Troubles

I glance at the small clock on Gerard's bedside table for the billionth time while we've been watching the movie that's almost over. When it is, it won't be long before Gerard will offer to drive me home, or before his parents insist that I'd better get home because it's a school night.

The thing is, though, I don't wanna go. I wanna talk to Gerard about those cuts. I wanna help him.

But I just can't pull myself together.

How do you even start up a conversation like that? I've never talked to anyone about something like that. Sure, when I was younger, I had a period of self-destruction, but it never got serious – I never wanted to bleed or hurt myself so badly that it'd be permanently imprinted on my skin.

I never told anyone about what I did back then. It wasn't really all that serious, but in retrospect, it was something that I wanted to talk to someone about. I had no idea why I did what I did, but there must've been a reason – one that I still can't see – and perhaps someone could've helped me. Maybe a lot of things could've turned out a lot better, had I just opened my mouth and told someone – or had someone forced me to talk about it.

I should speak up. This could potentially ruin a lot more than just Gerard's wrists. His family could split up and he could end up all alone.

So, how do I bring it up?

I look up, through my eyelashes, at Gerard's eyes which are intently staring and squinting at the TV screen.

“Frank,” Donna calls from up the stairs, and Gerard automatically withdraws his arm from around me. I lift myself off his chest and look over at the ajar door.
“Brian's on the phone,” she calls, still from the top of the staircase. I smile briefly at Gerard, blushing slightly, before I get up off his bed to go upstairs.

I don't see Donna until I enter the living room, which tells me she didn't see Gerard and I cuddled up on his bed – at least I don't think so.

I pick up the receiver.

“Hello?” My voice is slightly weak, probably form the lack of use for the past few hours.

“Hey Frank. I'm closing up in a few minutes. Want me to come pick you up?”
I want to say no; to secretly stay the night even if Gerard's parents won't let me, but they're right in front of me.

“Yeah, thanks. If it's not too much trouble.” I already know he's gonna say it isn't, but I know it is anyways.

“No, no prob. I gonna drop Kari off at her house on the way, so yeah,” he says slowly, as if busy with something: I'm guessing either the shop or Kari.

“Ok. Thanks.”

“I'll be there in about half an hour, alright?” he says quickly.

“Sure.”

“Ok, bye.” He hangs up after that. Honestly, I don't wanna know why he's in such a rush.
I hang up and go back down to Gerard, meeting him on the staircase.

“You going?” he asks, sounding almost surprised to see me coming back down.

“Yeah, in about half an hour.”
He simply nods and looks down. I expect him to turn around and go back to his room, but he just stands there. It's as if he wants me to go now, but by the way he's biting his lip and keeps shifting his gaze, I don't really feel rejected. It's as if he wants to talk to me or wants me to tell him what we should do now, but he doesn't take any initiative.

“Gee?” I suddenly ask, almost making myself jump by the sudden breaking of the silence. I feel awkward when he looks up at me. I'm about two steps up from him, so I'm just a bit taller than him now: I'd never get used to that.

I take a step down so that we're about the same height, and without thinking too much about how to continue, I grab onto his wrist. I see him smile briefly and he turns his hand upwards to try and get a hold of mine, but I use my other hand to pull up his sleeve up. His face changes immediately.

His eyes are wide and filled with shock and fear. He tries to pull his arm out of my grasp, but I won't let him go.

“What is this?” I ask, my voice shaking. I'm scared he'll push me away completely and never talk to me again. I'm afraid that he'll lash out at me and never even look at me again. I'm terrified that he'll tell me everything, and that I can't help him.

He tries to retract his arm again, and fails.

He glances down at his own wrist, but quickly averts his eyes and looks around the room. I can see his eyes glaze over and hear his breaths become weak and irregular.

I just stare at him. I stare at his eyes, even though he refuses to look at me, and I impatiently wait for him to talk. Anything will do. I just wanna help him out of this. I know what it's like to need help, but being too stubborn and ashamed to ask for it, so I want him to know that he doesn't need to be any of those things. He doesn't even need to ask. He just needs to trust me and trust that I won't pity him or treat him any differently.

