Novacaine.
Sleep.
One year later.
It was unusually warm for the dead of winter. For once, there wasn't piles of dirty snow on the edge of the freeway, or thin, black ice on the sidewalks. A soft wind ruffled my hair out of place, and I didn't bother fixing it.
My shoes -- nice ones that Mikey had loaned me, along with the suit -- clicked against the asphalt walkway. I took in my surroundings, the decaying brown grass and bare trees, wilted piles of roses that someone had placed on a frozen mound of turned-up soil.
I glanced over my shoulder to see the DA leaning against his black BMW. I didn't know his name, and I didn't want to find out. He was the state-appointed kind, because I couldn't afford a real Defense Attourney; if it were really up to me, I wouldn't be here right now, anyways.
I veered off the paved walkway where the ancient cherry tree stood, whose branches would explode with pink blossoms around April. I reached out, running a finger over the rough bark, knowing I wouldn't see this tree again.
Frank was the fourth one to the right of the cherry tree; I could find him blindfolded. Around the small headstone were little things I'd occasionally drop off; molded bags of Skittles, his dogtag that Jamia had returned to me, a pack of cigarettes (someone stole them anyways).
The ground was freezing, and I knew it wouldn't look good going into court with dirt and grass on my suit, but I sat anyways, as if we were sitting on the floor of the apartment again. I took off my sunglasses -- I didn't really need them, it was an overcast day -- folded my hands in my lap, and stared at the engraved writing on the headstone.
Frank Anthony Iero
October 31, 1981 - January 28, 2012.
That was all. We couldn't afford any more engravings, and anyways, I don't think Frank would want something extra written on his grave. It was simple, like him. Every time I saw the dates, though, my heart crumbled a little more: thirty-one years of life was incredibly short.
"Hey, Frankie," I said, using his pet name. I fumbled into my suit pocket for my lighter to click, but I remembered he didn't like that, so instead I started pulling up blades of grass.
"Today's the big day. Well, I mean, you wouldn't know that, 'cause I never told you. But I'm going to court today. For a while. And then probably jail, forever." I paused, closing my eyes to imagine his huge olive eyes intently watching me methodically pull up dirt.
"It was because of the knife, the one that killed you. I was holding it, remember?" As if he could forget. As if I would ever forget.
"So they think I killed you, and then tried to kill myself." I laughed. "Crazy, right? Well, I mean, that's what my lawyer wants to say. 'Cause of the bipolar thing, he's gonna say I went insane."
I smiled to myself. "I guess only you and me will really know what happened, right?"
I didn't wait for him to answer. I rolled up the sleeves of the jacket. We'll Carry On was still there, now in raised light pink lines that would never fade. Tears pricked the backs of my eyes and I didn't suppress them, even though I'd promised going into this I wouldn't cry at his grave.
"I hate you for doing that," I whispered, so softly I wondered if he could even hear me. "I hate you for doing everything. I hate you for breaking up the band. I hate you for doing the drugs, for spending my medication money. I hate you for becoming depressed, wanting to kill yourself, even if it wasn't your fault. I hate you for making me do it for you."
I wiped my eyes on the back of my hand. "But I could never really hate you. You saved my life so many times. You were my best friend. And no matter how much I act upset and shit, I could never, ever hate you."
I stared at my wrist, the mutilated one. "I hate myself for not returning the favor, not saving you, even though you'd saved me millions of times. And I couldn't do it this fucking once. But you wouldn't want me to say shit like this anyways."
I let my fingers dance over the scars, eminating the feeling of producing them the first time. "I love you, Frankie. I always will."
I leaned forward, letting my lips graze the ice cold headstone, falling just over the letters of his name. I rolled the sleeves of my suit back down and stood, shakily, touching the headstone once more before turning and starting to walk back to the shiny BMW.
I felt, for the first time in a while, a little closer to peacefulness. He knew I loved him, and that was most important. It wasn't neccissary to say goodbye then, because it wasn't the end.
And I knew, climbing into the car and pulling away from the cemetary, towards the courthouse, towards my fate, that whatever was decided from here on out, one thing would always be certain.
In the end, we would be together.
******************
THE END !
