Status: Currently in the process of being edited
Oh How Wrong We Were to Think That Immortality Meant Never Dying
Chapter 2
Gerard was 21 and still living at home; his parents didn't think that he was healthy or stable enough to live on his own. He didn't eat, and was repulsed by even the thought of food, yet he still found his stomach grumbling against his will. Because of this, his parents took him to a psychiatrist that worked in the hospital, a nutritionist and a fucking mental health specialist in the psychiatric ward. He spent half of his days in that hospital, but it never proved to help his state of mind. It only caused him to feel more self-conscious about his excess weight that other people were somehow blind to, which kept him from voicing his thoughts, opinions, and feelings. He was even more repulsed by his parents thinking that that they were actually helping him by sending him to a place that made him feel so low.
His parents considered buying an apartment for him and his brother, Mikey to share once Mikey finished high school. Mikey had always kept close tabs on Gerard, trying to get him to eat, and even pulling words from his mouth; Mikey was the only person that he talked to about anything, he was also the only person that he hadn't cut off. They hoped that Mikey would be able to 'help' him, and in all honesty, they were tired of babysitting him. At the same time, they didn't trust him on his own, and who better to be his 'caretaker' than the man that knew him the best?
Gerard didn't have a good reason to starve himself, not that there ever was a good reason; he just felt hopeless and worthless, like his presence didn't matter. He was the only one who saw it that way, because he was too oblivious to realize the fact that they all wanted him in their lives. At first, he thought that everyone had hated him because he was fat, and he had hoped that being skinny would make the bullying stop, this of course being when he was still in high school. He began to loathe the excess body fat that hung loosely over his jeans, even though it was concealed by t-shirts that he ensured came down far beyond his waist line and often reaching his butt. He noticed that his plan to lose weight had been successful, but it didn't matter as much when he realized that it did nothing to end the constant taunting’s in college, which proved to be worse than high school. It wasn’t like when he was a teenager and only got teased and pushed into lockers in school, no, in college they went a step further, seeking him out in public, and even egging his house. People were a lot rougher as he grew up, if he made one wrong move, he could end up with a knife through his stomach. But, he soon learned who chose what tactics of torture, and avoided ticking them off, to avoid being ripped to shreds. By then, any chance of going back to eating was lost, his appetite was non-existent; or so he told himself every time a hunger spell was brought on, and he was repulsed by the sight of food. He'd have to dry heave into the toilet when the smell wafted close enough for him to catch a whiff. When Mikey began keeping close tabs on him, he had to learn other ways to avoid digesting the food, since purging was a no go; he learnt that if he cut up his food, it looked like he had eaten more, and he got away with giving his scraps to the dog. He’d occasionally still eat, but very minimal, only enough to hold his hunger off for another week.
He was known as the 'quiet one' among the doctors and nurses, and even a few patients. It wasn't a very well thought out nickname, but those in the hospital tended to be bland and did not have time to come up with a clever nickname for each uncooperative patient. His psychiatrist never got a word out of him during their two hours sessions; instead Gerard would just sit there in silence while he was asked constant questions, such as ‘How are you today Gerard?’ ‘Are you up to talking today?’ ‘How are things at home?’ ‘Is there anything that I could do to make you more comfortable?’ He had considered sharing things before, but he realized that the man who sat before him each day did not deserve to know what thoughts ran throughout his head. His mind was special to him, it was the only place that he could really disappear and fit in; Mikey was the only one thus far that had gained access inside of his head filled with hatred and depression. Everyone loathed having to work with him, because he was so difficult to communicate with. It wasn't that he couldn't talk, he just chose not to; he only talked to Mikey, because he trusted him. He didn't trust anyone else, mainly because they didn't seem to understand; maybe one day he'd learn to trust them, possibly. The problem was that they were all trying to 'fix' him, but he didn't want to be fixed; he wanted to die, but they weren't going to let that happen either. He had decide a long time ago, that death was a much better choice than having to live with the guilt that you were not good enough to be placed on the earth... You could not fix that problem.
*
It was a normal, routine day for Frank. He wandered around the 3rd floor as per usual, making sure to check on the nurses behind the desk to hear any news about the night before; all he heard was that someone on second floor had died from an overdose of whatever medication he had been placed on, and that the doctor was immediately fired. Frank still maintained an abundance of energy and decided to spend it visiting his 'friends.' When he got to Sam's room, the old man with a failing heart and cancer, was nowhere to be seen. Someone else appeared to be prepping the room for another patient.
