The Kiss of Vanity Blessed Me With A Spiritual Murder [Frerard]

26th December Dread

Cold. Dark. Alone.

There's someone in his bed. He can hear them breathe through the fabric of his comforter, jagged and unafraid. The air is black when he opens his eyes, he can't see the ceiling. He's been holding his breath for a minute now and his chest feels like it might implode any second.

A movement in the sheets. Gerard knows it isn't him because he's paralyzed. His feet are stuck to the bed, stiff and freezing in the winter night. He's bitten his lip enough to draw blood, enough to choke on it because of his sporadic, shallow inhales.

A growl somewhere below him. He can feel prickles in his spine, in his shoulder blades, the inside of his nose sticky and draggy as he fights for oxygen. There's something in his eyes, between his lashes, in the crevices of his teeth: black, gooey, demonic- it tastes like cotton candy and nightmares and the laughter of dead children.
A rip through his lower back. The scream that comes out of his throat isn't even there, it's choked by the tar coating his tonsils.

The thing is inside his mattress.

*

"You're saying he just vanished?"

Gerard can't do this. Head hung, shallow breaths leaving his mouth and the heaviness of hopelessness tight across his ribcage. He's lost so much before and he shouldn't have to do it again. Pictures of Mikey on his deathbed are playing in his head like a nightmarish silent movie. No matter how much air he inhales, it's like the oxygen in it is so sparse that his head in only getting cloudier with each breath. There's a sick feeling inside the pit of his stomach that tells him Ryan hasn't just gotten lost in the woods.

"I'm saying I don't know, Gerard!" Gerard jumps at Jamia's agitated voice. He doesn't even realize he's been shaking until she grabs his hand. "I didn't mean to yell. I'm just... God, I hope he's safe. The search party will be sent out any minute now."

"They're not going to find him." He can't afford to be a crybaby but he can't help it. There's too much panic flooding his veins, more frenzy than anything else. He's jealous of Jamia's composure, even if she is snappy at certain things- she seems a lot more stoic than he is, more assertive about finding him- Gerard wishes he had the same quality to him. "We should go looking for him. You said you last saw him by the factory. Maybe he went inside and got stuck. Maybe he got hurt. Or maybe..."

The blank look inside Gerard's eyes tells Jamia what he's thinking about. She hates it, and he can tell. "No." She seems like she has been convincing herself just enough so that her 'no' can be as resolute as she wants it to.

"How do you fucking know? He had the nightmares, or whatever they were. I've seen it. This isn't just some prank, I'm positive. That thing is out there and it got him." The tone of his voice is borderline insane, he can hear it reverberating through the room in a haunted backlash of everything he doesn't want to be thinking about. He can't even form a sentence that doesn't sound crazy, his voice breaking around his syllables like an old recorder. "This is not a coincidence. If anything, he's-"

With rushed, loud footsteps, Pete walks into the room. Gerard lets his unfinished sentence hang in the air, thick and dry in all of its hastiness. Pete sits on one of Jamia's old armchairs and puts his head in his hands. His tattered parka is stretched across his hunched shoulders, dark hair messy and falling across his forehead in thick strands. "I can't believe this is happening."

Gerard's mother left him at Jamia's to go to the police when they'd knocked at their door at three PM sharp on St. Stephen's Day, just as Gerard was about to finish his small plate of post-lunch gingerbread cookies. The usually sweet honey pepper only left bitterness in his mouth this time round.