Thanks to everyone who commented / subscribed. Though it was an extremely depressing & morbid story, and I cried at some points while writing it, I still enjoyed writing it. I hope you liked it too ! =] <3
It was unusually warm for the dead of winter. For once, there wasn't piles of dirty snow on the edge of the freeway, or thin, black ice on the sidewalks. A soft wind ruffled my hair out of place, and I didn't bother fixing it.
My shoes -- nice ones that Mikey had loaned me, along with the suit -- clicked against the asphalt walkway. I took in my surroundings, the decaying brown grass and bare trees, wilted piles of roses that someone had placed on a frozen mound of turned-up soil.
I glanced over my shoulder to see the DA leaning against his black BMW. I didn't know his name, and I didn't want to find out. He was the state-appointed kind, because I couldn't afford a real Defense Attourney; if it were really up to me, I wouldn't be here right now, anyways.
I veered off the paved walkway where the ancient cherry tree stood, whose branches would explode with pink blossoms around April. I reached out, running a finger over the rough bark, knowing I wouldn't see this tree again.
Frank was the fourth one to the right of the cherry tree; I could find him blindfolded. Around the small headstone were little things I'd occasionally drop off; molded bags of Skittles, his dogtag that Jamia had returned to me, a pack of cigarettes (someone stole them anyways).
The ground was freezing, and I knew it wouldn't look good going into court with dirt and grass on my suit, but I sat anyways, as if we were sitting on the floor of the apartment again. I took off my sunglasses -- I didn't really need them, it was an overcast day -- folded my hands in my lap, and stared at the engraved writing on the headstone.
Frank Anthony Iero
October 31, 1981 - January 28, 2012.
That was all. We couldn't afford any more engravings, and anyways, I don't think Frank would want something extra written on his grave. It was simple, like him. Every time I saw the dates, though, my heart crumbled a little more: thirty-one years of life was incredibly short.
"Hey, Frankie," I said, using his pet name. I fumbled into my suit pocket for my lighter to click, but I remembered he didn't like that, so instead I started pulling up blades of grass.
"Today's the big day. Well, I mean, you wouldn't know that, 'cause I never told you. But I'm going to court today. For a while. And then probably jail, forever." I paused, closing my eyes to imagine his huge olive eyes intently watching me methodically pull up dirt.
"It was because of the knife, the one that killed you. I was holding it, remember?" As if he could forget. As if I would ever forget.
"So they think I killed you, and then tried to kill myself." I laughed. "Crazy, right? Well, I mean, that's what my lawyer wants to say. 'Cause of the bipolar thing, he's gonna say I went insane."
I smiled to myself. "I guess only you and me will really know what happened, right?"
I didn't wait for him to answer. I rolled up the sleeves of the jacket. We'll Carry On was still there, now in raised light pink lines that would never fade. Tears pricked the backs of my eyes and I didn't suppress them, even though I'd promised going into this I wouldn't cry at his grave.
"I hate you for doing that," I whispered, so softly I wondered if he could even hear me. "I hate you for doing everything. I hate you for breaking up the band. I hate you for doing the drugs, for spending my medication money. I hate you for becoming depressed, wanting to kill yourself, even if it wasn't your fault. I hate you for making me do it for you."
I wiped my eyes on the back of my hand. "But I could never really hate you. You saved my life so many times. You were my best friend. And no matter how much I act upset and shit, I could never, ever hate you."
I stared at my wrist, the mutilated one. "I hate myself for not returning the favor, not saving you, even though you'd saved me millions of times. And I couldn't do it this fucking once. But you wouldn't want me to say shit like this anyways."
I let my fingers dance over the scars, eminating the feeling of producing them the first time. "I love you, Frankie. I always will."
I leaned forward, letting my lips graze the ice cold headstone, falling just over the letters of his name. I rolled the sleeves of my suit back down and stood, shakily, touching the headstone once more before turning and starting to walk back to the shiny BMW.
I felt, for the first time in a while, a little closer to peacefulness. He knew I loved him, and that was most important. It wasn't neccissary to say goodbye then, because it wasn't the end.
And I knew, climbing into the car and pulling away from the cemetary, towards the courthouse, towards my fate, that whatever was decided from here on out, one thing would always be certain.
In the end, we would be together.
******************
THE END !
Thanks to everyone who commented / subscribed. Though it was an extremely depressing & morbid story, and I cried at some points while writing it, I still enjoyed writing it. I hope you liked it too ! =] <3