murderer - frerard

[005]

I was wondering why I kept waking up in the middle of my kitchen. And then the throbbing in my head made me wonder why the actual fuck I even bothered going over to Gerard and Mikey's house. Every time, I seemed to come to with a pain in my skull where the dickheads would slam a frying pan against the back of my head. I was suddenly glad I didn't wander over there often. If I did, I'd probably be dead right now, I thought bitterly.

It occurred to me that I hadn't bothered to open my eyes; I'd detected my whereabouts by the scents of my own house and the cabinet handles digging into my back as I'd been slumped against them. It took a lot of strength to peel my eyelids open.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He was in my house again. Why the hell did he feel the need to drop by unexpectedly? Especially when I was just waking up. Shit, I thought, how the hell does he even get in?

I was pretty sure the doors remained locked, and I could feel the keys pressing ruthlessly against my hip in my pocket. They hadn't been touched since I slipped them in there before I left.

Gerard stared down at me, a cold, half-hearted smirk tugging at his lips. I furrowed my brows, shooting him a glare.

"What the fuck are you doing in my house?" I asked with as much anger as I could muster, balling up my fists. It wasn't the best idea; my knuckles gave a horrid cracking sound and blood seeped from the scabs on them. I didn't remember having scabs on my knuckles. It was hard not to clench my teeth and let out a groan.

"I could ask you the same question on a practically daily basis, it seems."

God, I fucking hated Gerard. "Don't be a prick," I muttered, glancing down at my hand. Searing pain shot through my fingertips and up my arm. My knuckles were red and terribly swollen, something that puzzled me. I couldn't figure out just what had happened, no matter how far I dug into my brain. No memory of breaking my hand came forth.

I'd been so absorbed in my own thoughts that I almost didn't hear Gerard when he said, "You tried to punch me."

I couldn't remember it. I didn't know why I couldn't remember it. I wanted to cry. My memory had never failed before — when I was sober, that is.

He looked horribly guilty. "I thought I'd let you know what happened to your hand before you assumed I broke it or something."

He didn't say anything else. I stared up at him as he turned around and walked out of my kitchen and disappeared from sight. I didn't hear ant footsteps or doors.

Frustration. That was what I was feeling.

I was frustrated at myself for feeling so intrigued by the neighbors, frustrated at Mikey for knocking me out cold with frying pans, and frustrated at Ray for not believing me about all of this.

But most of all, I was frustrated with Gerard. For numerous reasons.