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Status: In Progress (Sequel)

The Anomaly's Enigma

Pity is the Worst

“Gerard-”

“You know what, save it,” I say, walking right past him.

“I’m worried about you. What can I say?” Frank asks.

“Well ideally, you wouldn’t be treating me like a mental patient. Like someone who got out of the straightjacket yesterday,” I say, not looking at him, because I don’t really want to right now.

“Gerard, you’ve got to understand how this looks,” Frank pleads.

“Yes. I understand how it looks. I understand that, on the outside, I do sound a bit insane. I get that. I can acknowledge that, but what I don’t understand is why you won’t even float the possibility that I am right,” I say, my voice sounds a lot angrier than I had been trying. I just can’t take the edge out of it, like I need to punch something.

This whole office is incredibly stuffy and I’m not the least bit remorseful about escaping it. The air outside is hot and muggy, probably because it’s the middle of summer and it just rained. The sky is cloudy and an iron-gray, but I like it. I always like overcast days better than the days where the sun is high and shining. There’s something comfortable about it this color.

“Gerard, are you mad at me?” Frank asks as he exits the building behind me.

“A little, yeah,” I say, in a tone that doesn’t make it sound like it’s a little, but rather a lot.

“I’m sorry. Gerard, you and I both know how this sounds, okay?” Frank says, and I decline to answer him until we’re in the car.

“Frank, I’m not going crazy. I’m not paranoid. I’m perfectly sane. I hate that you’re demeaning me. That you won’t even look at me anymore without seeing some scared little guy afraid of the boogieman. I may sound a little ridiculous, but the truth sometimes just is that way, Frank.”

“But Gerard-”

“Don’t even do it, I have heard every single one of your accusations, Frank. Yeah, this is crazy, so what? Frank, I married a guy who tried to kill me. That’s crazy as fuck too. That’s crazier than this is when you think about it. Someone who tried to kill me multiple times ended up falling in love with me. That’s stupid, Frank. No one would believe that if it didn’t happen. I’ll buy the story where the guy, who was sent to prison because of me, is after me. That’s basic. That’s not a hard story to believe. I’ve seen that movie.”

Frank sighs and leans his head against the window of the passenger’s side door. I look over at him, waiting for him to call me a lunatic or something. He hasn’t said that word, or one similar it, to me outright during this whole debacle, but it’s only sooner or later. I know what he thinks of me.

“I know you think you know what’s going on, Gerard. I know you’re scared, and I don’t think that’s an extreme response to all that’s happened to us, but it has been four years. Four years is a long time, Gerard. Why wouldn’t it have been three years ago? Or three and a half?”

“We have been over this. It’s so as not to arouse suspicion! Or maybe it’s because, I don’t know, Derek Fischer is out of jail?” I say.

Frank just sighs and looks out the window. When I look up out of the window I see the small droplets on the glass indicating that it’s started drizzling, but it isn’t very hard yet. It makes the glass look like it’s got a thousand little holes in it.

“Look, we both know my past isn’t exactly elegant or clean. It’s not an ideal story to tell, but I’ve learned from it, and I learned a lot of things about it. One thing I know is how to tell if someone is following me or stalking me. That’s not something I’m unfamiliar with. I know what it’s like to follow someone, so I know how to sense it. I know how to assess a threat as well, and I haven’t seen any threats that would have me quaking in my boots,” Frank says, sighing and looking at me sadly through the reflection in the window, “You need to be able to distinguish the difference between an empty threat and loaded words.”

“I know the difference,” I say, biting sharply on the syllables, “it’s you who isn’t paying any attention.”

I don’t give Frank the option to start talking anymore before I turn the keys and start the ignition, interrupting whatever he was about to say. This is the same Trans Am that we bought when we were on the run. I’m a sentimentalist, what can I say?

“You’re mad at me,” Frank says softly as I pull the car onto the road.

“Yeah,” I say.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Sorry? I want you to believe me, not be sorry for me.”

“But I don’t believe you, Gerard, that’s the problem,” Frank says.

“And that’s why I’m mad at you,” I say, “What is it going to take for you to get that we’re in danger?”

“Gerard, getting weird letters in fan mail isn’t a sign that someone wants you dead.”

