Born and Broken Every Single Time.

I lay on Mikey’s bed staring blankly at the screen in front of me. I had no idea of what was going on in the show and it had already been an hour of viewing; pointless viewing. All I knew was what was running through my mind and even that seemed incoherent. I had no idea what had gone on next door, I had no idea he thought like that, he felt like that. It was strange, too strange.

My emotions when viewing the situation of the recent past varied consistently as I gained different outlooks on it. I felt so angry as I thought back to him shouting at me to stop playing guitar, angry at the comments he had made about me being immature and even daring to bring my family relations into it. I felt angry that I had spoken to him about doing something for him and no one else, following his dreams when all along he wasn’t even listening, he was focussing on me, which is exactly what I told him not to do. But then again…

I hadn’t exactly been that close to Gerard in general, but at no point would I have seen him do that if I had imagined us in that situation. Even looking back at the power cut or the park, those were just ’in the moment’ but when I was next door, that couldn’t have been in the moment because I wasn’t part of the feeling, I wasn’t thinking like him. I couldn’t help but feel my heart sink as I thought of my reaction to him, pushing him back and snapping. His facial expression seemed emblazoned on my brain, his shock mixing with disappointment and god knows what else. What had changed? Why push someone away if you cared? Maybe he was still playing these ’games’ we’d spoken of, although I was not amused at the thought.

I felt empowered when my words ran through my mind. I’d sort of inspired myself with what I had said to him. It gave me a reason to believe more in myself, to feel more determined to follow my own personal dreams. Whether it was nasty to use Gerard as a push, I looked at him for that split second and thought to myself ’I will never get like this’. If I hit his age, merely a couple of years my senior, and I was reading comic books I at least hoped I would be reading them from somewhere new, from somewhere I wanted to be. Not in my room, or whoever’s room I frequented three or so years from now.

Before my mind raced any further along in this ongoing circle I heard the door open faintly and saw Gerard standing there, looking so weak it scared me. He didn’t say anything but stood holding two books. They looked like the cheap lined notebooks we all seemed to have, although we never seemed to recall actually buying them.

"I want to show you something," he began quietly, acknowledging my small nod as a cue to come in. He sat down opposite me before flicking open his book. It took me a moment to realise this wasn’t a notebook - it was a sketchbook. "I was thinking about what you said. I-I’ve never shown anyone these before."

I didn’t say a word, unsure in myself whether I wanted to talk to him or not. He handed me one of the sketchbooks open after stopping at a certain page.

"Everyone knows I like to draw," he mumbled. "Well used to, everyone seems to think I’ve stopped. I just tend to hide my stuff away when I hear people coming. I guess I fear the rejection. I’m too old to draw, apparently."

"But this is amazing," I muttered, scouring my eyes carefully over the sketch before me. It wasn’t in colour, merely black and white. It was Mikey; he’d drawn his younger brother. It was beautifully detailed and showed Mikey off to a tee. He was sat cross-legged on the sofa, just laughing. It seemed so simple, but I’d honestly never seen a drawing like it before. Also, the thought crossed my mind that if no one knew he was drawing then he did it from memory, or some other method. I was astounded.

"I’m not keen on putting myself out there just to be struck down," he continued quietly. "I remember when I was little I was always like this prodigy child in art," he laughed gently. "But then as I grew up drawing became ’uncool’ and I kind of stopped for a bit. I never lost the interest or my gift for it but when I hit high school there were a few who were better than me and for the first time in my life people were looking down on my work. I hated that. That was my dream Frank," he sighed. "The moment people looked down on that I gave up on the dream, I just kind of did it so as not to feel distanced from it like I did when I was younger. That’s my real release, comics just inspire me."

"What did you get in art?" I asked, seeming to feel the thirst for this knowledge before I could continue.

"I got straight A’s, all through school," he muttered. "But there was something about not being the best, or not being the normal that ruined it for me. I don’t take well to rejection," he smirked faintly to himself. I thought back to when we were in his room, wondering if that was the reason behind his smile.

"Since when were teachers the be all and end all?" I frowned, realising myself to be in a similar situation. "Didn’t you ever speak up?"

