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“Keep still,” Alonzo instructed, pointlessly – as if the body lying naked beneath him weren’t little more than a corpse that had yet to grow cold. He dipped the brush and held it over the bottle, letting the gold varnish drip, then leaned forward to paint the first tiny stroke on Miguel’s chest, just shy of his heart.
“Kintsugi,” he explained, pointlessly – as if the mind inhabiting the body held any curiosity for what it was he was doing. “The Japanese art of repairing that which is broken with gold.” He finished filling in the first scar, then moved slowly down, finding the next – a thin line along Miguel’s side, another old stab wound. So much violence.
“The fragments are collected – bonded together with the gaps filled in. Embellished and polished to reveal new beauty.”
Alonzo gently lifted Miguel’s hand, finding the faint scar on his palm, then carefully turned it over to dab gold on the tiny exit on the other side. He blew on the lacquer, then wrapped his hand around Miguel’s fingers, kissed his knuckles. Still holding his hand, he leant down to do the same to the previous strokes on his side and chest, warm breath on warm flesh.
“That’s what I’ve done with you, darling. Taken you in your brokenness and put you back together.”
Except he hadn’t – every time he tried, the pieces only remained together for as long as his hands were holding them in place, fell apart as soon as he stepped back to admire his work.
The thing that was once Miguel Alvarez, it seemed, was unfixable.
No matter, he decided. It would become something new.
Alonzo had meant what he said that first night; he had no interest in defiling Miguel Alvarez, not for its own sake, at least. But he wondered sometimes whether or not it might be a means to an end, a way to bring him back to the land of the living. He imagined it as he flipped Miguel over – what might happen were he to suddenly force his way in, if the violation would elicit some sort of struggle, some sign that anything stirred within.
He disregarded the notion as quickly as he always did. He wasn’t that desperate – yet.
The scar on his back was faint and flat – it had taken him weeks to notice, catching his eye by chance one night, the light hitting in just the right way at just the right angle. He’d inspected every inch of skin after that, little nicks and imperfections in the flesh; most, if not all, likely long-forgotten by their wearer.
He made sure to fill in every one.
“Now for the finale,” he murmured, flipping him over again after the lines and dots on his back had dried to Alonzo’s satisfaction. He cupped the side of Miguel’s face in one hand, holding him steady – pointlessly – as he applied the last bit of polish, a line running from mouth to cheekbone. “There.” He straightened, sitting back on his heels to admire his handiwork. “All fixed.”
Except –
Something about it looked grotesque. Pathetic.
“Say something,” Alonzo commanded, pointlessly – as if the tongue in the mouth that hung slightly agape hadn’t long since stilled. Empty eyes stared back at him, unseeing.
Not something new, after all – just the same corpse now glittering. Dead, useless meat. Frankenstein’s monster, failed to resurrect.
No matter, he decided. He had 6 years and plenty of gold.
One way or another, he’d get what he wanted – and if he didn’t, the thing that was once Miguel Alvarez was headed for landfill anyway.
Alonzo hummed to himself as he leaned in once more to pick up the pieces.