Crazy.
o3; I am.
It’s the same thing every minute. Change gears. First, third, second, third, first. I trembled next to him, my mind racing with six million thoughts, sweat seeping through pores. I licked my lips, and breathed through my nose. First, third, second, third, first. The air in the car is thick and acidic with anger and confusion, the music is off, and the hum of the car is driving me to the brink of insanity.
First, third, second, third, first.
We crossed the state line, and I bit my lip, gripping the bottom of the seat so tight my knuckles turn white, china porcelain white breakable white bone white. He kept not saying anything, and it kept getting worse and worse and worse. About to implode, I’m about to implode.
“G-Gee,” escaped my lips fleetingly. It flew out, and before I could stop it, it reached his hears, and he turned his head sharply, topaz eyes glimmering with question and wonder. The what he lets fall off his lips tumbled to the car floor angrily, and I stuttered again. “I-I’m hungry.” A small whisper, a tiny plead, that’s all it was.
There was a diner at the next exit, sitting there, nearly abandoned, tired and sagging worn down with years of truck drivers and crazy people running away from murder. The first thing I noticed, the only thing I noticed was the phone. A phone a phone a phone, oh, God, a phone. He gripped my hand tightly, almost scared, as we walked into the restaurant. “Phone,” I muttered. “Change. H-have you got c-change, Gerard?” I asked him, hiccupping. He pulled his hand away from mine, slowly, like he was taunting me, and searched his pockets for two quarters, pulling them out. He handed them to me, and I ran back outside, towards the phone, slipping the silver coins into the slot.
The first thing that happened when I said hello to the other line, was hysterical shrieks, incoherent sentences. “Fuck, fuck, Jeph… Jeph, God, God, where are you? The apartment…” Bert’s voice was frantic and confused; this is so fucked up, we are so fucked up. Blood pounded in my ears in time with my heartbeat.
“W-we’re not in t-the state,” I stuttered, shoving my hand in my pocket, praying, praying, Dear God, dear God, please, please let him stay safe, him at least. “W-we’re going away.”
“Jeph,” he was screaming now, like nails on a chalkboard, and I wanted to laugh at the disgust of the this situation. I wanted to laugh at all that was happening, I wanted to laugh at Bert, me, Gerard; all of us. My lungs would bleed if I did, I was almost certain. “Jeph, this is fucking serious, get your ass home, right fucking now, come back home, get home, what the fuck are you doing? What the fuck did you do, what did you do? Oh God, you did it; you did it.”
I let him ramble, but never really listened, instead, just leaned against the glass of the phone booth, and let my own thoughts run wild, scattering from the blood to the state line, to the diner, to the phone. “Jeph, Jeph, fuck! You can’t do this, you have to come back home.” But I can’t, I can’t, he isn’t letting me. At that precise moment, he came out of the restaurant, legs carrying him towards the booth, towards me.
“Bert, Bert, I – we’re just going to be gone a little while, okay? We’ll be back… back s-sometime soon, I promise.” He protested, shrieking vile curse words as I dragged the phone away from my ear, hanging it up as Gerard’s arms wrapped around me. He planted a kiss on my neck.
“H-he knows,” I stuttered, as Gerard kissed my forehead. “He k-knows, he said so,” I continued, panic rising up my throat and bubbling out. “Oh God, he’ll tell the p-police, or s-something.” He gripped my wrists and set his eyes on me again.
“Shut up. Shut up, Jeph. He doesn’t know anything, just shut up.” I can’t I can’t I can’t. I’m too fucking sick, I’m too fucking scared. Tighter, his hands wrapped tighter around my wrists, waiting for me to confirm what he said. A robotic nod, it sufficed.
In the diner, he ordered us both a coffee and toast, and watched me while I picked through mine. “Eat,” he mumbled, taking a drink. I shot him a look, my food still there.
“There’s this thing, called the bile duct,” I hissed. “it fills, after you kill someone and blow up your apartment.” He just fucking smirked, and continued with his coffee.
“Jeph, relax, okay.”
“I c-can’t, this is s-so wrong,” the fucking stutter again. “We have t-to go back home, we have to t-tell the police s-something, oh God, I’m gonna be sick,” I sprung out from the chair towards the disgusting unisex bathroom, vomiting the toast into the toilet, the acidic smell filling the room eagerly. The sounds of my gags made my ears bleed. The smell just made me vomit more, and when I was done, I pulled away from the porcelain bowl, covering my ears and burying my head in my knees, sobs shaking through me.
