murderer - frerard

[016]

should i be getting to the plot or

I didn't text Ray. I didn't call him. I did nothing that had to do with that motherfucker.

Instead, I took the low road and marched boldly over to Gerard's house. I almost shit myself when Mikey opened the door with a knife in his hand and droplets of blood smeared across his fingers. He looked at me, then at his bloody knife, then back at me. Long story short, he slammed the door in my face and locked it quickly without a word.

Fuck, I was never going to get anywhere with this guy.

I knocked violently on the door. My "I-love-myself-because-I'm-not-a-nosy-fuckhole" theory had worn off and I guess you could say I was becoming more curious about my surroundings.

I was changing. I was nosy. I hadn't been high in like, forever. My night terrors were back. I was making progress with Gerard.

"Mikey!" I hollered at the sturdy wooden door, beating on it so hard with my left hand that I was mildly afraid of breaking it too. "Open the hell up!" I knew it wasn't going to work, but it was worth a shot. "I know what I saw!" I could practically hear his breathing on the other side of the door. "I won't tell!" That one surprised even myself. "Let me in, Michael!"

And he opened the door, grabbed my wrist and yanked me into the kitchen so hard I lost my breath. There was blood on the floor.

Mikey's eyes were glossy and bloodshot; his hands trembled. "I fucked up," he whispered over and over again.

"What the fuck did you do?"

"Who are you?" His head snapped up at me quickly and he wielded his knife wearily, aiming for my gut.

"I'm Frank!" I practically screamed, jumping back. "Put the knife down, Michael."

"You're not real!" Mikey shouted, his voice cracking and tears spilling from his Gerard-like hazel eyes. "Go away! You aren't real! Leave me alone!"

"Calm down! What have you done?"

"Why should I tell you? You don't exist!"

Mikey was convulsing now, the blood on his hands drying rapidly. I hadn't realized just how fresh it was. "I'm real, Mikey. I'm Frank, remember? Your neighbor? From Christina's therapy group? You don't remember me?" My voice was soft and I wasn't sure if he could hear me over his own sobbing. It was bad, whatever it was. It was really fucking bad.

"I fucked up."

"You remember me."

"I fucked up."

And it went like that for so goddamned long, but I couldn't rush him.

"He's gone." He finally said something other than those three wretched words, but those two sent shivers down my spine.

"Mikey? Who's gone?"

"I fucked up." We were right back where we started.

It took almost an hour for me to get him to sit down and gently pry the weapon from his death grip, and he wouldn't say anything else.

"He didn't —"

I sat the knife down on the far side of the table, out of his reach. At least, I hoped. Mikey was bony and had extraordinarily long arms; he could probably snatch the knife from my grasp and sever my jugular vein before I had time to blink. I was wondering just what Ray had to do with this whole ordeal.

It took another half hour for him to shut the fuck up and become coherent, and I knew my mom would be home soon so I had to make it, whatever it was, quick.

"Bob Bryar is dead."

And there went my weed supplier. It occurred to me, if only for a moment, that the blood splattering the floor might be his.

"Mikey — you didn't kill him, did you?" Dear God that I'm pretty sure isn't listening, please don't let Mikey be a murderer.

God must've been listening, because Mikey didn't kill Bob Bryar.

Ray did.

oh shit

[chorus:]
OH SHIT
OH SHIT WHAT THE FUCK

oh shit