Passing Looks and Disappointed Faces

[Gee's P.O.V.]

He simply collapsed before me at the sound of my voice. This macabre scene I was witnessing could not possibly exist; this had to be a figment of my imagination. This had to be a hallucination spurred on by my fear for his safety. None of this could possibly exist. I couldn't possibly be living in reality; I must have fallen asleep on my bed and imagined this entire thing. I couldn't be living in the present; I couldn't possibly be seeing this.

It was true, unfortunately. There was a man there, a man that was spurting a gush of blood that formed a veritable pool around his prone body. Shards of broken glass littered the floor, bright-green and nearly translucent in the sunlight. And there he was, his black shirt sticking to him, the fabric absorbing the blood that had poured upon him. There he was, with a broken bottle in his hand, droplets of crimson clinging to the broken end. With a certainty I myself could not fully explain despite all the evidence that he had indeed committed the crime, I knew he had not meant it. He couldn't have possibly meant it.

However, as I stared at this scene, I couldn't help but think back to the conversation Bob and I had had. Well, it was more Bob admonishing me but still I couldn't help but think back to his words. You don't know shit, Gee. Oh, I definitely didn't know anything about this boy. I made to speak again but found that words failed me as I stared down at his body kneeling before the dying man. His soft voice was the one thing that reached my ears but, I couldn't discern any of the words. I stepped towards him, forgetting the vodka bottle in my hand but clutching it tightly either way.

"Frankie?" I muttered; this couldn't be real. I was insane; I was having hallucinations and living inside my mind as I always did. This was a dream. This was a figment of my over-active imagination. It was real and I came to this realization as he spoke, his voice hollow and cracked.

"We've got to go. I can't stay here; I can't. They'll arrest me. I shouldn't've done anything. I shouldn't have done anything." He scrambled to his feet, backing away slowly from the still gurgling man. "Dorian, Dorian," he muttered, still backing away, never once letting go of the broken bottle in his hand. Shaking his head, he turned around for once, letting the man see his back, letting me finally see his face. His eyes were blood-shot, tears streaking his dirtied cheeks. His body began to shake uncontrollably and it was obvious he was holding back sobs. I had the sudden overpowering urge to take him in my arms.

"W-What happened?" I asked, though it seemed obvious what dastardly deed Frank had committed. He shook his head, refusing to answer, moving apart from me and leaning down to grab the neck of the bottle.

"They can't find me, Gerard...I k-killed him," he choked out, wiping his tear-filled green eyes with the back of his hand, though all that did was smear the dirt and blood on his face. I opened my mouth to speak but, again, no words came out. He began shaking more fervently, falling to his knees, both objects still grasped in his hands. "I killed him."

"N-no, you didn't," I said, trying hard to console him. "Look, he's still alive. C'mon now; did you call an ambulance?" For some reason, the thought suddenly came to me. He nodded, biting his bottom lip, still shaking, still crying.

"W-we've got to go. T-they'll find me," he muttered but he made no move to get up. I finally put aside my plastic bag, placing my hands on his sides, pulling him to his feet. His eyes stared blankly at me, numb as he was. It was an amazing thing that during all this time, the man had not died. And Frank was as limp as if he were unconscious, making it more difficult for me to carry his weight, not that he weighed much in the first place. He still wouldn't let go of the glass and that frustrated me to some extent. However, I didn't want to say anything to him and so I simply grabbed my vodka from the floor, somehow balancing the precious alcohol and his frail body.

There was of course the question on how I could possibly get his body and my bottle in one piece back home but I would manage, somehow. At least, that's what I continued to tell myself as I juggled his body and the bagged bottle, trying to walk down the strangely empty street. Far away, softly, I could hear sirens fast approaching, wailing down the street in urgency. I clutched Frank to me instinctively, dragging him into an alley, crouching in the shadows. I couldn't let them see him with his shirt soaked in blood and tears coursing down his delicate, pale face. The ambulance roared past in all its urgent glory and no one called us out.

Sighing in relief, I stood up, pulling him with me. Still his body was limp and still the crystal droplets made their way down his cheeks. I could feel a shattering within me. My heart must have shattered as that bottle had shattered. The shards must have pierced my flesh the way that crystal had done to that man. I shifted my hands, the bag slung over my arm, my hands gripping at him tightly, desperately; almost as desperately as he now clutched at my shirt. He was safe, at least for the moment.

