Seeking Solace

Somehow, I manage to get away with a whole week of peace- peace, perforated by the ever present rage that exists at home and pulls me back down to stark reality after an hour or two with Gerard. He tells me a lot of things; about art, things he's seen, read, drawn...but never things about him. He remains a secret, hidden behind a wall that he won't let me through. But it doesn't really feel like he's keeping something from me, like I would think it would feel. It's as if we just never get around to it, as if my time to ask is gone after we've spent the whole time just surrounded by something we both love.

So I just don't ask.

The next week, I realize at some point on Monday, is only a few days closer to my funeral.

It scares me that even though I've felt so good lately, I'm still teetering on the edge of indecision.

My mother beats my brother almost every day this week. It was especially bad on one day, when I heard him trying not to cry as he passed my bedroom to get to his. When he tried to close the door, I heard her storming up the stairs to ask why he was closing it.
She screamed at him some more. He held in tears as long as he could. I tried concentrating on my homework, but that's hard to do when you've got your own tears to see through, your own cowardice to try and reason with. I know that I couldn't go out there. She'd say I was goading him on, teaching him that going to comfort him after he was punished, that it would only make him do worse things.

I wonder if it's wrong of me to want to comfort him even if whatever he did was wrong. I wonder if it's wrong of me to be too afraid to go to him, because of my mother's fists. I wonder if it's wrong of me to cry now, useless tears, “crocodile tears” my mother called them, wasteful tears that won't help anybody.

I just wish I had the courage to stand up to her. I just wish every time I hear him cry, I'm not reminded of the times when I hated myself because I couldn't be perfect for her, couldn't see where I was making the mistakes that made her raise her hand against me.
Somehow, I manage to push myself through the rest of my homework before I just collapse, unable to hold it together long enough to do much else.

After a while, the only thing I can hold onto is seeing Gerard every day. It's nothing like the emails, the occasional text messages. It's nothing like being there with him, being able to touch him, even though now it seems like I want those touches to mean more than they ever did...

I've never been one to care much about sexuality. But my uncertainty still worried me. Not only would Luke murder me and drag my bloodied carcass around town as warning to others, but I didn't really know I felt about it. It was stupid, but it was true. I knew that I cared about Gerard.

But to say that I want to be with him that way? No. I couldn't let myself get there. I'm too broken for him. I want him to be happy. Somehow, thinking about him leaving and finding someone else, that special someone who really understands how incredible he is, under all the pain he tries to hide, makes me happy.

But it hurts too. Deep down, my heart aches.

No matter how hard I try to ignore things, they just get steadily worse. This is why my happiness is cursed. The simple acknowledgement of 'happiness' almost guarantees that something will happen to take it away again.

Then again, I've become incredibly attached to my misery and self-hatred. I can't go so long without it. To accept myself would mean tearing away from myself. My hatred makes me. If I am nothing with it, then I don't exist without it.

So of course, soon enough, my parents find out about my dropping grades and class ditching.

My father corners me after he comes home from work, and makes me sit on one side of the kitchen table while he sits on the other. He spends a few minutes letting me stew in my guilt and terror while he reads the printed e-mail from the school.

“How can you be late for all these classes, Frank? I saw you go out to the bus everyday, what were you thinking?” His fury burns right through my skull, and I feel as if just sitting here is wasting time. Wasting his time. Because I'm not worth the time he gives. Not worth anyone's.

I say nothing, just watch my hands twist together in knots, as if these ripped hands don't belong to me. I will always say nothing. Just wait for the punishment, the words that rip through me, the pain that'll come afterwards.

“I didn't raise you to be lazy, Franklin,” he blazes, glaring at my lowered head. “Look at me when I speak to you!”

I look up, but can only hold his eyes for all of two seconds before I drop them again. I'm just glad it's not my mother. Because she would make me feel like utter worthless shit, for wasting an opportunity I've been given, an opportunity I never asked for, because I could never live to deserve it...

“I thought we agreed that you would keep these grades up?”

Silence.

“How do you think I feel right now, Frank?”

I know what the answer is. I just won't say it.

“Frank, answer me,” he says, his teeth gritted together.

“Upset,” I mutter, my voice a pathetic squeak that only makes him sigh angrily.