"Where's Sam?" Frank questioned the nurse that was tucking in the bed sheets. He hadn't seen her before, and guessed that she was from another section that he hadn't explored yet.
"He's in surgery," she answered vaguely. She straightened herself after tucking the final corner in and turned to examine Frank, taking in his small, short frame. "Shouldn't you be in you room?" Frank didn't like the girl already, and hoped that she wasn't placed on the floor permanently; nobody had questioned his presence thus far, and he didn't know how to handle things. She held out her hand expectantly, waiting for Frank’s wrist to be placed in her grasp. He lifted his arm slowly and gave her is small, delicate wrist reluctantly. Her cold, nimble fingers came in contact with his own already cold skin, and sent shivers down his spine. She twirled the white band around his slim wrist before finding what seemed to satisfy her, and carefully examined it with further delicacy. "Cancer,” she paused. “Aren't you supposed to stay in your room?" He wanted to tell her that he had permission to wander about, but he already felt the tears prickling his eyes, so he made his way back to his room early. The nurses that loitered his floor all knew that he was overly sensitive, having not been exposed to many people; so they were always kind to him, but this new nurse didn't seem to understand that he, like any other normal human being, had feelings too, and just because he was In a hospital did not mean that he was incapable of feeling pain.
*
"Gerard, we need to talk." He knew that bad things were to come when he heard the simple phrase exit his mother’s mouth, her tone demanding as she sat beside him at the dinner table. They sat with identical plates before them, except, Gerard's food, unlike his mother’s had not been touched. "Me and your dad have been thinking," Oh great, that couldn't be good. "That it would be best if you got out of the house." This of course led Gerard to believe that they were kicking him out, forcing him to fend for himself for a change, sending him off to live in a box and eat scraps from the grimy dumpster in an alley outside of a bar. Not that he cared, it would make it easier to die; all alone and living out of his own small cardboard box, with no money for food, and no one forcing him to eat. It would also be much easier to supply himself with booze if he were alone. His parents had removed all of the alcohol due to his drinking habits, though he occasionally found a way to sneak some into his room, often using Mikey as his pack mule, since he understood his brother’s need for alcohol, often joining in on his pity party. "We talked to the nutritionist and your psychiatrist, and they both agree that it would be beneficial to place you in the hospital. They've already got you a room near the psychiatric ward." Great, now I'm mental, he thought to himself, another thing that would go forever unsaid. "They decided to put you just outside the wing, because you are not as high of a priority, and there wasn't much room left." Now he was being forced to live in a fucking hospital, surrounded by people that he hated, who were actually sick. The thoughts repulsed him, being forced to live with the walking dead. He considered this much worse than living on the streets, where he wouldn't have been bothered by anyone. It would make dying a lot harder, being surrounded by machines that would only bring him back to life.
He went downstairs to sulk, and only five minutes had passed before Mikey joined him in his dark cave. "You okay?" He wasn't surprised when Gerard was unresponsive, he was always like that when he was upset, choosing not to open up to anyone in his times of despair. "I'll visit you every day," he promised, although it failed to reassure Gerard. "You'll be okay. I'll never let them hurt you," he moved closer to his older brother and enveloped him in a hug. For the first time that day, he let his guard down, and tears flowed down his face. Only for Mikey, could he drop his facade.
*
Frank had decided to lay low in his room for a few days, and the nurses automatically figured that he was just in another one of his moods. Though again they had been wrong, and he was instead frightened that the same nurse might confront him again. He finally emerged a few days later, and the nurses had become very talkative, their mouths flowing with gossip. "What's the scoop Sally?" He asked the only nurse that didn't seem to be enveloped in conversation about whatever gossip they had retained.
"Well, the 'quiet one,’ I think his name is like, Jared, or something. Well, he's moving into Sam's old room." So that explained the constant murmurs, but not the whole 'missing Sam' case. "His nurse is from the mental wing. She's a bitch, I advise you to stay away from her." Frank agreed with the statement, he definitely didn't like her, though passing Sam's room was part of his daily routine, and now that it wasn't his room, he really needed to get out of the habit.
