And I'm Paralyzed

Gerard:

It's like I'm watching my life from a window. I can see them talking to him, but I can't reach him. I can never reach him. It's like I'm tied to the walls of my mind, and they are possessing me. I want my brother. I watched him destroy the weakest of them, and I know he plans to do it again.

But I know how he plans to do it. And I'm not okay with him injuring himeslf. I suppose I shouldn't be saying that when every day for a year I cut myself, but this is different. This is him.

Whichever manifestation of myself controls me at the moment is arguing with me. I argue with them a lot. They speak out loud, and I think what it is I have to say.

Why are we still doing this?

The protector, as Mikey called him, answered my question with one of his own, “Why did you do this to him?”

What? I'm trying to keep you from hurting him!

“Not really. It's your fault for being afraid and creating us. You know we don't really exist. We aren't demons possessing you, Gerard. We are you. You did this to him, not us.”

I wince. N-no... this isn't my fault... I can't control you!

“You could if you wanted to. Do you even want to save your brother?”

Of course I do! I... we... This isn't... No! I'm not... You aren't me!

He, I, whoever, snorts, “Gerard, we aren't ghosts possessing you. We aren't demons, we aren't anything. We are figments of your imagination. We are your escape route, and you need to admit it. This is all part of your mind... we aren't even real...”

The voice, his voice, my voice, fades, and I think I'm unconscious.

~

Mikey:

I've figured everything out now. I am so totally ready for this. Well, not really. I have never intentionally harmed myself in my entire life, and I am scared shitless to start now. The only thought thats really pushing me to do this rather than just forgetting about it is that I'm doing this for Gerard.

I suppose I don't really give off that vibe, but I am very good at plotting, and right now, I have to plot a way to lure out protector Gerard. I think I just have to do what comes unnaturally.

I'm ready for this, I told myself, I'm ready.

I stood outside his door, holding a razorblade and panting slightly. I was surprised by how nervous this made me. I raised a fist and knocked twice.

There was a hiss of distaste from behind the door. Then, a smooth and not at all Gerard-like voice said, “Go away, Michael. You aren't worth my time.”

“Let me in or I'll do it right here and write threats on your door in blood.” I have no idea where my courage came from.

There is an impacient sigh from in the room, “You think I care if you spill your own blood?”

I find a smile spreading onto my face and I gently press the blade to the skin on my wrist, “Two out of five do.”

A second impatient sigh. The door is opened and I see my brother. Well, not really. His eyes are cold and have dark bags under them, and his expression is one of utter malice, “Alright. What?”

I press the blade farther into my skin, dragging it across my arm before lifting it. Blood begins to bead along the incision, and I replace the blade slightly under the first cut, pressing down and repeating the action.

Gerard's eyes widen, and I can see the hatred flee to be replaced by anger and concern, “What the hell are you doing?!”

I wish this was my Gerard worrying about me. I wish none of this was happening. I wish I wasn't feeling the flashes of searing pain creeping along my wrist. I wish he was here.

I drag two fingers along the cuts, collecting the blood that slowly oozes out of the cuts. I lift my red fingers and press them against his left cheek, slowly moving them along this face until I hit the bridge of his nose. The I drop my hand and stare into his eyes.

The swirl of emotions is going so fast I only just have time to register them. Fear, love, anguish, sorrow, more fear, longing, hatred and anger. He raises a hand and touches the blazing red trail. I watch closely as, for the secind time, I feel the death of one of him, except it is acompanied by a whimper from my brother and a single tear. He stares at me before his expression becomes vancant and distant.

Gerard drops his hand and turns away from me, shutting the door in my face. I take more blood from my still-flowing wrist and write his name on the door. Above it I write “I love you.”

Two down, three to go.

~

A week later, I am hospitalized.

My night terrors have gotten to the point where, during one particularly horrible dream, I attempted to kill myself by jumping off the roof. I succeeded in breaking my leg and spraining my wrist, but not in killing myself, thankfully.

I am afraid of sleeping.

The doctors who talked to me think that I am suiciadal. They saw the cuts on my wrist. My mother was not happy when she was told about them. She told me she already has one son who has ruined himself, and if I went that way she was disowning me. Of course, after seeing the cuts, she thinks the dream was a suicide attempt.

My friends and family have been at my bedside since I got here yesterday. Though my mother, and now my father, still believe I was trying to kill myself, my friends know very well about my dreams. When Frank came, he listened to me rant about how stupid my parents must be for thinking me suicidal, the idiocy of the doctors for thinking I was lying, and most of all my brother, who hadn't visited me in the hospital.

I ended up crying. Frank didn't have to ask why.

My own brother hadn't come to visit me. I don't know why I expected him to.

~