Mistakes.

The bed is white and cold and empty, besides my body – but that's fairly empty, too. The room is lacking color, since he took his paintings when he went away. The closet is half-full, there's only one dresser filled, only half of the bills are paid, his TV shows still recorded on the TiVo. I can't delete them, can't bear to. I don't give any of the things I find back, either – not even the sweatshirt he's had since high school. Not even that. Its been like this for months though; what you see is no fresh heartbreak. But the wounds are so deep, and dark, and jagged – the flow will never cease, the blood cannot congeal and scab and scar. Never. My hands wander all over his side, the imprint of him not really there anymore, but I pretend.

Its so much easier to pretend, lately.

Its amazing what you're brain can do, when left to its own devices. I can fake that he's here everyday; the conversations, the trivialities, the little quirks. They're perfect in my head – a cinema of this alternate reality, where I pretend we were what once was, and it feels so pretty and aching that I can't bear to look away, and I can't bear to leave my own head. Reality is too painful, the very thought of his new girlfriend … no, I'm not thinking about that. Not with six hours left.

I stroke the empty mattress and some stray tear slips away, landing on the whiteness of the blanket, a darkening stain on my world. My head throbs as I force myself up, possibly from the lack of sleep I've been getting. Sometimes I can stay up for days, trying to think about all of the songs I'd like to sing to him, all of the memories we've had since we were so young – I was sixteen when I met him, he was twenty. Years and years of fucking memories, ruined the day that tall, sultry girl found him after that concert months ago. Now its all gone, just a thought in my head to keep me awake until I crash and burn, sleeping so wrapped up in the sheets, I might just smother the pain away. Might just squeeze all of the nostalgia out of my chest.

Cereal is on for breakfast – I was only allowed to make cereal, unless the food was microwaveable. I pour out two bowls and set them on the table. This is just out of habit, of course, and some are hard to break. I can't break it, and I never will. I don't think I'll ever fall out of this, and I'm never going to heal. After ten minutes of staring at the Raisin Bran, I dump both bowls into the trash, spoons and all. I'm too tired to clean it up today, although the apartment is otherwise in perfect condition. Feeling like a ghost, I stalk back into the bedroom, not able to look the bare walls in the eye. The silence is so loud and stifling that it feels like its choking me, and I wish it just would. Just let me feel that asphyxiation in peace, smother me with the lack of noise.

There are messages on my phone, tons of them, but I hit 'erase all' and ignore the mass of texts that work their way into my inbox; questioning, frantic, and worried. I haven't left this house in months, except to go to Bob's funeral three months ago, right after he and I both “officially” quit. He got in a drunk driving accident, and there was nothing that could be done. My best fucking friend dies, my other half finds another half, and now its just me. The empty little shreds of me are left, everyone taking what they wanted. I gave him everything, and now that he's gone, I think he forgot to give my pieces back.

Its two pm, and I have four hours left. I made a little fire in my trashcan after I turned off the smoke alarm, and I burned most of the pictures, and all of the notes, and some of the songs he wrote for me. The world is ugly, Gerard, and I'm not beautiful anymore. I'm an underweight, overpriced, fucked up mess, and I'll never get over it. You called me stubborn so many times, and maybe you're right. I just can't fucking move on.

The song is on as I let them burn, his words further tearing me apart inside. Because now they're falsified, and now they're not real. There is a reason we had to scrap that album, and its that fucking song. I wouldn't let them play our song; couldn't stand to play it while she sat outside the recording studio, acting like he wrote it for her. It'd make my hands shake, playing all of the wrong notes. That's when I knew it wasn't going to work anymore. I still can't play the guitar, and I feel so lost without it. It just sits there, propped against the bed, a reminder of all of my shortcomings. I think I've lost count of all them.

