One Second Too Late
Final Goodbyes
I usually don't answer my cell phone when I'm driving, but I'm at a red light anyway, so I fish it out of my back pocket and flip it open. The number is familiar. It's Frank.
"Hey, what's up?" I say casually after I've pressed 'talk'.
"I just can't do it anymore." He sounds upset. Like really upset.
"Frank, what's wrong? Should I come up there?" He's been feeling low before, but never this low. At least from what I knew about. The light turns green, and I pull away from the line.
"No. I just thought I'd call to say goodbye." Goodbye? This is not good at all.
"Frank... Don't be silly."
"I'm not being fucking silly!" He sounds like he's on the verge of tears. "No one would care if I was gone. I might as well do it." I bite my lip. Why did he have to call me about this? I'm no good at talking anyone out of anything, let alone suicide.
"Frank, your family needs you... And the fans... And... I need you too." I know what to expect as a reply.
"Fucking lies! You were never there for me when I needed you." Just a couple weeks ago he'd come out to me. He'd told me he loved me. I'd understood, but I had to tell him the truth. I wasn't into guys.
I steer into the turning lane, and make a right. I drive in the direction of Frank's apartment. Even if he doesn't want me there, I have to do what I can.
"Frank, I'm sorry. I can't change how I feel." Traffic just so happens to be horrible today. I'm stuck behind a car that's moving at about 2 MpH to boot. "Just talk it out. I'm here. I'll listen."
I don't expect what happens next. He starts to cry. He sobs into the phone, and I say nothing.
"This is for all the homophobic retards, and for all the haters... and for you." I drive into the lane next to me and speed past the slow black car.
His building is close now. I drive quickly into the parking lot, and stop in a handicapped space.
"I apologize for everything I've done wrong. I'll miss you, Gerard." I leave the car running, and the door wide open.
"Frank, wait! Talk to me!" I catch the door as someone comes out of the building. The elevator takes too long. I see the stairs to my left and run for it.
"There's nothing left to say." I see his door at the top of the stairs. I take the steps two at a time, moving as fast as my body will allow.
I turn the doorknob, and of course, it's locked. I hear him gasp on the other end of the line; he knows I'm here. "Frank, open the fucking door!"
"Goodbye." He sniffs, and hangs up on me. I ram into the plain white door with my shoulder, but it doesn't budge. He must have a chair or something blocking the entrance. I try again. The door rattles violently, but remains in place.
And then I hear it. A loud noise that slips underneath the door and out into the hallway. A gunshot.
I pray that he didn't do it, missed his target, chickened out.
With one final shove, the door swings open, knocking over the chair that was keeping it closed. My shoulder is stinging from hitting the door too hard. Too many thoughts rush through my head, and I can't figure out which room he's in. "Frank! Where the hell are you?!" I yell, but with no response.
I run into the nearest room, and there he is. It's his legs I see first, and he's lying back on the bed, the once-white sheets covered in his rapidly-spreading blood.
I feel my own tears coming now, as I sit beside his limp body on the bed. The gun is still grasped loosely in his right hand. There are still tear stains on his cheeks.
I put my right arm around his shoulders and pull him close. His blood stains my hands bright red. He would look like he was sleeping if it wasn't for his blood all over the room.
I sob into the collar of his black t-shirt. It's my fault he's gone. I was the one who drove him to do it.
I see the cell phone lying next to him, still open. It says 'call ended'. More like 'life ended'.
I bite my lip and think of how I was just one second too late.
"Hey, what's up?" I say casually after I've pressed 'talk'.
"I just can't do it anymore." He sounds upset. Like really upset.
"Frank, what's wrong? Should I come up there?" He's been feeling low before, but never this low. At least from what I knew about. The light turns green, and I pull away from the line.
"No. I just thought I'd call to say goodbye." Goodbye? This is not good at all.
"Frank... Don't be silly."
"I'm not being fucking silly!" He sounds like he's on the verge of tears. "No one would care if I was gone. I might as well do it." I bite my lip. Why did he have to call me about this? I'm no good at talking anyone out of anything, let alone suicide.
"Frank, your family needs you... And the fans... And... I need you too." I know what to expect as a reply.
"Fucking lies! You were never there for me when I needed you." Just a couple weeks ago he'd come out to me. He'd told me he loved me. I'd understood, but I had to tell him the truth. I wasn't into guys.
I steer into the turning lane, and make a right. I drive in the direction of Frank's apartment. Even if he doesn't want me there, I have to do what I can.
"Frank, I'm sorry. I can't change how I feel." Traffic just so happens to be horrible today. I'm stuck behind a car that's moving at about 2 MpH to boot. "Just talk it out. I'm here. I'll listen."
I don't expect what happens next. He starts to cry. He sobs into the phone, and I say nothing.
"This is for all the homophobic retards, and for all the haters... and for you." I drive into the lane next to me and speed past the slow black car.
His building is close now. I drive quickly into the parking lot, and stop in a handicapped space.
"I apologize for everything I've done wrong. I'll miss you, Gerard." I leave the car running, and the door wide open.
"Frank, wait! Talk to me!" I catch the door as someone comes out of the building. The elevator takes too long. I see the stairs to my left and run for it.
"There's nothing left to say." I see his door at the top of the stairs. I take the steps two at a time, moving as fast as my body will allow.
I turn the doorknob, and of course, it's locked. I hear him gasp on the other end of the line; he knows I'm here. "Frank, open the fucking door!"
"Goodbye." He sniffs, and hangs up on me. I ram into the plain white door with my shoulder, but it doesn't budge. He must have a chair or something blocking the entrance. I try again. The door rattles violently, but remains in place.
And then I hear it. A loud noise that slips underneath the door and out into the hallway. A gunshot.
I pray that he didn't do it, missed his target, chickened out.
With one final shove, the door swings open, knocking over the chair that was keeping it closed. My shoulder is stinging from hitting the door too hard. Too many thoughts rush through my head, and I can't figure out which room he's in. "Frank! Where the hell are you?!" I yell, but with no response.
I run into the nearest room, and there he is. It's his legs I see first, and he's lying back on the bed, the once-white sheets covered in his rapidly-spreading blood.
I feel my own tears coming now, as I sit beside his limp body on the bed. The gun is still grasped loosely in his right hand. There are still tear stains on his cheeks.
I put my right arm around his shoulders and pull him close. His blood stains my hands bright red. He would look like he was sleeping if it wasn't for his blood all over the room.
I sob into the collar of his black t-shirt. It's my fault he's gone. I was the one who drove him to do it.
I see the cell phone lying next to him, still open. It says 'call ended'. More like 'life ended'.
I bite my lip and think of how I was just one second too late.