“Fuck, Jeph,” he muttered, bringing my hands away from my ears.
“Make it stop, then,” I spat. “Y-you try s-smelling it, a-and s-seeing it and h-hearing it when there’s fucking nothing there. Try it, G-Gerard. Fucking t-try it. Because it s-sucks so b-bad.” He flushed the toilet and rinsed his hands off, grabbing paper towels and handing them to me.
“You fucking think I don’t get haunted by it, Jeph? Less that forty-fucking-eight hours ago, I walked into something I never wanted to see; never, and you’re too fucking stupid to get rid of it yourself.” His fists clenched more and more with each syllable enunciated, slowly, painfully, threateningly.
Shit, oh God, we’re so fucked over. Shit.
“S-so what, you took p-pity on me? A-and made me run a-away? Real fucking g-great job, Gerard. D-do you e-even care? Do you e-even l-love me? D-do you mean it a-all? Am I really fucking s-stupid? Am I r-really fucking i-insane?”
“Everyone’s insane,” he responded. No other answers. No other shouts, nothing. Silence silence silence; God, I hate it. I gripped the cheap counter edge, and stood up, the alkaline taste settling thickly on my tongue from the vomit.
I am a messed up stomach.
I am a fucked up mind.
I am I am I am.
I am someone, slipping off the brink of sanity, and diving full-fledged into the icy cold water of insanity, ready to die at any second.
I am I am I am.
“I’m c-cold,” I stuttered, still gripping the ledge of the counter. Gerard shrugged his sweatshirt of, and threw it towards me. “Th-thanks.” That was the last word spoken, as he footed the bill, and walked out towards the car, leaving me to stumble on my own to the passenger side.
The radio was screaming about the apartment on 74th in my city, the top floor that got blown out by the fire mixing in with the gas stove, how it had to be arson; there was no other answer; how they can’t find the answers.
I am a guilty conscience, stomach churning, as Gerard sped away from the diner, and even further into this new state, slamming on the volume button until the power goes off and nothing but the hum of the car and the switching gears is echoing in my ears.
First, third, second, third, first.
I am the gears themselves, turning turning turning turning, breaking breaking breaking.
Broken.
First, third, second, third, first.
We crossed the state line, and I bit my lip, gripping the bottom of the seat so tight my knuckles turn white, china porcelain white breakable white bone white. He kept not saying anything, and it kept getting worse and worse and worse. About to implode, I’m about to implode.
“G-Gee,” escaped my lips fleetingly. It flew out, and before I could stop it, it reached his hears, and he turned his head sharply, topaz eyes glimmering with question and wonder. The what he lets fall off his lips tumbled to the car floor angrily, and I stuttered again. “I-I’m hungry.” A small whisper, a tiny plead, that’s all it was.
There was a diner at the next exit, sitting there, nearly abandoned, tired and sagging worn down with years of truck drivers and crazy people running away from murder. The first thing I noticed, the only thing I noticed was the phone. A phone a phone a phone, oh, God, a phone. He gripped my hand tightly, almost scared, as we walked into the restaurant. “Phone,” I muttered. “Change. H-have you got c-change, Gerard?” I asked him, hiccupping. He pulled his hand away from mine, slowly, like he was taunting me, and searched his pockets for two quarters, pulling them out. He handed them to me, and I ran back outside, towards the phone, slipping the silver coins into the slot.
The first thing that happened when I said hello to the other line, was hysterical shrieks, incoherent sentences. “Fuck, fuck, Jeph… Jeph, God, God, where are you? The apartment…” Bert’s voice was frantic and confused; this is so fucked up, we are so fucked up. Blood pounded in my ears in time with my heartbeat.
“W-we’re not in t-the state,” I stuttered, shoving my hand in my pocket, praying, praying, Dear God, dear God, please, please let him stay safe, him at least. “W-we’re going away.”
“Jeph,” he was screaming now, like nails on a chalkboard, and I wanted to laugh at the disgust of the this situation. I wanted to laugh at all that was happening, I wanted to laugh at Bert, me, Gerard; all of us. My lungs would bleed if I did, I was almost certain. “Jeph, this is fucking serious, get your ass home, right fucking now, come back home, get home, what the fuck are you doing? What the fuck did you do, what did you do? Oh God, you did it; you did it.”
