Sequel: Shoobeedoo ›
I'll Curl Up With You Until I Die
Bad Dreams
I lay in my bed, in our bed, staring up at the ceiling.
This couldn't even be happening. The thought of it disgusted me to my core, to my aching bones. He couldn't be gone. He can't have left me forever.
As I thought more and more about it, the more surreal it all felt. He loved me. He told me this repeatedly, kissing the sensitive skin on my neck, and when he held me at night. I was undoubtedly crazy in love with him, and he was the same with me.
I think.
But if he loved me, how could he have left? Even if it was to die?
No, it was impossible. He was here with me. It was all a bad dream.
"Frank," I whispered, turning onto my side, half expecting to see an empty place where Frank once slept. But there he was, the perfection that was my boyfriend. The seven years we spent together had changed him, but the lines around his eyes and the stubble on his chin only made me love his imperfection perfectly.
His eyes opened blearily, and he grinned at me. "Hey beautiful," he murmured, and he pulled me close to him. I cuddled up into the curve of his body, and breathed out in relief. "What's wrong?" He asked, always sensitive to my feelings.
"I had a horrible dream," I closed my eyes, confident now that the arms around me were substantial, and not a trick of my mind.
"Tell me about it..." I felt his breathing on the back of my neck, and I was in heaven.
"You were dead," I said bluntly. I felt no change from him behind me, he kept breathing in and out easily. He didn't respond, so I went on. "We went out to eat one morning, and I got mad at you for some stupid shit. I left, and just a few seconds later, someone came into the place, and shot everyone." I shivered, remembering the vivid mental pictures of the carnage I'd seen when I ran back in. Even though it was a dream, it still terrified me.
Frank was silent. I still felt and heard his heavy breathing but now, he breathed faster, and through his mouth. I stayed quiet for a moment, before I opened my eyes.
"Frank?" I asked, a little worried about his reaction.
"Gerard," He croaked, and I heard something bubbling in his throat. I turned over quickly. I bolted upright, staring at him. Blood soaked through his shirt, and as I watched, he coughed deeply, blood splattering onto my face.
"Frank?!" I asked, panicking. I put my hands on his chest, and felt the warm blood spurting out of a bullet hole. I brought my hand away, and stared at the deep red for an instant, before looking back down at him.
Suddenly, he was perfect again. His shirt was a stainless white, but his eyes were a dull, lifeless black.
"But Gerard," He crooned, putting a hand to my cheek. I pressed my face into his caressing touch, not understanding, but halfway aware of what was happening. "That did happen."
I woke up with a start. My body was drenched in sweat, and I felt tears on my eyelashes. I slowly raised my hand to my face. No blood. It was all a dream.
But he was still dead. He was gone, he wasn't living anymore.
I couldn't breath. Every time I woke up from dreams of him, I couldn't breath. And since I dreamed about him every night, my mornings were filled with the feeling of chocking on my heart bursting up my throat.
Sometimes I felt nauseous, too.
I burst up fromour my bed, and sprinted into the bathroom. I dropped to my knees, and threw up into the toilet. I haven't eaten for days, so it was pure bile. The taste made my throat contract even more then my dreams had, but it kept spewing from my mouth.
When I finished throwing up all the acid in my stomach, I hovered over the toilet a moment more. My arms were shaking, and my nose was running. The half-formed tears that had been threatening to burst down were streaming down my face openly. I couldn't bring myself to pull myself back up out of my crouch. I couldn't face the heartbroken feeling that everything in our apartment brought up. The memories of us being together were too strong for me to ignore, to tune out like I had the rest of the world.
I couldn't bear another fucking moment.
I fell back onto my butt and leaned against the wall behind me. I ran my fingers through my greasy hair, and let out a guttural sob. I cried again, for him.
I cried for the memories. For the past. For the present. For the future. For our families, friends, fans that I was letting down by not crawling out of my black hole of self-pity and despair. And even as I knew that I was being unreasonable by not putting this behind me, I couldn't change what I was doing even if I wanted to. I was slightly more satisfied lurking in the dark of our apartment then I would putting on a brave face for the world.