"Where's Sam anyway?" He questioned, trying to act casual, but silently praying that he wasn't dead.
"He's up in intensive care. He had a heart attack. He's fine now, but they decided to move him so that he could be watched closer," Frank was relieved to know that he was fine. "They might move him back down in a month or so."
"Well, I'll still be here," he complained. He slugged off to his room, retreating to his home base early out of sheer boredom.
His parents considered buying an apartment for him and his brother, Mikey to share once Mikey finished high school. Mikey had always kept close tabs on Gerard, trying to get him to eat, and even pulling words from his mouth; Mikey was the only person that he talked to about anything, he was also the only person that he hadn't cut off. They hoped that Mikey would be able to 'help' him, and in all honesty, they were tired of babysitting him. At the same time, they didn't trust him on his own, and who better to be his 'caretaker' than the man that knew him the best?
Gerard didn't have a good reason to starve himself, not that there ever was a good reason; he just felt hopeless and worthless, like his presence didn't matter. He was the only one who saw it that way, because he was too oblivious to realize the fact that they all wanted him in their lives. At first, he thought that everyone had hated him because he was fat, and he had hoped that being skinny would make the bullying stop, this of course being when he was still in high school. He began to loathe the excess body fat that hung loosely over his jeans, even though it was concealed by t-shirts that he ensured came down far beyond his waist line and often reaching his butt. He noticed that his plan to lose weight had been successful, but it didn't matter as much when he realized that it did nothing to end the constant taunting’s in college, which proved to be worse than high school. It wasn’t like when he was a teenager and only got teased and pushed into lockers in school, no, in college they went a step further, seeking him out in public, and even egging his house. People were a lot rougher as he grew up, if he made one wrong move, he could end up with a knife through his stomach. But, he soon learned who chose what tactics of torture, and avoided ticking them off, to avoid being ripped to shreds. By then, any chance of going back to eating was lost, his appetite was non-existent; or so he told himself every time a hunger spell was brought on, and he was repulsed by the sight of food. He'd have to dry heave into the toilet when the smell wafted close enough for him to catch a whiff. When Mikey began keeping close tabs on him, he had to learn other ways to avoid digesting the food, since purging was a no go; he learnt that if he cut up his food, it looked like he had eaten more, and he got away with giving his scraps to the dog. He’d occasionally still eat, but very minimal, only enough to hold his hunger off for another week.
He was known as the 'quiet one' among the doctors and nurses, and even a few patients. It wasn't a very well thought out nickname, but those in the hospital tended to be bland and did not have time to come up with a clever nickname for each uncooperative patient. His psychiatrist never got a word out of him during their two hours sessions; instead Gerard would just sit there in silence while he was asked constant questions, such as ‘How are you today Gerard?’ ‘Are you up to talking today?’ ‘How are things at home?’ ‘Is there anything that I could do to make you more comfortable?’ He had considered sharing things before, but he realized that the man who sat before him each day did not deserve to know what thoughts ran throughout his head. His mind was special to him, it was the only place that he could really disappear and fit in; Mikey was the only one thus far that had gained access inside of his head filled with hatred and depression. Everyone loathed having to work with him, because he was so difficult to communicate with. It wasn't that he couldn't talk, he just chose not to; he only talked to Mikey, because he trusted him. He didn't trust anyone else, mainly because they didn't seem to understand; maybe one day he'd learn to trust them, possibly. The problem was that they were all trying to 'fix' him, but he didn't want to be fixed; he wanted to die, but they weren't going to let that happen either. He had decide a long time ago, that death was a much better choice than having to live with the guilt that you were not good enough to be placed on the earth... You could not fix that problem.
*
It was a normal, routine day for Frank. He wandered around the 3rd floor as per usual, making sure to check on the nurses behind the desk to hear any news about the night before; all he heard was that someone on second floor had died from an overdose of whatever medication he had been placed on, and that the doctor was immediately fired. Frank still maintained an abundance of energy and decided to spend it visiting his 'friends.' When he got to Sam's room, the old man with a failing heart and cancer, was nowhere to be seen. Someone else appeared to be prepping the room for another patient.
"Where's Sam?" Frank questioned the nurse that was tucking in the bed sheets. He hadn't seen her before, and guessed that she was from another section that he hadn't explored yet.
