Passing Looks and Disappointed Faces

[Gerard's P.O.V.]

The moments after dismissing Frank seemed to be torturous. The room spun from the vertigo, from the realization that there was a grand possibility that we was lost, meandering the streets in a vain attempt to find his home. Worry rose within me like nausea, creating a knot in my throat, blocking the air supply to those blackening lungs of mine. There was a great urge rising in me to follow him; to run after him and beg him to come back and stay. But that angel deserved to be free. That angel couldn't be tethered down any longer. I had to accept that he was gone, if only for a day.

"Gerard!" Rousing from my thoughts, I turned my head in the direction of the yell, blankly focusing my gaze on my mother. I finally realized I was simply standing in the hallway, staring at nothing in particular, entertaining the notion that Frank was in grave danger. It was disheartening to not hear his familiar voice, to not see his round-cheeked smile or his arms extended towards me.

"Gerard, what's wrong with you? I've been calling you for five minutes already." An apology stumbled out from my lips, shaky and insincere. She sighed, removing her hands from her hips, wiping her hands with a towel she held. Her gaze remained fixated on me, on my inattentiveness to her demands, to her questions. She rolled her eyes, stepping towards me, grabbing the collar of my shirt, pulling me into the kitchen.

"Okay, tell me."

"Tell you what?" I replied without enthusiasm, allowing my body to collapse into a chair she pulled up. She cocked an eyebrow, taking a seat across from me. I could care less about the smells drifting from the stovetop or the sizzle of the meal she was currently cooking. None of it interested me in the least; I couldn't even identify what exactly sizzled in the pan.

"Is there something between you and that boy, what was his name? Frank?" She crossed her arms over her chest, her gaze threatening me to speak honestly; if I didn't she was sure to take notice. For a few moments the only movement I could possibly make in response was that of a fish out of water, gaping blankly at her. She huffed, taking a hand away to wave it in front of my face, snapping her fingers quickly. "Answer me, Gerard."

"I'm sorry, mom; I'm just thinking about something."

"It had better be the answer to my question."

"Damn it, mom; why do you need to know so badly? Yes, there's something between me and Frank but that's none of your business. That's between me and him and it doesn't concern you." The realization came too late; the chair had been pushed to the floor, the vase on the table had been knocked over. And the glass shattered suddenly, exploded into shards that sprayed in every direction, embedding itself in the walls, in the table. Glittering fragments danced in the air, glinting so brightly in the overhead lights. They were fast but the world had slowed down, the glass lingering in the air for the briefest moment.

But suddenly time sped up again, the broken vase finding its destination. The stinging pain that suddenly engulfed my left arm was surprising. This eruption of pain was unexpected. Spun-sugar glass. It made no sense that this could cause damage, no sense at all. And it was the inimical sound of horrific silence that followed, that horrid noiselessness that obscured the falling glass, the injuries. That sugar spinning in the air landed heavily, much more heavily than what its true weight permitted. The velocity at which it had traveled was disconcerting, frightening even.

Though they were wetted by the water that had spilled out at the collision with the wood table, the impact from the shards was not made any easier, was not made any less painful. There was no powerful expletive coming from my lips, no curses, nothing. The agony suddenly engulfing the left side of my body didn't matter in the slightest, didn't affect me in the least. But the woman in front of me, that strong woman that was my mom, released a heart-wrenching scream, the right side of her body glittering with the fragments. Nausea rose in my throat, the sight of the blood suddenly beginning to stream down her face and arm disconcerting me, setting me off-balance.

I couldn't move if I wanted to, rooted to the spot by fear, by rising guilt. I had caused this, hard harmed my mother. And she continued screaming, hands frantically running over her pocked skin, smearing the crimson over pale skin. Still I didn't move, couldn't help her, not even aware of the same crimson running down my body as well. There were footsteps then, questions fluttering through the air, beating their strong wings rapidly. They quickly ran to her, gingerly avoiding the glimmer embedded in her skin. I was the cause of this.

