Revive

Spirals on the ceiling. Splotches on the ceiling. Crimson ink through a pen, exploded onto the fragmented stucco ceiling.

My eyes blink. Once. Twice. It takes a Herculean amount of effort. My eyelashes stick together like glue. The air smells sharp and metallic, like a razorblade.

My hair is plastered to my skull, my forehead. I feel weighted down, as if my head is encased in lead. Even my limbs seem uncooperative, aching as if some invisible force has ripped them to shreds.

I simply lay there for a couple ageless minutes, not feeling. Wondering what the fuck is on the ceiling. Rusty stains of brown.

Blood.

Blood on the ceiling.

How is there blood on the ceiling?

Suddenly panicked, I attempt to sit up. A massive wave of nausea slams hard against my tortured body with brute force, spinning my brain out of control. I jerk my head to the side just in time to spill the contents of my stomach across the glass-embedded carpet. Once again, I am hard-pressed for details of the night that I just can't seem to remember.

A dull throbbing thrashes behind my eyes with the intent of spilling my blood upon the soiled floor. Blood upon the ceiling.

I close my eyes, and I can feel the hazardous memory of the world in utter turmoil. A lovely brunette's feathery accent in my ear, an annoying bandmate ruining all my fun. The tumultuous rumbling of the room collapsing in on us. A withered scream in my ear as the chandelier came crashing down, and the reflection of my own horrified face in the mirror before it pulled me down.

Disaster in a microcosm. Death on the horizon.

I remember everything.

Upon looking down, I find my chest congealed with dried blood. Sickly shallow cuts criss-cross my torso, forming nauseating patterns across the near-translucent skin. They only seem to sting once I think about them, sending shots of tamed fire up and down my nerves. Tiny fragments of glass lay exposed in the torn skin, jagged edges winking at me in the moonshine that peeks in through the shattered window.

A moan that can only be described as guttural sounds from somewhere to my left. It takes hold of my stomach and twists, shaking my spine to the core. Sheets of cool ice settle over my heart.

Frank. My mind wraps around his name, the separation of our hands as the chandelier came crashing down in a wave of crystal rain. The scream that had to be his.

"F-Frank?" My voice is scratchy, caked with dust and blood. My throat bites, as if I swallowed glass.

Unable to stand, I start to drag myself across the glass-laden carpet. Clawing for anything that will help me get a grip on this strange reality. My body aches as if I was run over by a train, but something in me calls for me to keep going.

Fear.

I fear for his fate.

In the darkness, my hands grope through the shattered remains of my hotel room. The television frame, the dismembered skeleton of what it used to be. My carelessly tossed-away tee shirt, crumpled into a ball. Debris cuts into the palms of my ruined hands, yet I keep crawling. Another helpless whimper guides me through the wreckage, but I'm not sure what towards.

A hand in the shadows. Skin meets cold skin, and sensation washes over me. Not quite relief...more like wonderment. I am scared to find what has become of him.

With the help of the dim moonlight creeping across the generic hotel carpet, my eyes are gradually getting used to the dark. I can begin to make out the form of the bed, the covers still strewn about from the rowdy fucks of early today. The glow of my laptop from amidst the wreck. And out of the shadows comes his petite form, but I refuse to see what has really happened to him.

His fingers twitch beneath my own as he begins to stir, groans weakly simpering from his throat. A flaming gash swoops across his right cheek from temple almost to his jaw. Clotted blood cakes his skin.

"Gerard?" he croaks, wincing as his throat breaks. Puzzlement floods into the dull gold of his eyes. He has no idea where he is, why he's here, what happened to him...

Oh God, what has happened to him?

The crystal chandelier envelops the lower half of his body, engulfing him below the waist. It digs into the fragile, exposed pallor of his hips, slicing the creased skin. Wires jut out from the mess like hands, clawing out of the wreckage to be saved. Beaded crystals lay scattered around him like a subtle offering of death.

All this time whilst I stare at him, his eyes are watching mine, getting duller and duller with each passing second. They generate a feeling of hopelessness, though he has no idea why.

My face contorts into an expression of horror, mouth twisting down in a grimace. I am at a loss for words, yet they barricade my brain like gunshots.

"What's happening?" Frank softly asks, being gentle to his voice. "What's wrong with your face?"

On instinct, I pull my hands up to my own cheeks. Dry and sticky with blood. My hair is matted and full of glass. A raw wound festers on my hairline.

"Do you remember?" I ask him.

He closes his eyes, his breathing shallow. "I...I remember you stepped on glass, Gee. Are you okay?"

My heart gives a few rough beats, threatening to shatter through my tender ribcage. Here he is, pinned to the floor, and he doesn't even realize it. His mind, it focuses on my own fragile state.

"Oh Frank...shit, man. You remember the earthquake?"

He looks away, as if searching some corner of his mind. His hand is trembling beneath mine. His face is drained of all its blood, more resembling a face of wax than a human. "Kind of. It was really scary. Did we make it out?"

Shredded heart particles drift to the carpet between us.

"No, we didn't make it out."

"Are...are we dead?"

Despite myself, I chuckle. The action burns raw in my throat. "Maybe."

"I always wondered what it would be like to die with you." He pauses, giving the smallest of smiles. His pearly teeth are luminous in the ominous soot of night. His gums are bleeding. "So are we still in your room?"

"Yes."

"Did the guys make it out?"

My throat swells, making it hard to swallow. "I don't know, Frank," I choke out, but my voice sounds strangely unworried. I realize that I don't want him to worry, and try to control my quivering jaw.

