FicWad

Title: I'm Sorry Mama
Rating: R[rrrrr, imma pirate].
Pairing(s): Gerard and Mikey.
Feedback: is greatly appreciated. i'm testing out something so, be honest, mkay?
Warnings: it's kinda incestual, but not really. there isn't any actual sex or stuff.
DISCLAIMER: didn't happen. mkay?
Author's notes: this story needs to be severly re-done, i know. bear with me, i will get around to it some day. asap.






You scream and run down the stairs. You want to gouge your eyes out at what you just saw. You stop and slam the door and slide down it. You breathe in and out and fight back the tears. You don't want to, you can't. But your eyes itch and hurt and scream and the tears... oh the tears. They're coming now, they're sliding and pooling in the creases in your neck.

And you can hear them. You can hear the thumping about somewhere above you. The frantic search for clothing. The curses. But now, now you can hear the door open. You can hear two sets of feet thumping down the stairs and along the hall. You can hear the foot steps stop right behind you and now the banging, my God the banging. It's frantic, it's panicked but most of all it's loud. It's loud to the point that it's almost unbearable. It's so loud that you're surprised your ear drums haven't exploded and that blood isn't flowing out your ears and staining the carpet.

You don't want you, but that damn noise makes you, the hinges wont be able to take much more either. And now, now you hear the cries. Above it all, the cries. The guilty and desperate cries. And you still don't want to, but you do.

You get up and open the door and the tears are still flowing and they're standing there and no one knows what to do. And their faces, oh their faces. You can't see a mirror, so you don't know who's is worse, yours or theirs.

But they match, and they're the same, both of them, and they are sad and you don't want them to be sad, because children shouldn't be sad, they should be hugged and loved and innocent. And you want to hold them, to hug them and love them, but you can't because, because, because of what you just saw. The innocence, innocence that isn't there, the innocence that children should have is no longer. And that, that is why you cannot hug and love them.

And the silence is deafening, and it is painful and it's cutting you up. You want words, you want an explanation but most of all, you want relief. Relief from this, relief coming from anything, anything, anything at all. So words, words, and lies. You want them to tell you, to tell you that this, that, is a dream. A horrible nightmare. But you know it isn't. It's real, it's so real, you can tell, and you know. You can smell it in the room. You can taste it in the air. You can feel it wrap around and suffocate you. And you can see, see it on their faces. You can see the red, you can see the wet glistening tears and the puffy blood shot eyes. And you can hear, hear your relief, hear your precious words.

"I'm sorry..."

And maybe, maybe that's what you want. Yes it is, you know it is, you want them to be sorry, sorry for that sin, for that act of pure evil. But it isn't enough, you want more. You need more, more relief. You need to hear why, why they're sorry, that they know, they know what they did was wrong.

"I'm so sorry mama..."

And he hasn't called you that in a long time, not since he was small, since he was a child, since he was innocent. And you could hold him, and mend him, and comfort him, and... and love him. But you can't, because he needs, he needs to be sorry. He needs to repent, he needs to be shown the light, and he needs to forget this and let it fade and stop.

And you look at him, and you see, you see what you feared, that look. And mixed in, is guilt, and depression, and sorrow, and sadness, and everything that he should be feeling because of the situation. But you can see, you can see mostly that look. The one out shinning all the others. The one that says that he has no regrets. The one that says that in a way he is happy. Because you know, you can see what the secret has been doing to him. You could see it all along, in his behaviour, in his attitude and in his diet. And you could see, all along, that something was wrong. And you knew, and you feared the worse. But you never thought, you never feared, this. This incredible fuck-up. And he is relieved, to have this burden lifted, to be relieved of it, off his shoulders, and a large part of him is glad. Glad. So glad that you saw. That you know now.

And now, now he has a mark, an angry red swelling mark across his cheek. And his hair is messed about and his face is to the side. And your hand, it is pulsing and tingling, you can feel it. You feel the tears start again that hadn't really stopped, because you know now, you realise what you have done. And now that mark, the red swelling mark has formed a shape, a shape that resembles a hand, your hand. Then you gasp, realisation at what you have done has dawned. And now it is turning purple, and you can see small traces of blood around it. Now that tingling in your hand has turned into unbearable pain.

He has not turned his head back around to face you, it is lulled and you can hear the sniffling, and see his shoulders shaking, and now you can hear the sobbing. And now more than ever you want to wrap your arms around him, and whisper sweet nothings. But you still can't.

And the other one, your baby. Your little baby. He, he is, he is no better. He is bloated and red and swelling and shaken and sobbing. His shoulders are slumped and his hair is askew. And his glasses, he has forgotten them in his rush. But you know, you know that he can see well enough without them. You know that he can see what this, this sin has done. You know he can see what it has done to his, the woman that cared for him all his life, the one that made sure nothing ill came of him. You know that he can see what it has done to his mother. And it hurts, and it consumes him, and eats away at the flesh inside him, the flesh on his arms and legs and stomach and his face. You can see how taunt it is, and you know that is because he can see what he has done, what they have done, what they feel. He knows and feels the guilt. And you are glad, you are glad it hurts him. You are glad that the pain of seeing what he did has all but made him double over. And you don't feel bad, you don't regret the thoughts in your head, because not so deep down, near the surface, you think he deserves it.

And your father, what will their father say. What will their father do. And will he turn, will his mind grow unstable at this heathen act and make him crazy? Will be snap? Most probably. And he will beat you, both of you, from within an inch of your lives. But not just once, it will be a regular occurrence, it will become a pattern. A pattern of violence. A spiral patter of violence that will end in murder.