“I gave all of this opportunity,” he says, and I feel that familiar drop in my stomach, realizing where he's going, knowing that I won't be able to stop it, “Do you know how many children there are who don't have this? How many children die, just dreaming about having a life like yours?”

Of course I know. Of course. Just stop. Stop.

“Do you not think this is something you should take seriously? You know what some of the rest of the family call you? Spoiled. A spoiled brat. Because you obviously don't care about everything you have. No matter how much we give you, you just want more of it.”

And I want to scream. There's a lump in my throat that stings from holding back the screaming, the want to say what I want to say, but not being able to, not being able to for years. And I can imagine it in my head. Imagine me saying it-

“I would die! I would give my life up if it meant a kid like that could have it, why was I the one picked to have this and they weren't, why do they have to suffer while I have this, why does anyone think I deserve it if I can sit here, perfectly okay with knowing that they suffer, and not doing anything about it, I am disgusting, do you know that? You brought a monster home from the hospital that day, a monster that shouldn't have lived-”

I want to. But I don't. I can't. I never will be able to.

In the end, he confiscates my phone, the games consoles I never wanted or touched, grounds me, and decides that I can do my homework at the kitchen table from now on. The same table that I moved from because I couldn't take watching my mother beat and degrade my brother every time he didn't understand a question in his own homework.

I don't know how I do it, but this time, I don't need the blade still hidden on the top shelf of my wardrobe. But it's hard. After all these years, after how much I've hated myself, it's hard not to go back to it. I can't even remember how I stopped in the first place.
In the end, I still feel like I'm just being a whiny little bitch, with the self-hatred, the guilt, the horror. My parents are right. I am spoiled. A spoiled little monster. I could be better.
So much better. But I decide not to be. Because I'm a coward.

How could anyone want me? Least of all Gerard?

So the first half of my week is the usual cycle of waking up, school, going home, but with enough hope from Gerard that it's not bad enough to really push me over the edge, but enough to lean me ever so slightly towards my original plan.

Only a few days to my birthday after all.

The next day, Gerard isn't there when I turn up at the art room. Before I can start panicking that something involving Luke and his drones has happened to him, James answers my unasked question.

“He's helping Ms. Carolin with some stuff,” he says over his coffee, “He'll be back in a minute.

Who?

“The art teacher,” he elaborates, smirking at my confused expression.

“Oh,” I say. And then stand there awkwardly, wondering if I should just sit and wait for him, or go to the outisde to wait for him. I knew should've anticipated this. Having to face people I don't know very well. It's only when Gerard leaves that I realize that I still haven't gotten over my phobia of making eye-contact with people.

Still, James pats the seat next to him. “Why don't you wait for him?”

I can't help glancing behind me in case anyone's watching- it's a reflex now that I wish I didn't have, but coming here still puts me on edge- and nervously head over to the chair. He chuckles as I sit down gingerly, and I resist the urge to get up and move to the back of the room.

“So how's Gerard treating you?” he asks conversationally, and although I do like James, I wish he would stop, because I know this isn't going to end well.

“Um. Fine.” I keep my eyes on my hands, expertly ripping off strips of skin, one rip drawing blood.

“It's almost lonely in here,” he says, “Even though he barely talked.”

“Yeah?” I laugh awkwardly in agreement, looking up and then swiftly bringing my eyes back to my hands. I put my torn finger up to my mouth, biting hard and hoping that he'll just stop talking. I notice that he's staring, which only makes me more nervous. I curl up even further in my seat and pray for Gerard to get his ass here. Soon.

“He does that,” James says softly, and I pause for a second, “His hands are all fucked up.”

I stop breathing for a second, waiting for what he'll say. He doesn't sound disgusted, but...I try to figure what I'm waiting for. A lecture on the dangers of ripping apart my hands? A pity party? Or a cold, awkward silence?

But when I look up, he's smiling, this little sad smile that I'd normally hate on anyone else, but only makes me uncomfortable.

Because he cares. Unlike everyone else I've ever been around, he cares. He's not judging me. From the beginning, he obviously knew something was up. And he didn't judge.

Honestly, I'm surprised that I even found I person like this. And not just one person. Two. Two incredible people.

I glance at the girl next to him, wondering what he expression might be. She smiles a small smile at me too, a kind one, but one that tells me that she's at least trying not to be intrusive. As if she doesn't mind if I don't tell her, because this is my own thing.