"He's in surgery," she answered vaguely. She straightened herself after tucking the final corner in and turned to examine Frank, taking in his small, short frame. "Shouldn't you be in you room?" Frank didn't like the girl already, and hoped that she wasn't placed on the floor permanently; nobody had questioned his presence thus far, and he didn't know how to handle things. She held out her hand expectantly, waiting for Frank’s wrist to be placed in her grasp. He lifted his arm slowly and gave her is small, delicate wrist reluctantly. Her cold, nimble fingers came in contact with his own already cold skin, and sent shivers down his spine. She twirled the white band around his slim wrist before finding what seemed to satisfy her, and carefully examined it with further delicacy. "Cancer,” she paused. “Aren't you supposed to stay in your room?" He wanted to tell her that he had permission to wander about, but he already felt the tears prickling his eyes, so he made his way back to his room early. The nurses that loitered his floor all knew that he was overly sensitive, having not been exposed to many people; so they were always kind to him, but this new nurse didn't seem to understand that he, like any other normal human being, had feelings too, and just because he was In a hospital did not mean that he was incapable of feeling pain.
*
"Gerard, we need to talk." He knew that bad things were to come when he heard the simple phrase exit his mother’s mouth, her tone demanding as she sat beside him at the dinner table. They sat with identical plates before them, except, Gerard's food, unlike his mother’s had not been touched. "Me and your dad have been thinking," Oh great, that couldn't be good. "That it would be best if you got out of the house." This of course led Gerard to believe that they were kicking him out, forcing him to fend for himself for a change, sending him off to live in a box and eat scraps from the grimy dumpster in an alley outside of a bar. Not that he cared, it would make it easier to die; all alone and living out of his own small cardboard box, with no money for food, and no one forcing him to eat. It would also be much easier to supply himself with booze if he were alone. His parents had removed all of the alcohol due to his drinking habits, though he occasionally found a way to sneak some into his room, often using Mikey as his pack mule, since he understood his brother’s need for alcohol, often joining in on his pity party. "We talked to the nutritionist and your psychiatrist, and they both agree that it would be beneficial to place you in the hospital. They've already got you a room near the psychiatric ward." Great, now I'm mental, he thought to himself, another thing that would go forever unsaid. "They decided to put you just outside the wing, because you are not as high of a priority, and there wasn't much room left." Now he was being forced to live in a fucking hospital, surrounded by people that he hated, who were actually sick. The thoughts repulsed him, being forced to live with the walking dead. He considered this much worse than living on the streets, where he wouldn't have been bothered by anyone. It would make dying a lot harder, being surrounded by machines that would only bring him back to life.
He went downstairs to sulk, and only five minutes had passed before Mikey joined him in his dark cave. "You okay?" He wasn't surprised when Gerard was unresponsive, he was always like that when he was upset, choosing not to open up to anyone in his times of despair. "I'll visit you every day," he promised, although it failed to reassure Gerard. "You'll be okay. I'll never let them hurt you," he moved closer to his older brother and enveloped him in a hug. For the first time that day, he let his guard down, and tears flowed down his face. Only for Mikey, could he drop his facade.
*
Frank had decided to lay low in his room for a few days, and the nurses automatically figured that he was just in another one of his moods. Though again they had been wrong, and he was instead frightened that the same nurse might confront him again. He finally emerged a few days later, and the nurses had become very talkative, their mouths flowing with gossip. "What's the scoop Sally?" He asked the only nurse that didn't seem to be enveloped in conversation about whatever gossip they had retained.
"Well, the 'quiet one,’ I think his name is like, Jared, or something. Well, he's moving into Sam's old room." So that explained the constant murmurs, but not the whole 'missing Sam' case. "His nurse is from the mental wing. She's a bitch, I advise you to stay away from her." Frank agreed with the statement, he definitely didn't like her, though passing Sam's room was part of his daily routine, and now that it wasn't his room, he really needed to get out of the habit.
"Where's Sam anyway?" He questioned, trying to act casual, but silently praying that he wasn't dead.
"He's up in intensive care. He had a heart attack. He's fine now, but they decided to move him so that he could be watched closer," Frank was relieved to know that he was fine. "They might move him back down in a month or so."
"Well, I'll still be here," he complained. He slugged off to his room, retreating to his home base early out of sheer boredom.