I just wasn't good enough for the world. Not for Mikey, or Bob, or Ray. Not for Lyn-Z, Bandit, or Jamia who we had left in our queer dust. We had taken each other away from our wives and my daughter so we could be together. Maybe if I hadn't left Lyn-Z, Frank wouldn't have been shot. It wasn't a maybe. It was definite. He would be alive, and our families would be thriving.
Damn me for finding my rainbow colours just in time to kill him.
My self-disgust grew even greater as I sobbed in the bathroom, mouth tasting horrible, completely alone. Self-loathing for what I had gotten us all into. For what I had done to Frank and to everyone.
I shook my head once, and jumped to my feet. I ran out of the small wet bathroom, and ran to the kitchen. I pulled open the drawer and grabbed the biggest knife I saw. Glinting dangerously, the long silver knife was trembling in my shaking hand. I walked slowly back into our bedroom. I walked past the bed, and to the bedside table where the urn rested. A picture of him was propped against it, and he smiled at me.
I smiled back at him as I thrust the knife roughly into my chest.
I gasped loudly, and whimpered. But I couldn't tear my eyes away from him, smiling as I felt the blood gush out of the wound. The knife wasn't in my hand anymore. I dropped it, or it was still in my chest. But my hands, shaking still grabbed onto the dresser for support. I couldn't bear falling down, because that would make Frank invisible to me. I bit my lip and felt my teeth sink through painlessly. I tasted the blood on my tongue, but it didn't matter anymore. I felt my chest grow warmer from blood seeping down my body. Nothing broke through my awareness, only those eyes.
My knees gave out, and I fell to the ground. I moaned, because he was gone. I couldn't see him. He was gone, and he was just right there, but I wasn't strong enough to get to him.
"N-no...." I cried, chocking on blood, just like he had when I found his body in the restaurant. My arms reached out, but I couldn't see. My fingers couldn't find grip on the dresser, on anything, and I searched blindly for him.
But then the darkness swallowed me whole. And I couldn't feel the agonizing pain in my chest, the heat of the blood pooling around me, the moisture of my sweat, the blood mixed with bile still on my tongue.
And I died, praying to God, that if heaven exists, I'd go to it.
Because my life, my soul is wherever Frank is.
This couldn't even be happening. The thought of it disgusted me to my core, to my aching bones. He couldn't be gone. He can't have left me forever.
As I thought more and more about it, the more surreal it all felt. He loved me. He told me this repeatedly, kissing the sensitive skin on my neck, and when he held me at night. I was undoubtedly crazy in love with him, and he was the same with me.
I think.
But if he loved me, how could he have left? Even if it was to die?
No, it was impossible. He was here with me. It was all a bad dream.
"Frank," I whispered, turning onto my side, half expecting to see an empty place where Frank once slept. But there he was, the perfection that was my boyfriend. The seven years we spent together had changed him, but the lines around his eyes and the stubble on his chin only made me love his imperfection perfectly.
His eyes opened blearily, and he grinned at me. "Hey beautiful," he murmured, and he pulled me close to him. I cuddled up into the curve of his body, and breathed out in relief. "What's wrong?" He asked, always sensitive to my feelings.
"I had a horrible dream," I closed my eyes, confident now that the arms around me were substantial, and not a trick of my mind.
"Tell me about it..." I felt his breathing on the back of my neck, and I was in heaven.
"You were dead," I said bluntly. I felt no change from him behind me, he kept breathing in and out easily. He didn't respond, so I went on. "We went out to eat one morning, and I got mad at you for some stupid shit. I left, and just a few seconds later, someone came into the place, and shot everyone." I shivered, remembering the vivid mental pictures of the carnage I'd seen when I ran back in. Even though it was a dream, it still terrified me.
Frank was silent. I still felt and heard his heavy breathing but now, he breathed faster, and through his mouth. I stayed quiet for a moment, before I opened my eyes.
"Frank?" I asked, a little worried about his reaction.
"Gerard," He croaked, and I heard something bubbling in his throat. I turned over quickly. I bolted upright, staring at him. Blood soaked through his shirt, and as I watched, he coughed deeply, blood splattering onto my face.
"Frank?!" I asked, panicking. I put my hands on his chest, and felt the warm blood spurting out of a bullet hole. I brought my hand away, and stared at the deep red for an instant, before looking back down at him.
