The Sharpest Lives

Chapter One: Addiction

[Gerard]

I could remember pain and laughter, flashes of light and patches of darkness, happiness and extreme depression. Faces. Places. Falling here, onto my unmade bed. And then numbness. I couldn't feel anything. My emotions were just faint memories that hid behind the pain in my head. It'd been good when it'd started. Tonight was just like every other night; I'd get pissed at something, I'd go out and loose myself with a couple drinks with some friends, and then I'd come home to an empty, depressing apartment and barf my guts up on the floor if I couldn't make it to the bathroom.

Good times.

The pain got worse and worse every few minutes. I curled in on myself and the pain sang, reveling in my misery as it always did. It had become an old friend of mine now, pain and depression. I drank to get away from it all, what I couldn't cope with, what I couldn't deal with. Nothing mattered when I took that drink, so I liked it better that way. The suffering a few hours later was my payment for it. I deserved it.

I flipped over onto my back, gasping, my entire body covered in sweat. My throat burned, my head was splitting in two, and every time I tried to think about something else, to distract myself, the agony just got worse. The alcohol had to punish me first. There was no way I could get out of this prison. Everything I'd tried to forget today was crashing down on me now. I felt like screaming until my lungs bled and killed me.

I curled back into my ball and bit down hard on my lip to stop myself from dying that way. I didn't want the neighbors thinking I was being tortured or anything. They had their own problems. I had mine. I'd say nothing to anyone, simply because I wanted to suffer alone. I didn't want their fucking pity, or worry, or whatever. I'd deal with this alone. Because I was the only one who could deal with it.

A few minutes later, I passed out. I welcomed the darkness.

I woke up the next day, my head feeling like lead. I tried to look back to see if I'd been run over last night too, but whatever I'd consumed yesterday had messed up my memory. So I gave up and tried to relax my body enough so I could get up without passing out again. I could smell something coming from somewhere and hear some noise, but I couldn't care less at that point, so I just ignored it.

Eventually, after a few slow seconds, I realized that I could smell coffee. Now, hangover or not, I do love my coffee. If it was a burglar trying to steal my coffee machine, I'd deliver him to the police station with his head under his arm and his intestines would be my skipping rope.

I rolled out of bed, noticing that my left arm was bandaged. I stood in the middle of the room, puzzled. I couldn't remember getting hurt…I looked back at my bed and saw the pile of bloodied sheets sitting next to it. Now who the fuck would come in, fix my fucked hand and make coffee? Had I locked up last night? In the state I'd been in, maybe I'd forgotten to lock the door. God was I a fuckup.

I trudged into the kitchen, where the smell and noise was coming from, curious to see who it was that had let themselves in. I thought about the baseball bat I had hidden somewhere, but thought better of it. I mean, if they'd helped me out so far, how bad could they be?

Just to be on the safe side, I came as quietly as I could and peeked around the door first, because I'm a paranoid idiot.

"Frank?" My voice came out as a strangled squeak of surprise. My throat felt like I'd eaten sandpaper and washed it down with sawdust or something.

Frank looked up from the paper he was reading, a cup of coffee in his hands. His hazel eyes smiled before the expression reached his lips. "Morning, Gee." His smile was too weak for my liking.

I blinked a few times, just to make sure I wasn't hallucinating. My head still hurt like hell. But hey, if this was a dream, I'd roll with it. I'd been left to my own devices for far too long.