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My Brother's Blood Machine	By : NHB Category: My Chemical Romance > General Views: 1567 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of My Chemical Romance. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Title: My Brother’s Blood Machine Author: Normal Human Being Rating: PG-13 Warning: Unrequited incest. No action, just implication. Disclaimer: I do not know or own any member of My Chemical Romance. This (fairly shoddy) piece of writing is not intended to harm anyone, be true to life in any way or reflect the writer’s own views. The title is taken from "In Keeping Secrets of Silent Earth:3", a fucking excellent song by Coheed and Cambria.
*
You’re not sure what Lyn puts in her joints, but it gets right on fucking top of you. It must do. If you’re weren’t totally gone you wouldn’t have answered the question. Or at least, you wouldn’t have given that answer. Because the question was, “who do you think about during sex?” and your answer was “my brother.” She’s Lyn, who you sleep with because she’s soft and curved and pale and nothing like him at all. She shouldn’t know that you think about him. And she definitely shouldn’t be okay with it.
"Seriously?"
"Seriously. You can start hating me now."
"No, man. It’s cool. I mean, I’m my brother’s daughter, y’know? Glass houses and all that shit."
"But he’s my brother."
"And he was mine. And he had sex with my mom. And it’s wrong even in my mind. At least you two make a decent mental picture."
You sigh and shift your head closer to hers so that the layers of hair and bone press together and tie you down. The grass under your back is cold and wet. The blades curl beneath your touch and you think, briefly, bizarrely, that if you keep pressing down they’ll melt, at some unknown point they’ll blur into one another and you’ll be lost floating in a thick green sea. Or maybe you’ve just smoked too much.
You turn to Lyn, try to see her in profile, but the only light for half a mile is the burning end of the joint so you can’t make out much more than an outline. She has dick sucking lips and painted on eyebrows, and you think maybe life would be so much easier if you could love someone like her, girls that drank cocktails from shot glasses and changed their hair colour every three months. You could make yourself fall in love with her, maybe, if you had something stronger than whiskey or dope. Of course, if you got that wasted you’d probably end up calling your brother and blurting all this out, begging and screaming and crying to him over the phone. Something awful, like:
"Do you know what fucking time it is?"
"Michael! Michael, Michael, Michael, we need to talk. I mean we need to talk kid, right? Just Talk."
"You’re loaded."
"I’m drunk Mikes, I’m so drunk but it’s okay because I’m totally in love with you so it’s okay so don’t hate me and oh fuck, I’m drunk…"
"I noticed. Go sleep it off. Call me back when you can construct a sentence."
"No, I mean I love you, I wanna fuck you, I wanna lick the sweat off your throat and get your skin under my nails and make you beg me. God, I’d love you to beg me but I’d make it okay, Mike, I mean it, I just wanna make it okay…"
Awful, but true, in a sense. Mikey always looks…messy. It makes you want to clean him up. Preserve him, because he’s fragile and he’s yours. You remember when he was four years old he ate a worm for fifty cents, dug it up with his hands and popped it, dirty and wriggling, into his mouth. You felt guilty after because he was unbelievably sick and all you could do was curl up next to him on the bathroom floor and promise it’d be okay. That’s how you remember him sometimes – tiny and lost looking, with dirt under his nails and worm-flavoured vomit on the ends of his hair. That picture of him has been etched into your brain with acid over and over until you can’t do so much as glance at him without wanting to look after him, run your fingers over his skin and rub the smears off. And then fuck the shit out of him, but still. Your first intentions are practically pure.
You’ve almost forgotten about Lyn by the time she passes you the joint. "He probably wouldn’t hate you," she says.
"What?"
"If you told him. He probably wouldn’t mind so much. It's not like I hate mine or anything. I mean, he’d probably, I dunno, not talk to you for a couple of months and stop wearing skintight shirts and just, y’know, generally freak out for a bit, but he wouldn’t hate you. Not in the long term. Besides, even if he does, it’s only love. It’s not worth ruining your life over."