"I tried to explain some of my pieces," he replied, looking at the book he still held in his hands. "Try and make them see it wasn’t as pointless as they thought but they always saw it as cheek. They’re not artists, they are just good at art. I told them that once, it was the last time I ever spoke up to one."

"What’s in that one?" I asked, frowning slightly at the book he clutched defensively in his hands.

"My real dream," he replied in barely a whisper. He flicked it open and I could see the first page clearly marking the book as his. His name was in black marker, the date he started it engraved underneath. He was only sixteen when he started the book. He flicked it open to unveil intricate sketches of city skylines, film studios and comic strips taken right from his imagination. School had crushed his dream. It wasn’t some vague dream; it was a fully formed dream, a big dream. Gone.

I looked up at Gerard who still held onto the now opened sketchbook as if it was his safety in the situation. He looked down awkwardly at the floor, not even seeming to acknowledge I was here anymore. He seemed so lost in his own thoughts. I wanted him to look at me. I wanted his eyes to tell me what he wasn’t. There was something more to this.

"Frank," he muttered almost inaudibly. "This made my life hell. How can something that makes you happy be worth it if the world beats you down? Literally, beats you down."

"What?" I frowned, not quite sure of what he meant.

He flicked further through his sketchbook searching for something. He stopped at a page that had been ripped in half roughly along with a few more behind it. You could see there had been full drawings there, but something had happened to destroy something beautiful.

"These were my favourites," he began. "I’d drawn some model I saw on the television. There was something about her that immediately drew me to her. She was ’suited’ to be a model but there was a darker quality to her, I found that enthralling. She essentially inspired a new element to my stuff, I’m not sure how but she did. I wish I knew her name though, that’s the only thing." He paused as he flicked onto the next ripped up page. "I did something I said I’d never do. I drew a self-portrait, but not a plain one. It was sort my alter ego, what I was desperate to be. I was kind of like I am now, but a bit more successful in life," he laughed gently. "I drew stuff along those lines, trying to visually give myself something to aspire to. In turn, I got the shit kicked out of me. They had heard me tell my friend Tyler about the model in class, the pathetic little boys thought it would be funny to tear it out and rip it into as many pieces as they could, and of course throw it over me as I felt kick after fucking kick." He paused, wiping his face as a tear formed much to what appeared to be his protests.

"You don’t have to do this," I pressed, my voice concerning. I didn’t want to force him to tell me this just because of what I’d said, I wanted him to feel okay – not like this.

"The sad thing is I can still see her now, that model. I can still see every fucking detail on that perfect face of hers. I remember the way her hair curled in at the end, looking un-styled although I doubt it was. I remember how her blue eyes seemed to set off the whole outfit; they were just, just so beautiful. When they ripped up my drawings, they ripped my fucking heart out. I couldn’t do that again, I couldn’t risk that again."

"Gerard," I began slowly, handing his sketchbook back to him as he looked up through slightly tearing eyes.

"You don’t want to hear this," he interrupted. "I just thought I’d tell you that I did have a dream seeing as you seemed to believe I didn’t. You didn’t need the other details; you didn’t need any of this. And sorry for the whole guitar thing earlier."

"It’s okay," I sighed, trying to move swiftly back to him and steer clear of our conflict earlier. Before I could continue he stood up, heading for the door. Without thinking I automatically leapt up, tugging on his arm to swing him round to face me and stop him.

He said nothing, just looking at me, waiting for me to say something. There were no words. I just looked up at him, taking in every detail of the man that stood before me. He seemed so broken. He seemed so lost. It scared me to see him like this, so honest and open. It was like he was bearing his soul for the world to see. He had told me he’d never shown anyone these drawings before, making it seem all that more personal that he had opened up to me. My eyes met his for a brief moment. I swear I saw a glint of hope in his them just for that split second. I just looked at him before loosening my grip on his arm, letting him return to his room without another exchanged word or glance.

I had no idea what was going on in my mind anymore. His dream was gone and the saddest thing of all was that only I knew it had ever existed.