Eat My Heart Out

“Gerard?” I keep reading my book. It's the only thing I'm allowed to do in my room. There's internet in the lounge. My cell phone has been taken away. I'm not even aloud to have a lousy Game Boy, which was the only game-type-thing my mom let me bring with me.
“You're missing your appointment,” the nurse says as she opens the door further and takes a step inside. They're technically not called nurses, but they are. They don't dress like nurses, but they act like them. They bring me food, they tell me to go to appointments, they change my sheets, they clean my room.

I actually like it here. I don't have to clean anything. I don't have to get out of bed if I don't feel like it. It's worth giving up a few things to get to live here. Even giving up the internet has become acceptable. At least I don't have to talk to anyone.

Well, I have to talk to the doctor a few times a week. I always try to resist talking when I'm in with him, but he always makes me. I don't know why I always break so easily. I blame it on his stubbornness, but really, deep down, I think I want to talk and just need someone to beg me and push me in order to do so.

“Come on,” the 'nurse' says. When I look up from my book, she's suddenly next to me, pulling my duvet off my legs.

“I know you're not sick or feeling bad. I know you by now. So get up,” she says, slapping my arm lightly before walking over to the dresser and taking out some clothes. She throws it at me.

“Get into this and then go see Hammond. He's waiting for you in his office.” She walks out the door, closing it behind her.

I get up.

I actually like it here.

-----

I refuse to talk to him. He keeps telling me he's a professional and that anything I say won't leave this room, but I still won't talk to him. I trust him not to take any of the things I tell him out of this room, but I still won't talk.

It may sound crazy, but I want this. I want to deal with this whole thing myself and I wanna wallow in self-pity and utter despair.

Why?

Because I don't have Frank.

“Gerard. If you're not gonna talk, I'm gonna have to make other arrangements for you.”

I could've helped him. He could've helped me if I had helped him. He wouldn't have to help me if I had helped him in the first place.

If I had noticed – known.

“Since you won't talk to me, alone, then I'll go ahead and sign you up for group counseling.”

I still won't talk.

Frank was in pain. Frank was alone. Frank suffered.

So should I.

“I'll sign you up for a group this afternoon. It consists of about 5 others with various problems, so just try and be open and maybe they can help you in some way.”

I don't want help.

I want pain.

I want loneliness.

I want to hate myself and to be in agony and to hurt so much that I can't eat, sleep or drink.

I want all those things, just so I can have Frank back.

-----

“Here you go,” the leader of the group says anonymously as she hands me a paper cup of steaming hot coffee. She isn't smiling. She isn't being over-friendly. She doesn't want to be called a shrink.

She's human.

I take the cup without moving a single muscle in my face. I just look blankly into her eyes as I set the cup on my thigh, holding it firmly to show appreciation.

She suddenly walks away when someone else enters. The boy sits down on an empty chair to my left – leaving a chair between us. I stare down into my coffee and, out of the corner of my eye, see him receive a cup of what looks like water from the leader of the group.

I guess he's a regular. She asked me what I wanted.

I would've thought that they wouldn't give addictive substances to the residents at this place, but I'm wrong.

As always.

Two people come through the door at the same time. One sits down next to me on the empty chair between me and the first guy, while the other doesn't sit anywhere. I look up to see a girl on my left, but no one on my right. I turn around.

-----

He hasn't said anything. He hasn't even looked at me. He just keeps staring at the palms of his hands in his lap.

I keep staring at him.

What is he doing here?

I won't talk either. The others are talking. The woman had tried making me talk twice, but I wouldn't even introduce myself. I gave her a fake pleading look just to get her to back off, before I went back to staring at Frank, begging him to look up at me.

Look at me.

He shifts in his chair when the woman asks him something. He doesn't look up as he shakes his head, which causes his long bangs to dangle from side to side in front of his face.

His hair is longer.

His dad must've sent him here. My parents couldn't have. He was living with his dad and my parents wouldn't send both of us to the same place. At least I don't think so. Did he come back home while I was away. I've been here for almost a week.

How long has he been here?

The guy next to me stands up, but everyone else stays seated, so I guess the session isn't over yet. So I keep staring.

Look up at me.

Please?

The guy waves a hand in front of my face. I look up at him.

“You're supposed to pass the ball,” he says. I stare at him in utter confusion. I look down at his empty hands, then back up at his empty eyes, finding no useful information neither places. What 'ball'?

He impatiently raises his eyebrows at me.

“The ball,” the woman starts, and I look over at her, “Gerard, is an imaginary ball. When you receive it, you must get up and tell why you wish to pass the ball on.”

I frown at her in confusion. I don't get it. Tell why what? Why?

“What?” I ask dumbfounded.

“Here,” the guy next to me says, “I started and passed it on to you, because I think it would help you to say something.”

I frown up at him.

“Just stand up and pass the ball on,” the woman says, as if it's the most common occurrence in the world.

Slowly I get up, and the guy next to me quickly slams his ass back in his seat. I just stand there, my arms dangling by my sides.

I don't get this 'game' at all.

“Now, look around,” the woman says. I just stare at her. “And pick a person you want to give the ball to and explain why.”

Without a single second of hesitation, my eyes land on Frank. He's still staring at his hands, but his chest is moving slower and his shoulders are tenser. I can tell he's nervous – scared, even.

“Frank?” the woman asks softly. She's noticed my stare.
“I think Gerard wants to give you the ball.”

He still doesn't look up at me.

I can feel the knots in my stomach tightens and that one, big knot that fills up my entire chest seems to double in size.

Look at me.

And he does. His eyes are pale. His face is blotchy, bony and beautiful. He's gorgeous.

“I pass you the ball,” I say with a shaky whisper, “because I want you to be okay.”