Your Memory Will Carry On

I guess I’ll start off with just descriptions of him, though I don’t think I could forget how he looked if I tried. He was shorter than most guys, but it definitely wasn’t a bad thing considering he had more than enough personality and individuality for three men. His hair was dark brown, though it was sometimes dyed black or other colors to suit his style at the time. He had completely mesmerizing hazel eyes that sucked me in when I first met him. It was at our practice studio, while we were just starting out as a band and really just jamming together in some place where you went to jam. He and his band had been in the room next to ours, heard us, liked our sound, and came over to say hi. He was giddy and smiling and asked me all sorts of questions, though I was shy and gave small, monosyllable answers. His eyes sparkled and his blond dreadlocks smelled mysteriously of marijuana, though I never really said anything in case I upset him. I was still very withdrawn and timid at the time and didn’t know how to handle meeting new people, though he pretty much forced himself into my life and eventually we’d hang out a lot. I thought it was amazing that he would want to hang out with me because he was so awesome and I was so…not awesome.

I liked how funny he was. I liked how he would crack random, sometimes stupid jokes but they would make me laugh with their stupidity. I liked how he would always try to see the good in things and the good in people. I liked how he really cared about other people and their feelings, how he wasn’t fake about it and how he didn’t try to impose himself when he knew that his compassion wasn’t really wanted.

I liked how he was really adept with his words while on camera and doing interviews but while we’re just talking about superheroes he totally stumbled on his words and didn’t think about what he was saying so half the time he didn’t make sense. I liked how when he smiled it was really genuine, not just some half-assed smile to please someone to get them off his back.

When we decided that we needed another guitar player there was nobody else in my mind except for him. I knew he had to join, no matter what. When I called him about it, I was nervous as hell. What if he didn’t accept? I was freaking out. Like, he was one of my best friends and we had only known each other for a few months. I didn’t want to offend him by asking him and him declining. I didn’t want anything weird to come between us if he didn’t accept my offer. I knew that he had just broken up with his second band since I’d met him and that he currently had no job other than to go to school. I figured he’d love to join, but I was having second thoughts. When he agreed happily and said he’d be over at the practice studio soon to jam with us, I was beyond relieved. He was going to be in this band, we were going to be family whether we liked it or not. I didn’t mind the idea.

I liked how he confided in me – only me, out of everyone else in the band – and how he told me that he was gay, and I was the first one to know out of everyone in the whole world. I’ll admit it; it made me feel really special. Special and happy that he felt like he could trust me enough, more than anyone on the planet, with this huge secret that he had and that I wouldn’t lash out at him. I hugged him after he told me; I didn’t speak, but I hugged him. It seemed like the right thing to do. I didn’t want to weigh him down with cliché words like, “Oh, I’m so proud of you,” and “That took guts,” and “I always really knew, but I’m glad you’re finally accepting it, too,” even if it was how I really felt. He needed some reassurance that he wasn’t a freak and that I still liked him, so I hugged him. He seemed pretty pleased.

I remember telling him when my grandmother died. I cried and cried; I cried so much I thought my tear ducts were just going to fall out of my eye sockets. He rocked me back and forth on the couch in his house, petting my hair and telling me that he’ll help me through it, he’ll be there for me no matter what, and that I was strong enough to get through it. I didn’t believe him at the time, that I was strong. I don’t think he really realized how much of an impact that had on me then. He wasn’t trying to take her place. He was pretty much telling me that I could love my grandmother whether she was alive or not, and that he would love me, too. It wasn’t some kind of, “Well, I’m going to try and replace your grandma,” because that would’ve just been weird. Me thinking of him like I did my grandmother? Not a chance. But with his actions that day and into the night, he did show me that it was possible to really love someone who wasn’t trying for romance and who wasn’t a family member. I couldn’t imagine it being anyone else but him.

I liked that he helped me overcome my alcohol addiction. In our first DVD release we gave our manager credit for it, because he really started the ball rolling when I called him and told him I wanted to commit suicide. I talked to him for a while, and I tried to sound convincing to where I wouldn’t want to do it anymore, but I knew in the back of my mind I was only trying to appease him so I could continue on with what I was going to do. I hung up with our manager after a few hours and started to get out of my bunk. It’s when I saw him standing there, watching me with dreadfully hurt eyes.

