Escape

Gerard and Vanna walked together into the psychiatric institution.

“You're lucky Beth keeps our little 'adventures' a secret,” he muttered to her. She laughed.

“Not like it'll make a difference to me.” Gerard glared.

“But it'll make a difference for me. I would like to get out of here before I turned forty, you know.” Vanna shrugged.

“I don't think I'll last that long.” The pair sat down in the cafeteria, sitting across from one another. Gerard looked at her disapprovingly.

“Don't you dare fucking talk like that.” Vanna chose not to respond.

Gerard hated when she spoke so cynically. In his point of view, she wasn't given a limit. No one really gave her a expiration date.

“Anyway,” he sighed, trying to change the subject. He felt bad for yelling at her. “What's up?” Vanna bit her bottom lip and forced back a smile; she was trying to avoid giving a sarcastic comment.

“If you say 'the ceiling' I'm going to shoot you.” She laughed.

“Ouch. Someone's feeling a little violent today.”

“My goal is just to become half as cynical as you, love.”

“Damn. I was hoping you were serious.” Gerard covered his face with his hands and groaned.

“It's harder to resist right now than you'd think. You know I hate when you say shit like that. I don't like the thought of you.. of you.. you know.” Vanna reached her thin, pale hands forward to take his hands in hers.

“I'm sorry,” she told him softly, avoiding his gaze. “But I've learned to accept that I'm not going to die when or the way I want to. You need to accept it, too.” She stood up and went to get a water bottle.

Gerard studied her. She was a lot thinner than she used to be in old pictures. She was a lot more pale, and fragile, too, not that her weakness stopped her from doing stupid shit like smoking. Her body was failing her enough as it was. Under her deep brown eyes were small, bruise-like bags that he assumed were a result from her lack of sleep. She had high, prominent, gorgeous cheek bones and Gerard was certain that every girl in this place would be jealous of her if they took the time to notice.

But everyone here was a zombie.

Every single damned patient in the ward was usually packed with meds to combat whatever illness they had. Vanna had a talk with Gerard about it, once.

“What's the point?” she had said. “Sure, you can drug 'em up and make them forget about their problems all you want, but they're still going to be there at the end of the day. You're not solving anything. Just procrastinating a resolution.”

“That was very intelligent of you,” Gerard said, moderately surprised. Vanna smiled.

“Just call me Obi-Wan.”

By the time Gerard snapped out of his trip down memory lane, she was back, sitting down across from him. Her eyebrows were raised expectantly.

“Oh, hi,” he said, laughing a bit. It was obviously fake; she could see right through him.

“What were you thinking about?”

“You,” he said instinctively. Her expression changed and he blushed madly. “I mean, I was thinking back to that one time we talked about the whole medication deal and when you said that they were,” he put his hands up to use air quotes, “'procrastinating a resolution.'” She smiled at him.

“You remember that?” Gerard looked at her incredulously.

“Of course I do! It was one of the first conversations we've ever had.”

“You never did call me Obi-Wan,” she said.

“I'll call you it when you earn it.”

“Ooo, like a gold star type of thing?” Gerard laughed.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Sweet.”

The two were quiet then. There wasn't really much more to say; the conversation sizzled out awkwardly.

Gerard wanted to ask when she'd get a donor, when she would know how much longer she had, or didn't have. But he didn't want to bring it up. He knew she was worried enough as it was. They were the only friends they had anymore, but even so, there were lines and topics that they just didn't discuss with one another. They had secrets, fears.