Crazy.

I was picturing what it would look like when it happened. Where it would be, how much pain would occur, how long it would take, when they would find me. There were a million and one different ways to do it and each one circled back to the same way I’d done it to him. Gun. Gas. Fire. Hidden. Secret. How easy it seemed for a murderer to kill himself; even if it was the exact opposite.

The barrel was pressed into my palm, slick with the sweat that was forming from my skin. I could almost smell the smoke that escalated from it after it was fired. Blood on the walls, blood on the carpet, blood on the bed of the cheap dirty motel, blood and brains and vomit and snot and spit.

Oh, it’s so easy. Only not really, not at all. The killing part is; the dying part isn’t. It’sallsofuckedup. All the sudden the gun is pressed against my temple, beads of sweat dripping down onto my shirt, and my tongue’s gone dry, my mouth glued shut. Blood on the walls, blood on the carpet, blood on the bed. Blood blood blood.

Oh, it’s so easy.

The trigger goes off and the bullet flies out and splits into my head and then it’s all over. The End. The fucking End. “It’s not as easy as you fucking want it to be,” he murmured, and then the gun is pulled away from my head and I’m sitting on the bed again. What a fucked-up, long, tragic way to die. “You don’t just get to die.”

My fingers were sweating and my eyes were twitching and my lips weren’t coming unglued. His voice was echoing inside my head, chanting, You can’t have your cake and eat it too., and I was shaking, shivering.

He shoved the gun back in the suitcase and shoved that under the bed before turning back to me, topaz eyes glazed over with the effects of so many prescription pills. Demerol, Darvocet, OxyContin. His eyes streaked blood red.

Blood on the walls, blood on the carpet, blood on the bed; blood blood blood. You can’t have your cake and eat it too. Shutup. “G-gee,” it floated out of my mouth and into the air delicately. He turned back around towards me again, blinking, high, lips parted. The next sentence came out as a whimper. “W-why?”

Baby. Fucking pansy. He blinked five more times and licked his lips then shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Isn’t that the easy way?”

I was picturing how fucking not easy it is; because it so isn’t. There’s blood on the walls, blood on the carpet, blood on the bed; blood blood blood.

“B-but-“ word vomit, that’s all that came out of my mouth as I searched for some meaningful answer even though there was none. A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth and he let it slide onto his face, eyes glowing..

Valium, Percocet, Celesta.

He took my hand and pulled me up, pulled me closer to him, so close I could feel his breath was like ice and volcanoes all at once, freezing and melting me at the exact same time, patronizing and scaring and calming me all at the exact same fucking time. “It’s almost like a bad-Karma thing,” he whispered, cigarettey breath floating between us, smirk still painted on his face. “You made someone suffer; you suffer much worse.”

“Y-you’re n-n-not?”

And then the smirk is pulled away, just disappeared in the space of barely a heartbeat, replaced with a dazed, angry, horrified look; and he’s pushed me away from him, hands shaking, lips trembling. “I’m not what you w-want to talk about, Jeph.”

I was picturing all that I wanted and didn’t want to talk about, how much there was to talk about. Blood on the walls, blood on the carpet, blood on the bed; blood blood blood. And more and more and more and more.

Oh, it’s so easy. Only it isn’t.

“Y-you have nightmares,” I whispered, shaking away my fears and own nightmares. “I hear them, when I’m falling asleep; they’re because of me. There’s all t-these monsters, and you’re s-screaming for me and at h-him, and then all the sudden, for a moment, you quit breathing, sometimes,” the story continued to float from my mouth desperately. “A-and I get scared maybe you’re dead… but then you start b-breathing again, and all you can whisper is that you’re sorry.” He shook and stepped closer.
“You – you think you’re showing s-some tough fucking skin during the day, Gerard; you get away with it, until you fall asleep at night. Y-you’re not b-better than me, Gerard. N-no fucking more s-sane than me.”

“Shut up!” he screeched, grabbing my wrists and squeezing them, china-white-porcelain finger-marks tattooing themselves into my skin. His eyes blazed with pure hatred and anger, frustration and fear. Pupils dilated and blood-red lines drawn into the whites of them delicately, he looked like a monster; monstermonstermonster; help me. His fingers kept gripping, slipping through the skin and the ropes of veins, arteries, capillaries until they reach the brittle white bone.

Then his lips were on mine, planting sloppy kisses across them and down my jawbone, gasps slipping from his mouth, fingers still gripping. Then he let go, tearing my shirt off, planting kisses on my neck. “G-Gerard; fuck, t-this isn’t funny.”

He looked up then, paper-eyelids blinking. “What’s funny about sex?”

And I can picture exactly what’s funny about sex. Everything is. There’s always confusion and frustration, worries and fears; that first-time nervousness that makes you laugh like nothing at all’s wrong when in fact everything is; everything is funny about sex, from first-times to one night stands.

“Jeph? P-please,” his lips were trembling, fingers shaking as they ran down my chest in some fucked-up seductive-like way.

I’m my heart itself, pumping so fast, so hard; wanting, needing, so desperate. Blood on the walls, blood on the carpet, blood on the bed; I want him so bad all the sudden. My stomach churning, my eyes burning, I let him kiss me again. He unbuttoned my jeans, tore his own clothes off like they were burning his paper-white waxen skin, he kissed me more, more, more; couldn’t get enough, couldn’t go fast enough, a film of sweat drifting between us as he moved above me. Then all the sudden it slowed down. Like some slow-going black and white movie where the sex is so important you have to portray it slowly. Like we’re drugged up and even though we want this, we can’t go fast enough, so we go slow. Slow slow slow; so slow the pleasure’s a just-barely-there thing, but enough that I begged him to keep going.

I’m a whore; don’t stop.

And then he laid next to me, eyes drooping, the effects of prescription meds kicking in, arms wrapping themselves around me. I blinked, staring up at the ceiling, the effects of the moonlight painting cubistic squares across the white canvas of it in black.

I never fell asleep, just listened to his nightmares, waited until he fell asleep, and then listened to them all over again, His breathing either too shallow or too fast all through the night. And then sunlight bled over us and he blinked, his eyes foggy with sleep and confusion. “Youdidn’tsleep,” it came out rushed and contorted.

I shook my head. “I w-was thinking about t-things,” I mumbled, lips trembling and moving, but no words coming out.

An insomniac; don’t sleep.
A mime; can’t speak.
An artist; can’t paint.

He blinked again, before sitting up and walking over to the dirty dusty curtains and pulling them open, sunlight spilling into the room in larger more prominent amounts. “You know…” he breathed out. “That I do love you.”

I can picture exactly how many reasons there are to believe the exact opposite of this sentence, reasons he’s fed to me more and more in the last week, but I nodded anyways, mouth opening. “Yeah. I know.”

And he looked up, face contorted with curiosity. “Don’t you love me anymore?”

Blood on the walls, blood on the carpet, blood on the bed; blood blood blood. Somebody fucking killed me.