Kindness. It's strange. So strange.

And then he touches me. A gentle hand on my forearm, and my whole body just screams. I want him to stop. I want to slap his hand and jump away, and scrub the kindness off my arm. It's different from Gerard's touches. It's a hand that's kind, that understands to a point, but it's not the same. I don't know how it's not the same.
I struggle to keep my expression as blank as possible.

Then I notice that James is looking over my head, and I turn to see that Gerard's hovering in the doorway, just watching us. And then I follow his eyes down to the hand that's making my skin crawl, and I wonder why his attention is even there.

I try to be subtle about sliding my arm from under his hand, but I can't help shivering a little once it's gone. I pick my bag up off the floor and turn to leave, muttering an awkward “thanks” in James' direction.

“Anytime, Frank,” he says, before turning back and starting up some bright conversation with his girl friend.

Gerard doesn't move from the door, and I can't meet his eyes, so I just mumble at his shoes. “Can...can we...” I look up, and see the expression in his eyes. He's not looking at me. He's frowning at James.

I don't know what he's thinking, but I feel like I'm not going to like it if I ever find out.

Finally he seems to realize that I'm there, and a weak smile pulls at one corner of his lips, and for a second, my eyes are locked there before I meet his eyes.

I don't know what to think. I don't know if it's good or bad that I want that. I just don't
know. I hate that I can know so much in school, yet no so little where it actually counts.
We walk outside in silence.

After about five minutes of both of us sitting there, eating quietly, Gerard drawing while he eats (somehow keeping crumbs off his book) and me reading a book he lent me (which I'm pretending I haven't finished yet), it starts to get really uncomfortable. Our silences aren't like this.

“Frank?” he says, in a way that makes me feel like he's been working up the guts to ask me something he's been thinking out in his head for a while.

“Hmm?”

“Would...would you...” And then he stops and shakes his head. His face is bright red. “Never mind. Just...just forget it.”

I scowl. “You can't start and then tell me nothing.” I try to keep my voice light, “The suspense might kill me.”

But he doesn't smile. He just glances at me, swallows, wipes his hands on his jeans, swallows again, closes his book and turns to me, biting his lip and not meeting my eyes.

“If...if you liked someone, you would tell me right?”

...what?

“What?”

“I mean...” he tears at his fingers, just like I did, and I figure he kind of needs to right now so I don't stop him, “I mean...we talk about...things...”

“I think if something was bothering me,” I try, “Then...I'd tell you. You...you know I'd tell you, Gee.”

He looks up, his eyes looking so wildly desperate, I start worrying.

“Did I do something?” I ask.

His eyes go wide. “No! No, I just...” He sighs running a hand through his hair. “I shouldn't. I shouldn't even be saying it.”

“Saying what?” Now he's made me really panic. Maybe...maybe he's lying and it is my fault...

I start to say something, but he cuts me off. “Would you...would you do the same for me? Listen if I had something...bothering me?” He tears at him fingers even more.

“Well obviously,” I splutter, getting more agitated the longer he resists telling me whatever it is that's bothering him, “Why wouldn't I?”

This time, I do see a tiny smile make his lips twitch for a second, and his eyes meet mine a little more steadily, although his fingers don't stop scratching at each other. This time I take one of his hands in mine, and he stares at our hands as he talks.

“I...I like someone,” he starts, as I gently rub his knuckles with my thumb, “But it kind of feels like...like I'm almost forcing myself to. Because they're...they're someone who listens to me.” His eyes lock on mine, and though they're wide and open,I can't read past the openness, “They...they mean a lot to me, but like...I feel like I made myself like them. But then...the more I think about it, the more I think that...that I do like them. And now I've gotten it in my head that...that maybe he-they might...I might stand a chance.” His hand clenches into a fist on my now limp hand, “But it's stupid.” He shakes his head.

I expected to feel like my heart had been stamped on. Or ripped out. Or like I'd been shot.

Instead, my whole body feels...loose. As if I'm only still moving normally because my brain has taken over, while my conscious mind pushes into my skull, trying to break free and run away from the hurt it feels it can't take any more of. Like I'm in control anymore. I can still feel my heart pounding in my head, so hard that I felt like it's choking me, but I can feel like my head's torn off my body and I don't know what the hell my reaction should be...

