Anonymous

I was having a different dream this time. We were laying in a bed with white sheets…naked and sweaty. I was curled up next to you, my face buried in your unclothed chest, as your arms wrapped around my small body. Your breathing was steady. Smooth. Beautiful despite the few interesting noises that escaped your mouth. I didn’t feel like we were dying. I felt content for once. I wasn’t worried about you drinking a bottle of Nyquil when I wasn’t watching, or swallowing all your painkillers as alcohol chased them to your death. I liked this dream despite the normalcy. I liked feeling…

I think everyone was surprised I survived. I say this, because when my eyes fluttered opened and adjusted to the bright artificial lights, I saw the relief that rained over four worried faces. Everyone huddled around me, a million beautiful voices asking the same stupid question: “Why? Why Frankie?” Oh why, why was too hard to answer. It was for a stupid reason right? Love. I tried to die because of love. How ridiculous does that sound?

I told them all to leave, as politely as I could, and asked if you could stay. I noticed you hiding in the corner, trying to remain unseen. Your hair was tasseled- a fucking mess- with dried gel giving the illusion of dandruff. Everyone filed out, throwing you perplexed glances as they did, and once they were gone you got the courage to look at me. I don’t blame you for trying to keep your eyes off me- I was a sorry sight. I promised myself to never be on this end of the hospital room. I guess I lied.

“Come over here,” I said, sitting up in the obnoxiously uncomfortably bed. You debated for a moment, biting your bottom lip- a clear sign you were nervous. Nervous…to be around me? I never thought I’d see the day.

You strolled over, taking a seat at the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, considering.” I played with the gauze on my wrist, trying to find the right words to say to you. “We should probably talk.”

“Yeah, we should.” You cautiously took my fidgety hand, tracing the lines with your calloused finger. You have such dry skin…it was rough and annoying. I told you countless times to get cream, but you never listen. You never listen to me. “You shouldn’t have done this to yourself Frankie.”

“Yeah, no shit,” I rolled my eyes.

“Why would you do that to yourself?”

That was a loaded question. Once again I didn’t have the answer for it; how could I say something like “for you, Gerard?” Like that would make you feel any better. It would make you feel worse. Far worse than you already felt.

“Doesn’t matter,” I whispered, “it’s over with. I don’t even want to talk about it.”

“But you have to!” Your voice went up another pitch and that’s how I knew you were panicking. “You can’t just let it wallow! You have to talk about it and move on.”

“Oh like you fucking did!” And now we weren’t talking about our suicidal behavior. Your eyes drew back; I caught you off guard. And who could blame me for bringing it all back to that…to what we did to each other. I was confused and worried that I would be loosing you forever to some two bit slut who could barely cut her way out of a paper bag. My mind was sprained; blaming you, blaming me. Even going as far as blaming our band and fans. I don’t even think they had anything to do with it; I just needed more people to blame.

“Frank…” But I don’t even think you had the words to put my tortured mind at ease. Your eyes wilted to the bed, to where our conjoined hands laid. “Frank…”

Your lips twitched, as if my name against your mouth was intoxicating. I think you liked the way your teeth dragged against your bottom lip to make the “fr” sound. I liked the way you said my name.

“Gerard,” I tugged on your hand a little, to pull you closer to me, “Gerard Arthur Way.”

“Yes, Fr” you exaggerated the drag against your lips, “ankie Anthony Iero.”

I went to kiss you- a real kiss, not a staged one…not the one to get the fans to go insane. No I wanted to show you how Frank really kisses. But as my lips brushed gently against yours, a screeching voice attacked my ears.

“Gee,” she whined, “I want to go!”

You turned your head to look at her, “Eliza, just wait!”

She stomped away, rolling her abnormally large eyes at us and typing on her sidekick- probably a new blog on fucking myspace: “In the hospital, guitarist tried offing himself muahz xo e.” Oh that would fuel the internet hype.

You looked at me, apologies in your eyes but you were to numb to say them. I was used to your "sorrys" already. I bet she wasn’t. I almost killed myself to get you better; and she got the award.

“Go,” I snapped, “go to your little booty call.”

I buried my head in the awful smelling pillow; smelled like death.