“It's not what you think,” he mumbles, and even though I somehow knew he was gonna say that, I'm just not prepared for it – because I know what it is.

“I don't blame you, or pity you, or anything,” I say jerkily, ignoring his mumble. He frowns at me, tears still threatening to fall. I can tell he's doing all he can to suck it up and not break down in front of me: I know he's trying to protect me and that he doesn't want me to worry, but it's too late.
“I told-” I start, but stop to correct myself; “You found out about my secret, and you didn't pity me, so why...” I pause, not really knowing how to put it; “how could you think I would pity you?”

Gerard looks down again, closes his eyes and swallows once. He slowly shakes his head, opening his mouth as if to say something, but I interrupt him before he has the chance to turn down my plea:

“I don't understand you, but I'm willing to. I wanna help you.”

“It's not what you think,” he repeats himself, this time with a begging tone in his voice. He looks me in the eye and with a look of utter plead in his, it's hard for me not to give him one of pity. I mentally punch my stomach for pitying him. I told him I wouldn't.
“I didn't do this to myself.”

I close my eyes. I mentally beg for him to have a good explanation. Cuts like that don't just happen by accident; they're caused – on purpose.

He takes a deep breath and I open my eyes to look at his face as he talks:

“The jocks at school call me shit and throw trash at me. They try to mess with my head, but they never touch me.”

I stare at him, waiting. I just want him to tell me what triggered him to hurt himself, and by his absent and cold tone of voice right now, he's far from telling me that. And to be honest, I feel let down. He knew about me being homeless and I trusted him enough to tell him so much about that: I just want him to do the same. I feel like he owes me that much, even though I know it's a terrible thing to feel.

“The cheerleaders mess with me too and try to...” he glances up at me, but quickly looks away again. He looks ashamed, and honestly, I can't help the tiny bit of me that feels like he should.
“They tease me by flirting with me.”

I feel a pang in my gut – like a punch. I can't tell if it's anger or jealousy.

“They don't do much else. Except laugh.”

The punch from my insides keeps stinging.

“You ever see those guys who hang out in the parking lot during lunch and after school? The guys always wearing beanies or hoods?”

I nod and swallow the burning lump that's been building in my throat. It doesn't go away.

“Basically, the jocks call me and emo fag, the cheerleaders mock me by flirting with me and saying I can't...” he hesitates, swallowing quickly, “get hard... for them. And then the gang in the parking lot beats me up and-” he stops abruptly, glancing down at his wrist and then casts his eyes to the side again.
“They cut me,” he whispers. The burning in my throat and stomach increases.
“They've only done it twice, but they've told me that they're gonna do it again. They say that I enjoy it,” he continues to whisper, sounding more ashamed than hurt.
“And I can't tell anyone, 'cause no one's gonna believe that I didn't do this myself.”

He suddenly snaps his head to look me straight in the eyes. His are flaming red.

“I don't do this to myself. You didn't believe me, so why would anyone at school?” he asks innocently. I just stare at him, because really, I barely even believe him now. I've seen those guys in the parking lot, but I've never seen them hassle anyone. They pretty much just hang out, looking as if they own the place, but never really do anything to cause trouble.

“You still don't believe me,” Gerard suddenly yells, looking at me in disbelief.
“Why don't you trust me? Why can't you understand that I didn't do this?” he asks loudly, pulling his arm out of my limp hand and pulling up his sleeve. He shows me the scars I've already seen, plus another. Then he pulls up his other sleeve.
“I didn't do this!”

I frown deeply, staring at the scars. Did this only happen twice? They cut him five times!
And there I go, doubting him again. I trust him when he says he didn't do it, I do, but I can't believe they did that over just two beatings. How insane are they? Is he understating the amount of times they've hurt him?

“You said you'd try to understand, so try!”

I stare at him in disbelief. I don't know what to say. I really thought I knew what his secret was, but he's totally turned the tables on me. And he does it again when his face changes and he stares resentfully at me.

“If you can't trust me on this, then I can't be with you,” he says coldly, but with his voice still shaking. His eyes are stone cold, though.

I don't know how to explain what's going on inside of me as he says that. His words just hit me and go right through me, and the coldness in his voice makes me freeze up.

“I think you should leave.”