And so the odyssey to return home continued. I would have taken the back alleys but with a crying young man clutched in my arms, a bottle of vodka and a wallet that was slowly working its way out of my front pocket, I didn't really wish to risk it. After what seemed to be hours (but was probably half an hour or so) I reached my home. There was no space to feel ashamed at the condition of the façade and I merely worked on opening the door. Finding I couldn't, frustrated and angry, I began to yell for someone to open the goddamned door. After a few minutes, someone finally did and quite ungracefully, I stumbled in, somehow managing to balance myself out before I went crashing to the ground.

"Someone fucking help me," I muttered with a grunt, nodding my head at the bottle. After all this time, I still cared so much for that damned bottle. Someone, I'm not even sure who, took it, relieving me of some weight. Still, I wouldn't let anyone touch Frank; I couldn't let anyone touch him. I managed to carry him the few extra yards to the couch before I finally collapsed, breathing hard. I never had the strength for such acts but adrenaline is a funny thing. It empowers you when you should be the weakest. Once I had regained my breath, I gently pried the broken bottle from his hands, cleaning the separate pieces and then throwing them away. I couldn't bear to see them knowing what they had done; what his precious, calloused hands had done.

Silence was all around me since no one dared speak. Everyone could only stare at the numb boy before them, his eyes still blank and hollow, staring unblinkingly straight up at the ceiling. I collapsed again beside him, weak and shaking. There was no way I could do anything else at the moment; I merely wanted to slip into unconsciousness or wake from this horrible nightmare I was having. "Gerard?" I looked up at my brother, my mouth open as I wheezed. I should really stop smoking so much. "What happened?" I shook my head.

"I can't really say, Mikes. I barely know myself," I muttered, looking back at Frank. He had shifted, his neck outstretched, his eyes closed finally. I couldn't help but notice the marks on his neck, the bluish tinges of new bruises. My breath stilled and I struggled to stand. A hand on my shoulder made me pause in the middle of my actions, my breathing heavy and harsh. I finally just shrugged away the hand, moving to pick up Frank though I still obviously didn't have the strength to do such a thing. Rather than risk injuring him, Bob, the strongest in the group, scooped him up in his arms easily, carrying his limp body down the basement towards my room. I couldn't help the surge of gratefulness coursing through me.

"Thanks, Bob," I muttered as he set the body down tenderly on my bed. He gave me a smile that didn't extend to his eyes. Those were only filled with sadness. I didn't care though, not even watching as he ascended the stairs and left me alone. Slowly, I threaded my way to the bed, sitting at the edge, placing my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands. The stench of blood and alcohol permeated my nostrils but I couldn't bring myself to do anything about it just yet. He had closed his eyes, his breathing shallow and controlled. He looked like a broken doll, sprawled there on the bed with his limbs limp and his head leaning to one side.

Neither of us said anything. He was probably reliving the entire event over again judging by the way he would spontaneously twitch and his brow would furrow. I was simply wondering what I could possibly do with him. I knew I would have to get him out of those clothes and he would have to take a shower. I also knew he needed somewhere to sleep and a place to hide while the investigation began. Somehow I hoped the man would not survive just so he wouldn't say who it was that had attempted against him. Deciding it would be rather difficult to endure anything more than five extra minutes with the metallic stench of blood and the bitter smell of beer, I moved towards Frank. I couldn't think on how embarrassing this was or how this went against his privacy because I would never be able to do it.

I grabbed at the hem of his shirt and he whimpered, my fingers having lightly brushed over his skin. Feeling my cheeks burn, I continued pulling at his shirt, peeling it from his chest and stomach and pulling it up over his head. He groaned and opened his eyes but didn't say anything as I moved to place the shirt a distance away from me. I couldn't stand the blood that now stained my hands and shirt. This I removed without thinking, looking among the articles of clothing on the floor for a relatively clean shirt. Having held Frank to my body had caused the blood to seep onto my clothes as well. Slowly, I began to realize that I had just screwed myself over just by helping him and that I really needed a shower at the moment.

Moving back to my bed, I grasped at Frank's hands, pulling him to his feet. He swayed but otherwise held his own weight, gazing at me as if he were unsure what to do. I sighed; I really didn't want to have to help him with everything. He turned his head away sharply and shame filled me for having thought such a thing. I grabbed him gently by the shoulders, propelling him towards the stairs. He looked at me blankly but I didn't stop, leading him by and by to the bathroom. "Now, you stay in here, take a shower and I'll lend you some of Mikey's clothes," I said, knowing mine would never fit him, "Okay?" He nodded and I gently closed the door in his face. This perfect stranger was bringing more trouble than I had thought.