Early Sunsets Over Monroeville

When I woke up, I smelled something bad. Damp. Alcohol. Sweat. Cigarette smoke. I ran several scents past my nose, trying to identify the stench, and recognised all of them. It was like the epitome of every despicable smell I could imagine. My stomach churned.

When it was done churning, it heaved. I heaved. I tried to turn – to vomit, that is – but I couldn’t. My arms were trapped. I was...chained? Chained, bound, tied up. I couldn’t move!

So I threw up on myself instead. Nice.

Dazed, I looked about me, trying (in vain, mostly) to orient myself. I saw in a barely-there dim light that I was in a small, musty room with damp crawling menacingly up the walls, like bloodstains. Like the sweat on Bert’s t-shirt. Like the blood on mine. It was hard to make out anything much, as the room was so ill-lit and I was chained in a laying position, on my back with my head tilted up a little. My eyes itched with uncried tears and a need for sleep – real, safe sleep, not the drug-induced loss of consciousness – and my stomach roared with hunger. A dry throat protested at the state I’d let it get into, and I wondered if that was how Gee’s felt when we had to cancel tour dates because he’d done it in practising too much. Everything hurt. My legs tingled uncomfortably, my throat, my stomach, my eyes, my head pounded like Bob was bashing it and the gash there throbbed painfully, my broken right arm was the most painful thing I’d ever felt, and – on top of the pins and needles – the deep cut on my leg that’d nearly cost me my life had started to seethe, agonizing. I wasn’t sure if it was better or worse than the sterile numb of the blinding-white hospital.

But most of all, my chest killed, like a knife had stabbed me, pinpointing my heart and stopping it immediately.

I missed Gerard. Even though he’d left me stranded, all alone in that goddamn hospital, I still missed him. With every bone in my body I yearned for him, ached every second he wasn’t there. Consequently, I was doing a lot of aching.

I thought of all the things I would do if Gee were with me, all the things I would say. The way he would shake his head with disbelief at the way things had worked out. The way I would smile hopefully at him, pathetic angsty-love in my puppy-like eyes, then look away, embarrassed. The way he would gently force my head back up with a pasty finger under my chin, so I could look him in the eye, so he could see my face. The way he spoke, laughed, sighed, blinked, stared...breathed: the soft, comforting motion of his chest moving up, down, up, down. The way he pronounced certain words: his slick voice like velvet, with a gorgeous Scottish-Italian-New Jersey accent. The way I didn’t have to hide anymore. How he not only knew the truth – that sickening, dark secret I’d been concealing for so long – but embraced it. The way he made me sure that I loved him and he loved me and nothing – nothing – could ever stop that or refute that or make that sour. How he made me sure that everything was perfect, and that I made everything perfect for him. The way he was perfect, radiated perfection. The way I loved him. And...finally, finally, the way he loved me too.

But, the thing was, Gee wasn’t there. There was nothing I could do, say, watch about him, or to him. He was missing (and sorely missed) and I was here, trapped, alone. That was how it would be for the rest of my life. Because I was pretty sure that my life wasn’t going to be lasting much longer at all now. In fact, I was pretty sure that I’d be lucky to outlive tonight.

With that totally not-morbid thought, I heard a squeak in the half-light and tensed. My breath caught in my throat – though I had a feeling I shouldn’t be taking my air for granted right now. Heavy, slow footsteps from lolloping boots bashed the floor beneath them and the sound grew closer to me; it wasn’t long before I could hear nervous, angry, short-sharp breaths too. He was back. He was here, come to haunt me. I was...he was going to hurt me, I could sense it. He was going to...to...to kill...he was going to kill me.

How had I once thought of life as such a needle in my chest, such a pain? How had I hated it so much I tried to take it away? It seemed I’d yearned for so long, and gained them so suddenly. Just as quickly, though, they’d been snatched for me. First Gee, now my own life. It seemed ironic how when I didn’t want it, someone else was desperate to preserve it, and now that I finally wished to hold on to it, someone was trying to take it away. Trying...and succeeding.

Bert was back. And he was bloodthirsty.

He was my predator. I was his prey.