I didn’t really know how to react. I mean, he was my best friend and he had heard me talking about wanting to kill myself. What am I supposed to do? Try to pacify him? But that’s exactly what I did. I tried to tell him that I really wasn’t going to do it, that our manager had really helped me out and I was going to be fine. He saw through the lies.

I remember us fighting that night. Pretty much our only fight in the history of forever. We walked outside where we could yell as much as we wanted, and that’s really what we did. I don’t specifically remember much of what we yelled about, but I do remember one thing he said very, very clearly.

“Don’t you fucking dare kill yourself, Gerard. You know very fucking well how much you mean to everyone in this band. You’re my fucking world right now, okay? You are the most important fucking thing to me right now and I’d die from loneliness and heartache if you died. You are my best friend and I could never fucking replace you, Gee. Ever.”

Even if he said it with a snarl, even if he screamed it in my face, even if he was beyond upset with me, I could tell he meant it. I could tell that what he had said was the honest-to-God truth about how he felt and how hurt he was by my actions. I don’t think I’ve ever heard more beautiful sentences in my life.

I remember vaguely calling him out on those words, telling him that he didn’t really mean it because he was so mad at me. Then I collapsed on the ground and started crying my eyes out, clinging to him with everything that I had. I knew he had been telling the truth. And if I was hurting him this much with what I was doing to myself, I didn’t want to do it anymore. His happiness was more important than me being a pussy and not facing my life.

We became closer, if that was even possible. It was a great feeling I had. I now had the power to control things, control myself, control my behavior. I had to deal with shitty people but it made him smile every day when he saw me open our fridge and start to go for a beer but change my mind and grab a soda instead. I was glad that I was making him smile again. We would always sit by each other in interviews or just be near each other during the day. He was the one who was really responsible for getting me out of the pit I was in and I didn’t want him to leave.

I vividly remember the day I got a call from the hospital back in New Jersey. It was sunny but a little cloudy, the sky a perfect shade of blue and a cloud the shape of a piano over my head. The grass was somewhat wet with dew as I sat on it and watched the highway near our venue. We were touring but he needed to go home because he was getting extremely ill. I pretty much forced him to go back; he didn’t want to miss playing shows because that was what he really loved, but it was for his health’s benefit. The receptionist at the hospital spoke to me about him, how he requested that I come back to see him because there were some dire emergencies with his health that apparently weren’t appropriate to tell me over the phone. I said I’d be there as soon as I could.

I rushed home with the band in tow (because I couldn’t just leave and have them play with no singer – besides, he was their friend and band mate as well, I couldn’t deny them access to speaking with him ever again if something about his health was a dire emergency) and pretty much ran to the hospital as soon as our plane landed. We were ushered in to his room where there were numerous machines going off and IVs hanging around his head and needles in his skin. He was pale and drowsy, barely croaking out a hello before I pounced on him.

The sight was terrible but knowing that he was the one enduring it all made me feel even worse about it. I gave him a hug with everything I had while I tried not to break down crying.

I backed off and he told us that there was something wrong with his head. Like a tumor of sorts. They didn’t know if it was malignant or not, they needed the test results back but they wouldn’t be back for another week or so. He tried to remain calm as he relayed all of this information to us. I could tell it was tearing him apart inside, though. We sat and talked and tried to remain normal for the rest of the day until everyone else decided to go home and let him rest. I would let him rest, but I wasn’t going anywhere.

He smiled when he realized I was going to spend the night with him. He wanted me to cuddle with him, to make him feel safer in “this fucking loud-ass sterile hospital.” I did for a while, until a nurse discovered us and started booting me out the door. I refused to leave and said that I would sleep in the reclining chair near the bed. She looked like she had seen a lot of people try to stay the night and didn’t try to argue with me anymore. This was smart, because I could have totally taken her ass, even if I don’t really enjoy fighting women.