This is what I'd wanted though, isn't it? For him to find someone he likes and be happy?
I feel ashamed. Ashamed that I could ever think that he could want me. That I could ever think that whatever feelings I had could be answered. That I could have expected to give me what I wanted.

I understood now. I was falling in too deep, and this is what I need to pull me out before I hurt both of us.

I'm falling in love with him.

And he's waiting for me to answer him.

“Gee,” I say softly, pushing my feelings aside for him, because he needs me now, needs me, not the Frank trying to make a noose out of shame to get away from the crushing embarrassment, “You can't think that you don't stand a chance. There'll be someone out there for you,” I say, trying to speak through the lump in my throat without choking, “I know there is.”

He looks at me uncertainly, but his hand unclenches so that his palm rests on mine, and it's so hard not to pull him closer, to hold him while I still have the chance. But no...no, that would ruin everything. If this is all I have left, I want to keep it, as selfish and desperate as that might be.

But it would be better to leave, wouldn't it? It would be better to cut myself off from him so that I wouldn't interfere with what he wants. He's been so considerate of me. This is the least I could do.

Still. I could never do enough.

“You don't know, Frank,” he says, “They wouldn't...they wouldn't want me this way.”I can see so clearly on his face, how desperately he wants to hear me disagree, yet he still believes what he says.

“If they don't then you deserve better,” I say, and I feel like I'm starting to close it off. Like I'm starting to accept that eventually, he'll be gone, with his own life, and I'll be alone again.

He watches me, his eyes losing that desperation, but now unreadable. I resist touching his face, and keep my hands on his, cupping his hand in both of mine.

I try a small smile, but he doesn't smile back. Just watches me. And I watch back.

I don't want this taken away from me. I don't.

But did I really think this could last forever? That I could be happy, and have someone who I cared about with me everyday?

That's not my life. It's someone else's.

It's Gerard's. Not mine.

“I'm...leaving for the next few days,” he says, and I feel like I've been pushed into a lake of ice-cold water now too, with my arms tied behind my back so I'm forced to drown.

He sees my startled expression, and I see something flicker across his face- interest? Why?- before it changes to reassurance. “I'm going out of town to visit family,” he explains, “My grandma.” His voice is so full of love, I feel some of the pain lift a little. Knowing that at least he'll be with people who care about him.

“Oh. Okay.”

We have to leave then- the bell rings, and I've promised not to be late for any more classes- but before that, he catches my arm as I'm about to get up.

“Don't...don't hurt yourself while I'm gone, okay?” he says, his eyes burning into mine with an intensity that won't let me look away, “If..if anything happens...you text me, okay? Or email?”

I nods, woodenly, and he lets me go.

I can't help being distracted for the rest of the day. Between being rejected, knowing that he won't be here when I come in tomorrow, and being alone to face every day, I can't concentrate. So I'm horribly jittery by the end of the day, and in a terrible, terrible mood.
By the time the last bell rings, I feel like my heart is burning. It's not enough to explain it, but the ache in my chest, an ache that I wish I could tear out like the skin on my fingers, makes it hard to function. Every moment there is to think about it, it's there, ripping through my chest, reminding me of everything I can't have.

And things only get worse when Luke shows up.

Is it bad that when he comes to me, unusually cheerful despite my not being there for days, asking me to come with him to beat someone up, I agree? It is bad that I feel a thrill build up in my chest when we corner the other kids, the targets that Luke's had his eyes on for a while? Is it bad that while I'm breaking this kid's arm, splitting his lip, bruising his face, I feel the familiar rush of adrenaline, and I welcome it with open arms? Is it wrong that I justify it by telling myself that it's just a release from all the pain that's been building up? That I deserve to get a little release?

I feel like I belong here. Like this is what I was meant to do. Just fight. Fighting to stay on top, fighting for the sake of fighting, to prove that you are the one that people should fear, and the power...I've missed the power.

And as we're sitting around, passing around a beer that I don't take, congratulating ourselves, I feel like I can get back to this. Like maybe I can keep my love of art to myself, but stay where I belong and not interfere with Gerard's world anymore.

But it's only temporary. When the adrenaline fades, and I'm finally home, with just split lip and bruised arm, when I can finally lie down and think.

I feel more hopeless than I ever have before.