Time edges closer as my fingers skim the surface of our old pictures, frozen memories in time. Him and me on my sixteenth birthday – me smiling with my bad haircut and ill-fitting tee, his chubby twenty-year-old self grinning over my new X-box. Me with Gerard at my high school graduation, me and Gerard at our first show, me and Gerard at the circus, me and Gerard when I'm getting his name as a tattoo on my wrist (he looks so nauseous!), me and Gerard writing a song together, me and Gerard in our new apartment, looking very frazzled, me and Gerard cooking, me and Gerard kissing onstage, me and Gerard at the Grammies, me and Gerard sitting on the set of a video – too many memories to hold in one scrapbook. I turn back to our younger years, to the one he took of just me – I was seventeen, naked under a thin sheet, dead asleep. There's a little bit of his arm in the corner of the picture, a secret smile on my face while I was dreaming, pale moonlight falling on my frame. He took that picture after he took my virginity, and he kept it in his wallet for about six years or something, never telling me when he took it. But I always secretly knew, and it always made me happy. Because I was so fully, inexorably, painstakingly, and explicitly loved by him, and I was spoiled by it – spoiled by him. I put the picture back in and lift up the scrapbook, ready to put it away, then I stop myself.

A little piece of paper slips out, one I had put away ten months ago. Will you marry me? Small and scrawled out, messy and nervous, underneath the table at a press conference in San Francisco. I remember the nod I gave, the hard blush on our cheeks the rest of the evening, the way we held each other that night, the way he kissed my lips – so promising, so real. And now, so cruel. I flushed the ring down the toilet eight months ago, when I found that foreign lipstick stain on his neck. Then I threw away the wedding invitations six months ago, when he lit a cigarette and kissed me goodbye in the rain. But not that paper, because it was mine, and the only thing I had to prove we still existed.

Then it hit me – we didn't exist. Just he and I.

At first, its a little tear, sliding its own path down my cheek. Then its swallowing on fiberglass; soft going down, then stabbing at my throat. The chunks of it getting stuck in my mouth, forcing its bloody, messy way down. I'm screaming at this brand new lack of numbness, this new-found pain. The paper is resting in my palm, burning me, cutting me all up and swallowing me whole. But I'm not whole, I'm empty, I'm cut in half, and I'm bleeding, and there's pieces of me all over the carpet, these pictures mocking me from their hidden inner pages. My eyes are flooding - bleeding tears onto the floor. I don't want to live anymore. I don't want this life – a young, abandoned rock star; his tattoo on my wrist, his name inked into my bloodstream. I'm not scared to die, I'm just scared that this was all pointless, all of my love and moments where I was small and vulnerable. My weakness was on the table for him, and he rejected it. No more for me, please. I can't do this anymore.

I'm sobbing as I walk into the bathroom, reaching past the toothbrushes and the mouthwash and the nail files and even the razor. Oxycontin. That's what I need, that's all I need. They were from when I had that surgery a few months ago, needed a prescription. But I never used them – I knew that they would have a purpose for me later, and I was too in love with that physical pain to try and block it out. Well, you blue little fiends, come and save me. Take me away from here, this hell of an apartment, this empty lung he used to breathe into. I'm done, baby, and I'm not coming back.

The pills slip easily into my mouth, and I wash them down with Listerine, the fresh bite of it awakening me. My hands blindly steal the economy-sized bottle of Advil and I swallow them quickly, hoping they'll work, hoping they'll win me over, hoping they'll pick my favor – have some pity on me, won't you? I need this. They're falling down my throat, playing their way into my esophagus in twos and threes and fours and big fucking handfuls that I choke on. My sobs are making me inhale them, the thoughts of his body keep propelling my forward. And I keep going, and I keep taking, and then -

They're all gone. All 200 of the pills are gone.

I get up off the bathroom floor and walk into the closet, grabbing his jacket. I'd like to die in this, I decide, and get dressed in my nicest jeans and favorite shirt. I don't want who ever to find me to think I'm some pathetic slob, all fucked up in my ratty boxers. God, I wish I wrote a note or something, at least to him. My fingers roll the piece of dirty paper in my hands, now tear-stained and winkled. It edged me to it, and now that I've done it, the weight is filling my stomach.

I sit against the wall with my guitar and the pain begins, harsh and ripping in my guts. Maybe I would care, if I wasn't half floating away. Some place in my brain is panicking, but I'm reassured in my fear when I feel that paper in my hand. I'm calming myself down with my failures, with my shortcomings. For not being so beautiful, for being a boy, for not being able to “start a family” with him. I would have adopted, Baby, but you never gave me that chance. I would have done anything. But now I'm going to see Bob, and I'm going to be happy. I hope I'm happy, selfishly.