We talked for a really long time about stupid things, just to try to get him to feel better. Before he slipped off to sleep, I heard an, “I love you, Gerard.” It made my heart melt, even though I’m pretty sure that it was only a friendly love.

The next morning he didn’t wake up. He didn’t fucking wake up.

I remember his funeral, how his parents had wanted me to speak at his funeral and how much I meant to him ever since we first met. I had a little speech planned, but I broke down halfway through it and was up there, in front of about a hundred people, crying my eyes out while clinging to his coffin. His mother came up and cried with me, and then we both sat down together in the front pew. I didn’t really get why I had to be in the front, because I wasn’t immediate family, but his father and mother just quieted me and told me that I was practically family and that he would have liked it. I didn’t question any further.

I was one of the pall bearers when we finally took him out to the gravesite. It was me, his dad, my brother Mikey, our guitarist Ray, our drummer Bob, and his grandfather. I was so fucking nervous and scared and almost hyperventilating, I almost lost my hold on the casket a bunch of times. We stood off to the side as the priest said what was supposed to be said, and right before they lowered his coffin I attached a small piece of paper to it. I had drawn him – multiple times on that one piece of paper, actually. There were different emotions on his face and different hairstyles. They were from important parts of our history. When we first met, when he told me he were gay, when I was about to commit suicide and he convinced me out of it when talking hadn’t done so before….

On the back of the paper I wrote him a little note. Nothing long or special like this one, but enough that would get me through the day. “Frank, I love you. You were the best person on the face of this planet and you had to go prematurely. I guess that happens to a lot of great people. I’m just really sad that you had to be a part of that group. I’ll forever miss you. You brightened up my life. Without you I would be nothing, probably dead. So thank you. Thank you so much. I wish you the best of luck in heaven, because you sure as fuck aren’t going to hell. And if you ever feel like visiting me in spirit form, I’d be glad to see you. With much love, XOXOXO G.”

I didn’t really want the other band members to read it, so I put the letter-side against the coffin. Mikey saw the drawings I did of him and started bawling. I hugged him, hoping I could also comfort myself in this horrible time.

He was finally lowered into the ground and I remember sitting next to the grave, just watching the casket below me, thinking he might pop out of it and yell, “SURPRISE!” It never happened, though. I was mildly disappointed, even though I knew he couldn’t still be alive.

That night I rode with Mikey back to my house. I couldn’t drive because I was so devastated and lonely. Mikey didn’t want to stay at his house by himself after seeing what we saw. We both agreed it would be a good idea to bunk with each other for the time being.

I remember as soon as we walked into the house, Mikey turned to me and said, “We should watch a movie.” I didn’t understand why he wanted to do this at the time. Watch a movie? After we just saw our friend being buried? How can you watch a stupid fucking movie after that?

But I was glad I watched Edward Scissorhands with my brother that night. It was one of his favorite movies, and I don’t mean Mikey. I guess it was another way to mourn his loss without grieving and crying my eyes out – I had done enough of that already today.

After the movie, Mikey went to stay in my guest bedroom and I sat in the kitchen with my last cup of coffee before bed. I swear to fucking God I could feel him there with me, like he had heeded my request on his coffin letter. I looked around and couldn’t see anything, but that was okay, because I could feel him. I knew his presence and I knew how it felt to be in his presence. It calmed me, to know that he was there with me on his burial night instead of with everyone else he could have been with. I finished my cup and whispered a, “Good night, Frank,” before going to bed and – surprisingly – sleeping the whole night through.

That was six months ago, to this very day. Six months ago he was buried. I’ve felt his wistful presence around me at other times since then, usually when I’m alone. I feel like I can talk to him with my mind, as crazy as it sounds, when he’s with me. I’ve wondered numerous times whether I’m crazy or insane, but nothing else adds up. Just…him and me. Me and him. Together, even after death. It always makes me smile instead of cringe.