Suddenly, he was perfect again. His shirt was a stainless white, but his eyes were a dull, lifeless black.
"But Gerard," He crooned, putting a hand to my cheek. I pressed my face into his caressing touch, not understanding, but halfway aware of what was happening. "That did happen."
I woke up with a start. My body was drenched in sweat, and I felt tears on my eyelashes. I slowly raised my hand to my face. No blood. It was all a dream.
But he was still dead. He was gone, he wasn't living anymore.
I couldn't breath. Every time I woke up from dreams of him, I couldn't breath. And since I dreamed about him every night, my mornings were filled with the feeling of chocking on my heart bursting up my throat.
Sometimes I felt nauseous, too.
I burst up fromour my bed, and sprinted into the bathroom. I dropped to my knees, and threw up into the toilet. I haven't eaten for days, so it was pure bile. The taste made my throat contract even more then my dreams had, but it kept spewing from my mouth.
When I finished throwing up all the acid in my stomach, I hovered over the toilet a moment more. My arms were shaking, and my nose was running. The half-formed tears that had been threatening to burst down were streaming down my face openly. I couldn't bring myself to pull myself back up out of my crouch. I couldn't face the heartbroken feeling that everything in our apartment brought up. The memories of us being together were too strong for me to ignore, to tune out like I had the rest of the world.
I couldn't bear another fucking moment.
I fell back onto my butt and leaned against the wall behind me. I ran my fingers through my greasy hair, and let out a guttural sob. I cried again, for him.
I cried for the memories. For the past. For the present. For the future. For our families, friends, fans that I was letting down by not crawling out of my black hole of self-pity and despair. And even as I knew that I was being unreasonable by not putting this behind me, I couldn't change what I was doing even if I wanted to. I was slightly more satisfied lurking in the dark of our apartment then I would putting on a brave face for the world.
I just wasn't good enough for the world. Not for Mikey, or Bob, or Ray. Not for Lyn-Z, Bandit, or Jamia who we had left in our queer dust. We had taken each other away from our wives and my daughter so we could be together. Maybe if I hadn't left Lyn-Z, Frank wouldn't have been shot. It wasn't a maybe. It was definite. He would be alive, and our families would be thriving.
Damn me for finding my rainbow colours just in time to kill him.
My self-disgust grew even greater as I sobbed in the bathroom, mouth tasting horrible, completely alone. Self-loathing for what I had gotten us all into. For what I had done to Frank and to everyone.
I shook my head once, and jumped to my feet. I ran out of the small wet bathroom, and ran to the kitchen. I pulled open the drawer and grabbed the biggest knife I saw. Glinting dangerously, the long silver knife was trembling in my shaking hand. I walked slowly back into our bedroom. I walked past the bed, and to the bedside table where the urn rested. A picture of him was propped against it, and he smiled at me.
I smiled back at him as I thrust the knife roughly into my chest.
I gasped loudly, and whimpered. But I couldn't tear my eyes away from him, smiling as I felt the blood gush out of the wound. The knife wasn't in my hand anymore. I dropped it, or it was still in my chest. But my hands, shaking still grabbed onto the dresser for support. I couldn't bear falling down, because that would make Frank invisible to me. I bit my lip and felt my teeth sink through painlessly. I tasted the blood on my tongue, but it didn't matter anymore. I felt my chest grow warmer from blood seeping down my body. Nothing broke through my awareness, only those eyes.
My knees gave out, and I fell to the ground. I moaned, because he was gone. I couldn't see him. He was gone, and he was just right there, but I wasn't strong enough to get to him.
"N-no...." I cried, chocking on blood, just like he had when I found his body in the restaurant. My arms reached out, but I couldn't see. My fingers couldn't find grip on the dresser, on anything, and I searched blindly for him.
But then the darkness swallowed me whole. And I couldn't feel the agonizing pain in my chest, the heat of the blood pooling around me, the moisture of my sweat, the blood mixed with bile still on my tongue.
And I died, praying to God, that if heaven exists, I'd go to it.
Because my life, my soul is wherever Frank is.
♠ ♠ ♠
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