And then, something wants to know, needs to know. This, this sin. This sin had not began today, no, it didn't. You are almost certain of that. That small part, that small part inside you that needs to know isn't so small anymore. It's the big shadow clouding over your brain, it's the big lump in your throat. And that thought, that thought and wonder, and the curiosity. The curiosity is overwhelming, it's consuming you and choking you and you can't breath. And when you do, the smell, the stench of curiosity it fills you lungs and devours you whole.

"How..."

You clear your throat and they look up.

"How long?"

They both look away, look down to the floor or at the wall with shame. The red thick rich shame on their faces is almost as unbearable as the question. But you need to know, you need to know so maybe it can help, so maybe it wont be such a shock. And they still wont look at you, and you are waiting. So, you reach over and wrench the closest ones face around. He winces and you realise you have grabbed his bruise.

"How long."

It isn't a question anymore, it's an instruction, that he knows. He knows because you can feel his tears running over your hand. And they are travelling faster than yours, and the amount is larger. So what does that mean, does, does it...

"Please mama..."

And he called you that again. And you could almost cave, almost. But that lump is growing and the shadow has began to cloud your eyes.

"Tell me. Tell me now."

His mouth opens, and then it closes. And he croaks and grumbles and mumbles deep in his throat. And then he clamps it shut, and the dread inside of you has grown. And know you really wonder, how long...

And then, just when you thought you wouldn't get an answer you hear a whisper. A small and barely audible whisper. It's so tiny and fragile that you're not really sure there was one. But you know, and your heart breaks at the answer.

"Two years."

You gasp and let go of your son and fall to the floor. And your body heaves and shakes and your heart breaks into a million pieces. That didn't help at all, the shock was still as devastating as it had been a minute ago. Perhaps worse, because it wasn't him... he didn't say it. He refused to. It was the other one, it was your little Mikey. The baby.

And in between sobs I manage to stutter. "Why... why would... you... how?"

And they are both down by me know, crying and sobbing and fighting for air also.

And then he speaks, and you can think of a millions ways to point out that it doesn't have to be this way. A million ways that this is wrong. A million ways how their life will be Hell. And a million reasons why they'll go there, to Hell. But this is Gerard, your son. The one that takes after you the most. The stubborn one. The one that would never admit he was wrong or do something because he was instructed. The on like you...

"Because mama, I love him."

And that was fine, and you could tell him that, you could point out that his whole family loves him, but you know that he doesn't mean in the way a brother loves another brother. You know that he means something deeper, something sinful. And with that realisation your chest heaves, and you think your going to throw-up, you think you are going to heave and heave until can no longer. Till everything inside of you is lying out on the floor. But you don't. You can't. Because there is no time. You can hear a car pulling into the drive.

And they, your sons, can hear it to. You can see that because of the worried looks on there faces. You then realise that you wouldn't be able to live through that. You wouldn't be able to live through the violence, and it would break your heart.

The door to the garage has opened and you can hear him driving in.

And through the anticipation of it all, you realise that all the crying has stopped. That the only sound other than their father arriving home is the breathing, and perhaps, if it were possible, you would be able to hear the panic radiating off your sons. Because they know what you do, they know what will happen when he finds out.

The tears start running down your face again, and you hold your breath and try to make as little noise as possible. And they have started also, but for different reasons other than your own. Because, you have realised. You have realised that you know for certain that the pattern will end in death, quite possibly your own, and who knows what would happen after that. Who knows how long after that would their sons join her in the cemetery for sinners, and that cannot be allowed to happen.

So you know, that when you stand and walk into the kitchen ignoring the sound of the garage closing that you are doing the right thing. You know as you take the wadded up emergency money from behind the microwave and empty your purse you are doing the right thing. You know that when they follow you in and question you actions you are doing the right thing. And you know that when you press the money into Gerard's palm that you are doing the right thing.

"Go."

And you can see that he knows, what you mean and that it's the right thing to do. You can see that it's breaking his heart and he doesn't trust his mouth.

"But I don't understand mom."

Your Mikey, your sweet little Mikey. You innocent and naïve little Mikey, how wrong you were. He was neither of those things, and you could almost smile at that thought, but this isn't the time.

"You have to go, you can't stay here anymore."

And his voice is cracking and his hands are shaking. "But why, why mom, why do we have to go."

"Because, because it's not safe here, because I wont let him bring harm to you, my boys."

Your eyes are watering and threatening to spill over. And now he knows, now he understands. You can visible see it, by his slouch in posture and his fisted hands. And you look at them, your two boys, your two baby boys, not even adults. You see the way their hearts have broken, and you can see way they wish things were different, you can see a lot of things. Some not good, most not good. But a few are, and those few out-shine the bad and you are thankful for that.

But your thoughts are interrupted by a slamming door and your tears now spill over as you grab and embrace them. You wrap your arms around them so tight that you're not sure if they can breath. And if you couldn't feel the dampness soaking through your shirt then you wouldn't even be sure if they were still there. You all hold each other and cry for what seems like hours but in truth is probably only a couple of seconds.

"You have to go, you have to get as far as you can from here as you can within forty-eight hours and don't ever come back. Your father will never know about this, I'll just tell him that you weren't here and that all that money was gone and that you must have ran away."

They both nod against you.

"You have around two thousand dollars there so you should be okay for a while."

You pull away as you hear foot steps getting close and open the back door and push them both out but it doesn't feel right to just leave it like that. You lean over and kiss them both lightly on the foreheads.

"Know that I love you two both very, very much."

They nod, they know.

And before they can respond you hear their father just around the corner and whisper good bye before you slam the door shut and watch them wave good-bye then jump over the fence. And then you run to him, and you fling your arms around him and you lie, you lie to him about it all. You tell him how the money is gone and so are they. And even though you know lying is a sin, deep down you know it was the right thing to do and you hope that God can forgive you.