"I bet they did."

"Yeah, they're probably outside right now, searching for us."

He squeezes my hand gently. "So let's go find them, yeah?"

I don't have the heart to tell him that they had very little chance of coming out of this all right. Frank and I are lucky because we happened to be in the same room when the earthquake hit. He might not be my favourite person, but at least we're in this together. As far as I know, Mikey, Ray, and Bob were all in their own separate rooms. Alone. Who knows what happened to them?

Are they even still alive?

A shudder convulses up and down my spine, and I almost gag.

There is utter silence in the room. I stare at the expanse of exposed skin around his hips, where his tee shirt was shoved up his torso. The skin is covered in gooseflesh from the cold night air wafting in.

Where are the sounds? Shouldn't there be sirens, and men on speakers? Why hasn't somebody come to find us? To check on us? Where is the life?

"Gerard?"

I focus my attention back on his face, his sliced face. "Yeah?"

"I can't move, Gerard. How come I can't move?" There's an edge of panic to his voice, but he can't lift his head to see what has become of his lower body.

My heart throbs painfully in my chest, pushing its way up my throat. I look away as tears spring unexpectedly to my eyes. A trail of fresh blood dribbles down the side of my face.

"Frank..."

"What's wrong with me?" he cries.

The sound of the ceiling ripping as the chandelier came falling, as if in slow motion, echoes in my ear drums. Broken wires and pasty plaster.

"The chandelier fell on you," I finally whisper to him.

His hazel eyes go wide, reflecting my own battered expression. I look like a monster.

"What?"

I cannot swallow. "The chandelier, Frank. It came loose from the ceiling, and it landed on your legs."

Mouth slacks. Eyes go dead. If possible, his face fades to an even whiter pallor.

"I'm going to die."

His words are whispered, his eyes wide. As if he's not even seeing regular things anymore.

"Stop talking like that," I spit, letting go of his hand. At the loss of contact, his eyes flicker to mine. They're wide and hot with insanity.

"No, I mean it, Gerard. I'm almost positive. I...I'm not going to make it out of here," he whispers.

"I said fucking stop!" I shout, and before I even know it, my bloody palm cracks across his cheek. His head snaps to the side, cheek sinking into the carpet. His eyes flutter and then slide closed. His breathing, now rough and strangled, explodes from his mouth so harshly in the eerie quiet.

"Oh...oh my God. Frank, I..." I stammer, clutching my hands to my chest. I stare at them in almost bitter disbelief, ashamed at what I've used them for. They feel severed from the rest of my body.

He opens his eyes, and they look decidedly calmer. "Thank you," he manages, clearing his throat with a cringe, "I suppose I needed that."

So off my hinge, I focus on the chandelier again. Beneath its glittering mass of destroyed crystal, I can just make out the black of his jeans. A flash of skin through a tear on the calf. Blood.

Blood on the ceiling.

"Frank, I'm going to try to get it off of you, okay?" I mumble before I really know what I'm saying.

"Okay."

"But...it might hurt. I mean, I don't know if it will. But it might. It probably will."

"That's okay."

"I mean, I don't even know how. But I think if I get it off of you we can out of here. It'll probably hurt, Frank, it'll probably hurt a lot--"

His jaw tightens, his teeth clench. "It's okay, Gee. I trust you."

My gaze falls on his face again, the hopeful optimism. And the unabashed trust. It tears at my heart and makes me feel like I've got something to prove.

It's a challenge to stand up, my legs threatening to give way beneath me. They tremble like jell-o, wobbling unsteadily. I grasp onto the side of the television stand where there are only thin wires and plugs now. My body cries out in anguish, but eventually the pain gives way to only a bearable throbbing.

Frank's eyes are closed as I stare down at him. He looks so feeble, so fragile beneath the hulking weight of the chandelier. In fact, he looks almost...dead. So pale, like a porcelain figurine. A picture of death.

Energy from fear enables me to clasp my hands around a couple of the iron metal branches. A strange tinkling fills the air as some of the crystal-drops clash together, forming a beautiful pitter-pat of music. It chimes hauntingly in my ear, like the notes of a child's music box.

From his death bed, Frank smiles as if in peace.

Pain explodes from the cuts in my hands as I yank my body backwards, gripping the iron hands of the chandelier. My body moans and groans and protests in every way against the movements I'm forcing it to make, but I keep my mind on the child-like smile painted across Frank's face of wax.

The chandelier fights back, as if it is living. It wants to claim Frank's life, keep him pinned for Eternity on this dusty hotel floor, and I am fighting back. Fighting for his life.

With some panting and effort, I manage to pull it away from his body, where it collapses in a defeated heap. Its crystals glimmer brightly with anger, but oh, it knows that the fight is not over.

After all, this battle has just begun.

As soon as my eyes land back on the wilted guitarist, I know that my effort was in vain. His eyes are still closed, the smile fading on his face. His legs are twisted, contorted like a little marionette's wooden limbs. Bent back, but the strings have all snapped.

Frank's eyes flutter open, searching my face. "Gerard...Gerard, that didn't hurt me. I-I didn't feel anything at all!"

I kneel by his side on the carpet, not touching him because my split palms have begun to bleed again. "Can you get up?" I ask tentatively, but I know what the answer will be.

His face contorts into a look of effort, concentration beading sweat upon his chalky forehead. The blood on his cheeks glitters crimson in the moonshine.

"I can't get up, Gerard. I can't feel my legs."