I let him ramble, but never really listened, instead, just leaned against the glass of the phone booth, and let my own thoughts run wild, scattering from the blood to the state line, to the diner, to the phone. “Jeph, Jeph, fuck! You can’t do this, you have to come back home.” But I can’t, I can’t, he isn’t letting me. At that precise moment, he came out of the restaurant, legs carrying him towards the booth, towards me.
“Bert, Bert, I – we’re just going to be gone a little while, okay? We’ll be back… back s-sometime soon, I promise.” He protested, shrieking vile curse words as I dragged the phone away from my ear, hanging it up as Gerard’s arms wrapped around me. He planted a kiss on my neck.
“H-he knows,” I stuttered, as Gerard kissed my forehead. “He k-knows, he said so,” I continued, panic rising up my throat and bubbling out. “Oh God, he’ll tell the p-police, or s-something.” He gripped my wrists and set his eyes on me again.
“Shut up. Shut up, Jeph. He doesn’t know anything, just shut up.” I can’t I can’t I can’t. I’m too fucking sick, I’m too fucking scared. Tighter, his hands wrapped tighter around my wrists, waiting for me to confirm what he said. A robotic nod, it sufficed.
In the diner, he ordered us both a coffee and toast, and watched me while I picked through mine. “Eat,” he mumbled, taking a drink. I shot him a look, my food still there.
“There’s this thing, called the bile duct,” I hissed. “it fills, after you kill someone and blow up your apartment.” He just fucking smirked, and continued with his coffee.
“Jeph, relax, okay.”
“I c-can’t, this is s-so wrong,” the fucking stutter again. “We have t-to go back home, we have to t-tell the police s-something, oh God, I’m gonna be sick,” I sprung out from the chair towards the disgusting unisex bathroom, vomiting the toast into the toilet, the acidic smell filling the room eagerly. The sounds of my gags made my ears bleed. The smell just made me vomit more, and when I was done, I pulled away from the porcelain bowl, covering my ears and burying my head in my knees, sobs shaking through me.
“Fuck, Jeph,” he muttered, bringing my hands away from my ears.
“Make it stop, then,” I spat. “Y-you try s-smelling it, a-and s-seeing it and h-hearing it when there’s fucking nothing there. Try it, G-Gerard. Fucking t-try it. Because it s-sucks so b-bad.” He flushed the toilet and rinsed his hands off, grabbing paper towels and handing them to me.
“You fucking think I don’t get haunted by it, Jeph? Less that forty-fucking-eight hours ago, I walked into something I never wanted to see; never, and you’re too fucking stupid to get rid of it yourself.” His fists clenched more and more with each syllable enunciated, slowly, painfully, threateningly.
Shit, oh God, we’re so fucked over. Shit.
“S-so what, you took p-pity on me? A-and made me run a-away? Real fucking g-great job, Gerard. D-do you e-even care? Do you e-even l-love me? D-do you mean it a-all? Am I really fucking s-stupid? Am I r-really fucking i-insane?”
“Everyone’s insane,” he responded. No other answers. No other shouts, nothing. Silence silence silence; God, I hate it. I gripped the cheap counter edge, and stood up, the alkaline taste settling thickly on my tongue from the vomit.
I am a messed up stomach.
I am a fucked up mind.
I am I am I am.
I am someone, slipping off the brink of sanity, and diving full-fledged into the icy cold water of insanity, ready to die at any second.
I am I am I am.
“I’m c-cold,” I stuttered, still gripping the ledge of the counter. Gerard shrugged his sweatshirt of, and threw it towards me. “Th-thanks.” That was the last word spoken, as he footed the bill, and walked out towards the car, leaving me to stumble on my own to the passenger side.
The radio was screaming about the apartment on 74th in my city, the top floor that got blown out by the fire mixing in with the gas stove, how it had to be arson; there was no other answer; how they can’t find the answers.
I am a guilty conscience, stomach churning, as Gerard sped away from the diner, and even further into this new state, slamming on the volume button until the power goes off and nothing but the hum of the car and the switching gears is echoing in my ears.
First, third, second, third, first.
I am the gears themselves, turning turning turning turning, breaking breaking breaking.
Broken.