murderer - frerard

[020]

lol what the fuck is going on

Mikey had been diagnosed with schizophrenia four years prior to his death. According to the dictionary on my phone, schizophrenia is "a long-term mental disorder of a type involving breakdown in the relation between thought, emotion and behaviour, leading to faulty perception, inappropriate actions and feelings, withdrawal from reality and personal relationships into fantasy and delusion, and a sense of mental fragmentation." It made sense. It clicked in my mind; at therapy he said he had "hallucinations". Those nights — the ones he didn't remember well, when he couldn't decipher whether or not I was reality or inside his mind — that's schizophrenia.

Perhaps the guilt of knowing he helped murder someone sent him over the edge, or perhaps not. But I couldn't get that image out of my head: the toppled chair he'd been standing on, ready to fling himself off it and thereby end his life; the purplish bruises cut into his neck just below his straight jawline; the blood trickling out the corners of his mouth and the final spasms sent throughout his limbs just before he died. It made me ache inside.

So I could only imagine what it was doing to Gerard, who'd spent the night in my bed twice in a row.

Ray was insignificant compared to Gerard and his own tragedy that probably wouldn't have occurred had it not been for the curly-haired boy in that hospital room. I'd bet he didn't even know what he'd caused. I hated Ray more than anything in that moment.

Gerard and I hadn't talked since that "Was," conversation but I reckoned he didn't have to say anything else. He ate whatever I ate, which usually happened to be pop-tarts, and didn't say a word. My heart burned for him. I knew was loss was.

He was cold. All the time. When we went to bed, his arms wrapped around my thin body, it felt like pure ice. And when his hands brushed mine, it sent shivers down my spine, though I couldn't honestly say that was just because of the cold.

Regardless, when I was with Gerard, I felt like I was falling into an icy lake in the midst of winter. But on the inside, I was warm. And everything was pastel pink — the color of his lips. God, I couldn't stop staring at his lips.

Four times I caught him gazing at my own, or perhaps my piercing, but it was my lip nonetheless.

[]

I don't think he meant to wake me on the third night. But he did; his sobs were loud and painfully raw — his hoarse breath kept catching in his dry throat and I wanted to turn over and press my lips to his frigid ones, to tell him that this, too, shall pass, but I didn't. Some things don't pass. So I lied silently in that dark bedroom and listened to him cry until my eyelids wouldn't hold up anymore and his trembling ceased. I knew I was an asshole for not letting him know I was awake or that I'd heard him or anything else. I should have embraced him. I really should have. But I didn't.

yo what the heckling is this chapter i,,, aLso i switched up on the plot so here we go ????? enjoy!
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