And you want to scream then, want to tear her throat out for saying such things because this is all your life, you can’t remember a time before it and to be honest you’re terrified by the thought of it ending because it’s what makes you breathe. Granted, it’s also what makes you suffocate in the night, when you close your eyes and feel darkness pressing down on you like a tonne of earth packed tight around your limbs so you’re paralysed, a worm trapped in its own tunnel. Love is the reason you drink that wine that tastes like anti-freeze and makes you throw up chunks of your own stomach. Love makes you drink a bottle of that a night, but it also stops you from drinking two. For now, any way.
"It’s illegal," you tell Lyn. "If he does…not hate me, we’d only end up locked up."
"Not necessarily. I mean, it’s only illegal ’cos you wind up making these sickly inbred babies with, like, one eye or giant hands and no frontal lobe. With you and him, I’m fairly sure that wouldn’t be an issue. And if all else fails, you can just move out to California and pretend you’re not related. I mean, if anyone asks about the similarities you can just say you’re a total narcissist and you’ve always wanted to fuck yourself.”
"That’s comforting."
A long silence. One or two stars manage to make themselves seen through the smog, and you keep your eyes fixed on them just so you know the dark won’t bury you and you’ve not floated away on some syrupy green ocean of molten grass. You reach down, prise apart Lyn’s fingers and interlace them with your own just so you know you’re anchored. Her nails are smooth and cold, like you think the bones of her skull would feel if you could peel it all back, that hair and skin that tangles you together, you want to pare her down until she’s clean and pale and you can read the future in the marrow of her bones because she’s here and she’s now and she’s buzzing with life while you flounder in a sea of sweet green water.
You’re wasted.
Now, obviously, but the rest of the time as well. For quite some time now. You have this notion that if you could hear him speak you’d be alright. If you could slip into the silences between his words and curl into the curves of his vowels, you’d stop wanting to lose yourself in this way. But that notion’s absurd because you haven’t spoken for almost a year and anyway, how the fuck can you curl up against a word? You’re not sure, but maybe Lyn, Lyn who spikes her joints with something fucking evil, is reading your mind because she says:
"Don’t call him. Incest is really something you have to do face- to-face."
"I always imagined it more skin-on-skin."
"That’s not what I meant. Seriously, visit and explain."
You laugh weakly. "How the fuck am I meant to do that? He’s only on the other side of the city and I don’t even have the nerve to pick up the phone. I tried writing him once and I couldn’t. Just the whole thought of contact…my skin crawls. The last month before I left home I couldn’t even look at him, just spent hours staring his shoes or something stupid like that so I didn’t have to see his face. Kinda made him think I hated him."
"That’s cruel."
"Safe. It’s safe."
She nods slowly; she’s her brother’s daughter, she understands. "So instead of telling him the truth and possibly having him hate you, you’re telling him nothing and ensuring that he hates you?"
"Pretty much."
"You’re retarded."
"I’m in love."
She digs her free hand into her pocket and pulls out a small, dull coin. "Toss it," she tells you. "Heads, you go home for spring break and explain that you want him to be your bitch in the most romantic way, tails you give up on love and put your faith in intravenous drugs. I’m serious. Follow Fate."
The coin goes up, you see it turn as it catches the light and you hear the thud as it lands in the wet grass, but you have no idea where. Your fingers scrabble in the dirt, push through the grass blades, moulding them together, the heat off your hands turning the dips and crests of the land into waves and hollows and you plunge your hand into the water, thick with filth and green slime, and somewhere beneath the surface you feel the metal, still warm from her pocket. Not daring to look at it, you brush its surface with your thumb, trace the outline and oh God, oh God… "Heads. It’s heads." The dark moves around you and it’s not a tonne of earth on your chest anymore, it’s a swift sea enveloping you, an undercurrent that drags you home so you dig your nails into the soft sand at the bottom in the hope of slowing yourself down but all you do is scratch the lines of his face into the ocean floor because he’s a part of you completely now, he’s in the spaces between your cells and the only person that anchors you here is telling you to go home.
She lets go of your hand and you start drowning.
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My Brother's Blood Machine