“’Not over yet’? Frank, this is a letter I got in the post by some freak, not the opening number of A Very Potter Sequel. It’s not something to just laugh off. Someone wants us dead,” I tell him.

“Say that all you want, Gerard,” Frank replies, shaking his head, “that doesn’t mean it’s real.”

“That doesn’t make it fiction either,” I tell him, and I can’t deny that, yeah, I’m pissed at him. No one will even consider the fact that I’m not making this all up in my head. Not my brother, or Frank, or the three therapists I’ve been forced to go to because everyone’s worried about me. Frank and I have somewhat of a dislike for cops, but I’ve even gone to them, but I have no proof. For any regular person having really creepy letters in their mail is a big deal, but no, just because I’m me, means that it’s nothing big. Not a big deal.

“I want to be able to convince you that you’re okay, because I’m afraid that you’re losing the plot. I don’t think it’s a bad thing to be worried about you,” Frank says.

“I’m not a danger to myself, Frank. You should know that. It’s everyone around me who’s a danger, because they don’t believe what’s happening. I’m fucking terrified, alright? I know what’s gonna happen. We’ve only got a little bit of time left before it happens again. The guns, the running, the pain, the death, I don’t want this all to happen again. I want to be able to convince you that we’re not okay.”

“How are you going to do that?” Frank sighs.

“I’m going to give it time, and hope that the first attack doesn’t end disastrously. Yours failed, you completely missed me, so maybe it’ll happen again.”

“Why would they warn you with these letters of what’s about to happen?” Frank questions.

“There’s one thing I will never forget about Banks and that’s that he liked to play with his food. I suspect his allies, especially the ones who hold the biggest grudges, are similar in that respect. This is all about making me scared, or making us scared. They want me to know about it beforehand so that I die with fear, build it up, make it hurt.”

“Gerard, are you sure that this isn’t in your head? I want you to know that I have to fear that this is you trying to, I don’t know, escape from your life or something. Escape from me? The last thing I want is for you to be making up this entire thing as an excuse because you’re sick of me,” Frank says.

“Why would I be sick of you? I’m angry at you, sure,” I say, and I pull forward into the parking lot of our apartment, “but that doesn’t make me sick of you. Why would you think that?”

“Because you’re reacting to the past like it’s coming back to get you, and that’s not something that someone who’s okay does. You aren’t acting like yourself, and I’m sorry, but I do have to assume that it might be because of me. That’s the last thing I want, but maybe you’re projecting.”

“Frank, I love you, but right now, I don’t want to be around you. You’re trying to convince me I’m wrong about something I know I’m not wrong about. I know that sometime soon, we’re going to be relying on each other to stay alive the same way we did four years ago, and I just have to hope that this time we’ll be as lucky as we were last time,” I say.

The car stops and I take the keys, with the sound of them clinking against each other the only noise within the car. Outside, the rain is starting to pour a little more and a little faster so we’re going to have to sprint for the door.

“Gerard,” Frank says, “I’m not willing to believe you. I’m just not. But if you feel strongly about this, then I’ll do my best to act as though we are in danger, okay? If it’ll ease you’re worry, we’ll stay away from windows for a while. We’ll try not to linger outside. Things like that, okay? I’ll do whatever I have to do to make you feel safe, no matter how much I may believe it to be unnecessary.”

“Is that a promise?” I ask, turning to look at Frank.

“It is. It’s all I can offer you. I’m not going to lie to you, but I don’t want you to be angry about me, or scared for me, so I’ll do whatever I have to, like I said. I love you, and I’m concerned about you, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that I do love you.”

I sigh and look down at the steering wheel, “there is literally no feeling worse than the one where no one believes you. It’s killing me. That look of utter pity people give me when they think I’ve lost my marbles. I thought I’d get used to it by now. When it’s you giving me that look though, it’s a million times worse.”

I push open the door of the car, and it is so fitting that the world is pouring rain down on me. Of course it is. What else would it be doing while everyone around me looks down at me. I can handle a few strangers, therapists, policeman, even my brother, but when it’s Frank who’s pitying me, worrying for my mental health, that’s not something I can handle. That’s just too much.
♠ ♠ ♠
It honestly feels so good to be writing this again, you have no idea.