Six Feet Underground

May 20, 1995
The bandage around my wrist prevents me from itching. It bugs me though. I can't itch. I have the urge more and more now. I wanna know why. I can't think of why.
They're sending me to a therapist now. They claim they don't know why I'm like this. They should. They took his body away. They cried over it. They were the ones who found me, weeping next to his cold body. They act like they don't know. They're in denial.
So, I get to the therapist and he keeps talking. He won't stop. He ask's me why I don't and I just shrug. He doesn't need to know. They will tell him soon enough. His death killed me. I will never be alive again.
They took me from that room. I thank Them for that. One of the only things I will ever thank them for.
They took me to Helena's house. I love it there. She cares. She encourages me to draw. To express my creativity.
She helped me. I talked to her, when They left. I can't talk in front of Them. They don't need to know. They don't care. She understands. She's sad that he died too. She's holding something from me, though. I can see it. It's in her eyes. She won't tell me. She doesn't want to hurt me. But nothing can hurt me. I don't feel. I lost all my feelings yesterday. I figured that there is no sence in feeling. It does nothing.
They tried to tell me that he isn't dead. He is. They're in denial. They yelled at me. Telling me lies. They say he left, moved away. I don't belive them. They are untrustworthy.
I need him! He was the only one that understands.
I over heard Them talking. They say that it was a mistake. That They shouldn't have done it. Done what? I didn't hear. They keep saying that they should bring Mikey back. They can't. Don't they understand? He's dead! You can not bring a dead person back to life!
If you could, I would be standing over his grave, trying it.
They kept saying something about Aunt Marge. Who the fuck is she? I don't know. She must be my aunt or something. Why else would she be called Aunt, then?
This family is confusing. They just don't get it, do they? Always talking about how they should bring him back and telling everyone what it has done to me. I don't care. He's dead and there's no reason to live.
There are the thoughts again.
xoxo
Gerard

I sighed and closed the book once again. It was May 20. I had to force my self not to read anything for a few days. It was hard but I did it.
I was sitting in a cafe, drinking a coffee, the notebooks laying in front of me. The box was open, the contents in the same place as I had found them.
It was like they sucked me in, forcing me to feel the same way as he did. It worked too. I found my self depressed half of the time. Sometimes fighting off the urge to itch. What the fuck was this guy doing to me? For all I know, he could be dead. Burried six feet underground right next to his brother.
I sate at the cafe for hours, reading the journals.
I learned alot about him. All the way up to 1999. He graduated the Art School and got a job at Cartoon Network in NY. He kept talking about this one guy he had seen on the streets alot. He looked alot like his brother. But he knew he was just imagining things. He was dead.
I had to stop there as the workers kicked me out.
I walked home, box and notbooks in hand. The tears falling freely from my eyes. The last entry had got me. It was in 2000. He said he had just got home from work. A message was on his machine. It was his brother, asking him to meet him, at the cafe I was just at, for lunch. His brother didn't show. He thought there was a chance he might be able to see him one last time. Nope. His hopes were to high.