His Personal (Lover) Assistant

On the roof. It’s flat, so there’s not as much chance of ‘accidentally’ falling off and hitting the ground with a splatter and crash, cranium spilling across the cement driveway seven stories below my apartment. The apartment below mine has some kinda porch like thing added onto their apartment, so I have a roof to sit on and smoke on when I need the air. Which is what I needed now.

I needed the air, I needed the silence, I needed the sunset. It’s all so perfect, like a motherfucking fairytale, 7.59 on the dot, the last of the sun slowly slipping away into the ground, a pinkish sky taking it’s place whilst I waited for the moon to come out from hiding.

My fairytale doesn’t get a happy ending, it seemed.

8.00. I sighed and flicked out the cigarette, hearing the phone ring out inside. But I refused to go get it, instead, sitting in the darkness, illuminated by the moonlight that’s just finally decided to come out, and watching the traffic go by below. The worst part of me wanted to jump below and just forget I ever existed. The better part of me told me that it was impossible. That I hadn’t the courage, that I could never do that to my mum – who was trying to recover for me, for us. For Ainsley, who sometimes could only just talk to me sometimes.

I wanted to be selfish this once.

But I wouldn’t.

The phone finally died inside, and I sighed, bringing my knees up to my chest, and resting my chin against them. I closed my eyes and pretended to forget to breathe. Just…all oxygen robbed from my lungs, no air allowed in, no air allowed out, just for a minute or so. I pretended that this was what caused my to pass out, and fall, fall, fall, below.

It didn’t work.

“Frankie.” I jumped. I jumped so high, my ass flying into the air, and then falling back onto the roof, with a thud, before I turned around.

“What the fuck?” I whisper-yelled. He laughed and rolled his eyes.

“Ainsley told me where the spare key was,” He said, climbing out the window, and onto the roof, sitting next to me. He faced the street though, while I still stared at the window in shock, amazed that he’d gotten in, and then managed to scared the shit out of me like he had. “Frankie, if you don’t close your mouth, a bird will shit on it, and then how will that taste?” He questioned sarcastically.

I shut my mouth for a minute. “Mikey, that’s called breaking and entering.” He raised an eyebrow at me.

“Gerard told me what happened,” He finally said. “It was shocking to hear it from him – to hear he needed comfort. He’s a brick wall, Frankie. So fucking hard to read. The biggest of asshole’s at times.”

“What are you doing in New York?” I questioned him.

“Moving,” He grinned, before returning back to the previous subject. The one I tried to avoid. “He lost a wife and the person he loved all in one day-“

“He chose to walk away from me,” I interrupted, and suddenly, I felt angry. Pissed off, and scared, and lost, and confused, and just generally angry. I lit up another cigarette, and offered one to Mikey – who gladly accepted. “He said – He said…he said nothing.” I finally concluded, looking at Mikey. “He just walked away.”

“He wants to learn,” Mikey mumbled, flicking ashes off his cigarette and watching them tumble clumsily across the roof.

“Learn what?” I stated loudly, staring at him.

“I told you,” he smiled. “Gee’s a brick wall, Frankie. Hard to read, hard to understand, hard to talk to. You – You did something to him. It could sound cliché, or fucked up, or fairytale like, but it’s true. You did something to him, you read him, or you saw him for who he really was or – or something. And you didn’t even know it. You thought he was just some asshole you were falling for.
“But you opened him up Frankie – somehow. You made his wounds visible again, you reminded him that the brick wall doesn’t always defend against everything, and you told him you wouldn’t take his shit. You brought him back down to earth, again.
“But anyways, I wanted to see how you were.” He finished off, taking on last drag of that cigarette, and putting it out. I finished mine off and did the same.

I shrugged, “We were never together,” I stated.

“But you loved him.”

“But we were never together,” My toned raised a little, and I stared levelly at him. “There’s a difference. It’s not like we broke up. He just…said we wouldn’t – couldn’t – be together. And he was right.”

Mikey looked curiously at me, his eyes shining with curiosity and confusion, fingers twitching, as he watched my every move for the next five minutes. We don’t say anything, we don’t do anything, we just stared at each other. “You’re not okay.” He said. It’s not a question, it’s a statement. It’s a known fact, one that he and I both know is tearing at my insides, eating away at my heart.

I’m not okay.

It’s just three simple words stated plain and simple, the most obvious thing in the world. “No,” I agreed. “I’m not.”

--
Mikey left about three hours later, after trying to cheer me up and generally just being there for me when my fingers started shaking and I started thinking about Gerard again. Love can hurt. You don’t have to be with someone for it to hurt. All you have to do is fall for them.

So I sat down with the remote and a glass of wine, sipping on it and watching it swish around the glass, staining the sides purple-ish, then falling back down to the bottom. There was nothing on TV – stupid westerns and lame late-night shows, so I turned it back off and turned on music.

It’s soft and slow, melodic, no words spoken. The work of Beethoven, or perhaps Mozart – I can’t remember, Bob made it for me ages ago. But it’s one of them, and it’s the most calming piece of art I’ve listened to in the longest time. It soothed me, and I felt like it was almost a massage, spreading over every muscle and bone in me, relaxed me almost completely.

I never felt more calmly broken hearted than I did that night. I fell asleep on the couch with the piano echoing in my eyes soothingly, whilst my heart continued to shred itself to pieces.

--
When I woke up the next morning the music was still playing. I glanced at the CD player and noticed it was on repeat and groaned. Electric bill will be considerably higher this month. I stood up and stretched, my neck cracking from sleeping on the couch, and made my way to the kitchen, putting on coffee.

Bella followed me, whining just a bit, and glancing at her leash, as if snapping at me to get the fucking thing and take her out. So I grabbed the leash and a jacket, for slipping on shoes and making my way downstairs. “Hey Frankie,” Bob greeted, as he walked outside.

“Work?” I questioned.

“They called me in to cover some else’s shift,” He rolled his eyes. “I guess this is what you get for working at a factory.” I grinned just a bit.

“Sorry dude.”

He shrugged, and looked up at the sky. “Are you okay, though?”

“I’m sick of everybody asking me that,” I told him. In truth, only he and Mikey have asked me that, but it seems like ages ago that Gerard was outside my doorstep bidding goodbye, and ages ago that Mikey had climbed out onto the roof and told me he was here for me.

Ages, ages, ages. And in reality, it was barely twenty-four hours ago that I was left with a shattered soul.

I’m one dramatic fucker.

“Okay,” He told me simply, shrugging. Bob doesn’t beat around the bush. He grinned. “See you later, at the bar?” He asked. I nodded.

“Sure thing, dude.” And he walked off, and Bella was done with her business.

I closed my eyes when I walked past my door, trying not to envision Gerard’s perfect caramel eyes looking down on me, his perfect cherry lips kissing me lightly before walking away. Music still played from my apartment as, for the first time since he walked off, I flopped onto the couch and broke down crying.

I’m dramatic, yes. But I’m so broken.