A crystal tear, glinting so very brightly, shone on her cheek before becoming red, before mingling with the blood she had smeared. She hadn't been harmed very much but the pain was still enough to fuel her screams, to fuel her pleading. I still didn't move; even to comfort her, to apologize for my rash actions. Someone turned to face me, taking in the blank gaze with which I faced my mother, taking in the uninterrupted flow running down my side. I was vaguely aware of being shaken, of my body trembling as it lost its strength, moving only to collapse on the glass-ridden hardwood. More shards became embedded in my skin, their sharp ends pushing through the fabric that composed the clothes I wore, forcing their way past the flesh.

There was only a mild, stinging pain, a far-away pain that meant nothing. The tears ran down her cheeks still, water and sodium chloride irritating the glass cuts. Their hands pulled at mine, trying to lift me, to get me up on my feet again; I refused. But still they insisted, words flying from their lips that simply could not be processed in my buzzing mind. Encouragement? Reassurance? I simply couldn't know what they were speaking, what they were yelling.

Finally, someone, I don't know who, managed to lift my limp body of the floor, placing me on my weary feet once again. I managed to regain some strength to keep myself up, to watch as they took my mother away, her hands still frantically running over her wounded skin. They began to lead me towards her and again I balked; I wasn't going to go. I didn't want to go. But still they pushed and prodded until they virtually dragged me along down the hallway, hands carefully avoiding the glass so as to not push the shards in further. I couldn't care less if they had slit my throat with them.

Apparently, though, they cared. We were pushed into separate cars, thrown in the backseat with as much care as they could muster. I wouldn't have cared if they would have dragged me through the dirt and stuffed me in the trunk along with a bucket of broken bottles. Nothing really mattered to me. I was numb, blank, unfeeling. It was strange but there was nothing I could really do to relieve this sensation.

The road sped along beneath the car, going over fifty miles per hour. Every little ditch, every crack in the concrete, caused the car to jump, caused me some minor discomfort. And still it didn't matter. It didn't matter that the blood pouring from the wounds was seeping into the backseat. I was merely focusing on the roof of the car, on the uniformity of the gray interior, my pain becoming last to my thoughts.

"Gerard, come on, Gee. We're at the hospital; you've got to get up." The voices came from far away, distant ends of a canyon. Their hands pulled at mine again, urging me to get up, to move. A wry laugh escaped my lips before I could stop it, the thought that I needed medical attention suddenly a quite hilarious concept. Why would I need a doctor? I barely hurt; I would gladly remove the fragments with a pair of tweezers at home without any problems at all.

They continued to insist, frightened now by the mirth springing from my mouth, pouring out in a torrent on the ground before them. They seemed to try to sidestep the laughter as if it were the contents of my putrid stomach, continuing to pull me up, away from the slight comfort of the backseat. The next half hour or so was a blur, to be quite honest, nothing worth noting. They simply asked me questions, removing the fragments carefully so as not to cause more damage, scrubbing the wounds clean, anointing them with antibiotics and bandaging them.

I was lead back home and I had spoken nothing aside to the answers I had divulged to the questions made by the doctor. I wanted to remain nowhere, had no particular place I wished to go. The guilt rising in me at what I had done was beginning to overwhelm the insensitivity, overriding the weariness of my mind. They still spoke to me, trying to gander a guess as to what was wrong, as to what could have possibly possessed me to do such a thing.

I had no answer for them, no story to share. It was a simple accident that shouldn't have happened, that wasn't planned. Ignoring their every request, ignoring the faces that swam before my blurred vision, I simply retreated back into my bedroom, locking myself away. There was no inclination in me to face them, to see the tortured face of my mother. It had all started because of a simple question; truly none of this had to happen.

But the fact of the matter was that it had and there was no turning back time. I would have to face my mother for the rest of my life until either one of us died and this would have to be one of the most idiotic things I had done that had resulted in hurting her. There had been no need for me to get so defensive; there wasn't any reason in my getting angry at her for asking me if there was something going on. It was the truth and she had known it.

There was nothing else for me to do than to curl up on the deflating air mattress on the ground, close my eyes and pray for sleep to overtake me. It was so very stupid to act this way simply because I had sent Frank away but the pain was beginning to throb steadily in my side in a way it hadn't since I first received the injuries. I just wanted to clear my mind of its cobwebs to be able to think clearly once again. Maybe once I had cleared my mind, I could get my emotions back. It was a rather drab world when there was such callousness surrounding my mind.