincts are wrong. After what happened with Rocco,
Murphy knows that well. Instincts are all good and well when its not your
immortal soul on the line, but when it is, you need to think. You need the
brain to your heart, you need to know whats right, not just to feel it.
You need Connor.
When Murphy asks him about it, Connor’s face goes dark for a second, and
Murphy’s afraid that once he’s got that thinking process started, it’ll never
stop. That it’ll be days or weeks or months before Connor touches him again,
because Murph can think about something while he’s doing it, but Connor,
Connor’ll fuckin’ think something to death before he comes to a conclusion and
finally has it out.
But all Connor does is ask him, “What does your heart tell you? Fuck your brain
for a minute, what do you feel here?” He presses his fingers hard enough
against Murphy’s chest to leave bruises.
Murphy doesn’t have to answer. Their eyes meet, and then Connor grins, cupping
Murphy’s jaw in his palm. “There ya go.”
Murphy’s not stupid, but he should been smart enough to know that Connor’s
already thought this through. That he was just waiting for Murph to confirm it
with heart and gut and soul, just like he always does.
END