I’ve learned to carry on over these past six months without him. It was hard; the first two months were the most brutal. I’d get up in the morning to go call him to see if he wanted to hang out that day or go to the mall or something, but then realize that his house was being sold to someone else and that he wasn’t actually a living human being anymore. I’d drop to the floor and sob for a few minutes, then get up and try to continue on normally with my day. It didn’t really work, the normalcy. But I tried. I knew he wanted me to mourn, but he also wanted me to move on. He wanted the best for me, he always has.

That fight we had where I was about to kill myself all those years ago plays again in my mind whenever I think about doing it again. The world, it seems, is less bright when he isn’t around, but I’ve learned to cope. I know he would be so disappointed in me if I were to kill myself. He’d probably bitch me out in heaven. Well, maybe I’d go to hell. I’m not really sure at this point.

Taking small steps is what it’s really all about. I’ve come to terms with the fact that my best friend is no longer here, and that I probably loved him more than I thought I did. If I could kiss him, I would fucking kiss him so strongly and passionately and so full of love he’d be knocked over. Maybe these feelings developed after he’d died, maybe they were there all along. I’m not sure but that’s okay. I’ve come to terms with that, as well.

Just as of yesterday, I became aware of a letter addressed to me from him. Apparently it was written that day the receptionist at the hospital called me to get me to come see him. He wrote it while he was waiting for me to come. His parents had just learned of its existence, as well, when the hospital called them. How they could fucking forget about something as precious as that for so long is beyond me. But I have the letter, here in my hands, and I’ll attach it to this letter. It made me fucking cry. It still makes me fucking cry. He professes his love for me, and how he knows that he’s going to go soon but he’s okay with it because he’s fulfilled everything that he’d wanted to do in life. He loved me. He loved me like he had loved no one else on the entire planet, that’s what he said. It’s hard to wrap my mind around it but I guess it makes sense. We were pretty much each other’s everything; we were always closer to each other than anyone else in the band. We clicked. There was instant chemistry. We knew that our friendship was a once in a lifetime experience and I wouldn’t take anything back about it.

His love for me is what has gotten me through life, and will continue to do so. I’m crying, now. I’ve been writing this whole thing throughout the day, sitting on his grave and occasionally looking up at the beautiful headstone that his parents had asked me to design. I’m still floored that they think so much of me and would let me do this and speak at his funeral. Maybe they knew about his love for me long before he did, or before he told them or wrote it to me. I guess everything happens for a reason and his death was one of them.

The band isn’t really a band anymore. Yeah, we’re still friends and we still hang out but we don’t professionally make music anymore. It just didn’t feel right without him here. Bob’s gone back to doing sound for various bands, and he’s the closest to having what we used to have. Ray teaches guitar classes at a local community youth center. The kids all look up to him; he’s really got a good life right now. Mikey’s working on becoming a professional writer; I can’t say that he doesn’t have it in him. I believe in him, I know he’ll be able to do it.

Me, I’m just doing the same old same old. Not doing a whole lot as of late, only really been working on my comic. I was thinking of possibly selling a few of my large-scale paintings or maybe having another exhibit soon. I’m running out of cash and I know that I have to go somewhere. It’s not because I’m being forced out of my house or anything, but I just need to travel. Hop in a car and just drive until I meet the horizon, and continue on after that. It’ll be like a new start for me, one where I’m letting go of all my previous doubts and problems and just starting anew. Hopefully it’ll end up like that.

I’m not really sure how to end this, now that I’ve pretty much poured my heart and soul into this journal entry of sorts. I know that I will never, ever write in this journal again. Nothing else will touch these pages. This entry needs to stand by itself, in constant reminder of how special he really was. I was thinking while I was writing it that I might leave it on the headstone in front of me, but I don’t want anyone else reading what I’ve written. I guess I’ll just take this journal with me on my journey. If he’s really with me in spirit sometimes then I know that he’ll know of its existence.

Excuse me for my cheesiness, but I’m pretty sure that the next line is the only way to properly end it, because it pretty much sums up all of my feelings into a sentence that we both wrote together. Frank, I love you and I always will. Please wait for me. I have a feeling it might take a while until we’re completely reunited again.

And though you’re dead and gone, believe me, your memory will carry on.