Status: This story is on hiatus and is close to being deleted.
Phony
Chapter 9
Frank
I hate nights like this.
You know what I'm talking about. Nights that you've had such an explosion of emotion in your heart that you don't know what to do except cry. Let it all out, throwing things around and banging into walls and furniture for the physical release. Then you lay in your bed, tossing and turning with beet-red eyes and a runny nose, not being able to fall asleep because you either can't breathe properly - caused by the runny nose - or your mind is swimming with so many thoughts that you can't clear it long enough to fall asleep.
The worst part about this, though? I've been having nights like this for the past week. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat, I could even think about something else long enough without it somehow reverting back to Gerard.
No matter how much I despised the therapist, how cliché he was, how he was just a stupid fucking phony who only pretended to care about my problems, I had to talk to him. I didn't cancel my next meeting, but instead I was excited to go. I knew it wasn't going to be happy, I knew it wasn't going to be pretty, I knew some emotions were gonna fly and I might actually try to beat him up, but I needed to let it happen. I need to talk to someone about this. About him. Fully, completely, without any interruptions. I'd stay for however fucking long it took, countless hours and maybe even days, just to get everything off of my chest.
How sweet he was, how kind he was. How he knew how to say something that would make me instantly feel better, even though just seeing him every day was enough to wash away all of my negative feelings. How, even though we had pretended to not like each other, we both admitted to being somewhat attracted to each other since the first time we met. How he would lift his large right hand and carefully swipe the greasy hair out of his eyes, unlike me and my wild head-shaking efforts to get my bangs off of my face.
When my alarm clock rang that morning, signaling to me that I had only a half an hour until my next therapy session with Dr. Phil, I practically jumped out of bed.
***
Gerard
Fuck it, I have to go back to see him.
Even though he tried to seduce me, even though his fucking therapy room seemed like a pedophile's paradise, and he looked beyond fucking creepy, I need to talk.
Talk about what happened, what I did, how everything always relates back to Frank. How I could never keep a steady job because of him, how I could never feel confident about my artwork because he wasn't there telling me the absolute honest truth (because that's all he ever fucking did, even if it hurt the person beyond belief he was always there to tell 'em like it is), how my life became a spiraling wreck because even though I scoffed him over to the backside of my mind to become just a memory, he was still there. And it was all my fault that I had ruined my life. And maybe Frank's.
I can still remember the hurt in his eyes, how his fists clenched and unclenched in front of me while his body stayed perfectly still. Tears were forming, but I knew he'd never let me see them. I remember how his lips quivered but he again would not let me see it for more than a second before he dropped his head, his bangs covering his eyes. I remember screaming at him, for reasons I can't even remember, and leaving him there. All alone. Everything was always and will always be my fucking fault.
Even my house burning was probably my own fault. For all I fucking knew, I had left the coffee maker on or something and somehow it had caused the curtains on the small kitchen window behind it to catch fire, engulfing the whole house in flames in mere seconds. Mom wouldn't have known what was going on before it was too late because she would be watching her soap operas in the living room, Mikey would have been in bed napping because he was sick with the flu that day, and Dad...well, I'm not quite sure what my dad would have been doing, but I'm sure he wouldn't have helped put out the fire.
And like that, I hurt everyone around me.
God, I need to get this off my chest before I fucking kill myself because everything is my own damn fault.
Not caring that it was eight in the morning - two hours before I was scheduled to talk with Mr. Smith - I raced out of my house and fell into my car, making my determined way towards the therapist's office.
I hate nights like this.
You know what I'm talking about. Nights that you've had such an explosion of emotion in your heart that you don't know what to do except cry. Let it all out, throwing things around and banging into walls and furniture for the physical release. Then you lay in your bed, tossing and turning with beet-red eyes and a runny nose, not being able to fall asleep because you either can't breathe properly - caused by the runny nose - or your mind is swimming with so many thoughts that you can't clear it long enough to fall asleep.
The worst part about this, though? I've been having nights like this for the past week. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat, I could even think about something else long enough without it somehow reverting back to Gerard.
No matter how much I despised the therapist, how cliché he was, how he was just a stupid fucking phony who only pretended to care about my problems, I had to talk to him. I didn't cancel my next meeting, but instead I was excited to go. I knew it wasn't going to be happy, I knew it wasn't going to be pretty, I knew some emotions were gonna fly and I might actually try to beat him up, but I needed to let it happen. I need to talk to someone about this. About him. Fully, completely, without any interruptions. I'd stay for however fucking long it took, countless hours and maybe even days, just to get everything off of my chest.
How sweet he was, how kind he was. How he knew how to say something that would make me instantly feel better, even though just seeing him every day was enough to wash away all of my negative feelings. How, even though we had pretended to not like each other, we both admitted to being somewhat attracted to each other since the first time we met. How he would lift his large right hand and carefully swipe the greasy hair out of his eyes, unlike me and my wild head-shaking efforts to get my bangs off of my face.
When my alarm clock rang that morning, signaling to me that I had only a half an hour until my next therapy session with Dr. Phil, I practically jumped out of bed.
***
Gerard
Fuck it, I have to go back to see him.
Even though he tried to seduce me, even though his fucking therapy room seemed like a pedophile's paradise, and he looked beyond fucking creepy, I need to talk.
Talk about what happened, what I did, how everything always relates back to Frank. How I could never keep a steady job because of him, how I could never feel confident about my artwork because he wasn't there telling me the absolute honest truth (because that's all he ever fucking did, even if it hurt the person beyond belief he was always there to tell 'em like it is), how my life became a spiraling wreck because even though I scoffed him over to the backside of my mind to become just a memory, he was still there. And it was all my fault that I had ruined my life. And maybe Frank's.
I can still remember the hurt in his eyes, how his fists clenched and unclenched in front of me while his body stayed perfectly still. Tears were forming, but I knew he'd never let me see them. I remember how his lips quivered but he again would not let me see it for more than a second before he dropped his head, his bangs covering his eyes. I remember screaming at him, for reasons I can't even remember, and leaving him there. All alone. Everything was always and will always be my fucking fault.
Even my house burning was probably my own fault. For all I fucking knew, I had left the coffee maker on or something and somehow it had caused the curtains on the small kitchen window behind it to catch fire, engulfing the whole house in flames in mere seconds. Mom wouldn't have known what was going on before it was too late because she would be watching her soap operas in the living room, Mikey would have been in bed napping because he was sick with the flu that day, and Dad...well, I'm not quite sure what my dad would have been doing, but I'm sure he wouldn't have helped put out the fire.
And like that, I hurt everyone around me.
God, I need to get this off my chest before I fucking kill myself because everything is my own damn fault.
Not caring that it was eight in the morning - two hours before I was scheduled to talk with Mr. Smith - I raced out of my house and fell into my car, making my determined way towards the therapist's office.
♠ ♠ ♠
Okay, so even though it's a filler, I needed to update to tell you all something.Kehli is no longer co-writing this story.
First she was banned, and then we were talking on AIM and she said that she doesn't have any more creative juices left rolling around in her brain. She doesn't have any inspiration, absolutely nothing to write with.
It made me super sad, seeing as she's one of my best online friends, one of my favorite writers and she always does a damn good job, does she not?
So, I'll be fully taking over this story, though I have three or four other stories that I'm currently writing for at the moment, so chapters may be scarce. Probably not three months in between, like what happened with this story, but maybe a month at most, okay?
Please keep reading, even though it's not a co-written story and the amazing Kehli isn't writing anymore. I have a few cool ideas for it and I think you'll enjoy them. ;]
<3