But more than anything – I hope you're happy.

My fists clench and shake as my stomach continues to churn, hoping to eject the little pills of salvation. I swallow the vomit down – dying takes concentration, and I'm falling asleep, drifting and leaving my body. I wish I wrote him a fucking letter, but I chose silence. More stupid cries escape my lips – although much weaker – and I think of all the things I wanted to tell him. All of the things I would have fixed, the wishes I had that I kept in my heart. I wouldn't have been so stubborn all of the time, I would have been less insecure, I would have been a much better boyfriend. My eyes close and I'm just barely breathing, soft little flutters, each breath becoming harder to manage. So, I stop breathing as much, only taking in small swallows. It hurts but I'm not scared; I am just escaping.

There is a noise in the hallway, but I think I'm just imagining it. There are footsteps in the bedroom, but I think I must be dreaming. My head is somewhere else, my heart is on the floor. This aching in the back of my eyes is lusting for Motrin, and I should have taken something else - I'd hate to leave something like this to chance, its better to make sure its definite. I think I hear someone, but maybe that's just God. Sorry I'm gay, Jesus, but if you saw him, you'd be gay, too. Hoping you won't take too much offense.

“Frank, what the hell -” I think I hear his voice and I can't bring myself to open my eyes, and I don't want to. Because I'm dying, and he's there, and its perfect. I'm going to him – I want it. Something sounds like its being strangled in my conscious; a choked, wracking moan, and I feel his hands on my face, brushing the hair away. Sirens in my brain began to flash – this was real, and he was here, and I was probably going to fucking die.

A small moan escapes me as I hear him on the phone, begging for an ambulance. He's making so much noise in this little apartment, and its so full of him again that I can feel the weight of the air changing. I don't want to die right now, please God, this was such a mistake. He is back, I don't know why. Even if he wants to tell me he's marrying her, I want to be there. I just miss him that much, and he's back. God is a sick fucker if he lets me die now.

My body is being lifted up by him, and waves of nausea are pouring through me as I'm fighting for my own consiousness. He's holding me, and his tears are falling on my neck, and I want to say something, but my throat feels tight and dry, and taking breaths is like hell, it hurts so bad. I'm clutching that paper and he eases my fist open as he holds me, nudging it out of my finger. He's moaning and crying and muttering things I can't hear, and I can feel his panic. I want to tell him not to worry, and that I'll be alright, but I'm not too sure myself. Maybe its too late, baby.

“She left me last week, Frankie, I ...” He's shaking as he clutches me, fingers gripping so tight they pinch my skin. I take a struggled breath and hate myself as I do so, because I just want to die for being so stupid. “I still love you, please don't go” Gerard is whispering things I've only dreamed of, arm supporting my neck, wetting me down by crying. And I have to hold on, but I don't know if I can, and I want to tell him what I took, but I can't talk, and I can't open my fucking eyes.

I hear an ambulance outside, and Gerard lifts me up and stars down what I think is the hall, still sobbing, his leather jacket making me hot. Please say something, Frank, say anything. Just a few words, one thing you'd like to say before you possibly never see him again. I hear him arguing with the ambulance driver, feel myself being jostled slightly as they load me in. “I'm his fucking … just let me in the car! Just let me in ...”

Something rings out, like a punch, and I feel his face close to mine as I'm drifting, dying on the spot. “Stay with me Frankie, marry me – I still want you, baby, always. Just hold on, I'll be there when you wake up” His lips are chapped on mine, and I want to kiss back so badly, but I can't do a thing. “Okay” I whisper softly, wishing I could say more. “Okay.” I hear him say something under his breath, a sigh of strange relief as he kisses me once me. I hope those aren't my last words.

“I heard you, baby, just stay awake” I hear him yell as they close the ambulance's doors. Well, I'm tired now, and I think I'll sleep, but I'm not sure … I wish he knew how tired I was. But I think of all the times I've waited up for him, and maybe I can do it again.

Maybe just this once.