murderer - frerard

[019]

How long had I been out? Fuck, it was six in the morning according to the clock above the kitchen sink. I hadn't noticed the screaming pain in my upper left arm; when I looked, I immediately wished I hadn't.

It was horrible, at least in my opinion. There was dried blood smeared across my bicep, crusting over the stitches. The stitches. When the fuck did I get stitches? I didn't know what was going on. The wound wasn't long, but it was deep. It was a stab wound, no doubt about it.

I pushed myself off the floor with my right arm and leaned over the sink to try to clean up a little, my head feeling far too foggy to be worrying about anything else. I ran cold water over my fingers and gently washed away some of the blood, watching the red liquid mix with the tap water and swirl down the drain.

I didn't hear her come in. I didn't hear the keys or the door or even her car; I almost fell over when she gasped and clutched my right hand.

"Frank," my mom whispered, eyeing me tiredly. "What happened? Did you get in a fight? I swear, these damned gangs around here —"

"I don't think it was a gang, Ma," I replied, hushing her. "I don't remember though, okay?"

Mom sighed, giving up. She was a nurse —

"Can you help me get this mess cleaned up?" I asked softly, turning to see where she'd gone.

"Here, I've got some antiseptic wipes in my bag, give me a second," Mom called from in the den, returning a few moments later with a whole first aid kit. She broke out the antibacterial shit — I don't know one thing from the other, I'm not a fucking nurse — and began to wipe away the rest of the congealed blood on my arm.

It stung. Like a bitch. I winced, but Mom remained focused on the task at hand, so I looked away and decided to let her do her job.

"Son," she said after a minute, "did you stitch this up yourself?"

"What —? Mom, I don't even know what happened," I looked down at the crooked sutures. "I don't know who did that."

She tugged at one of the loose ends, making me yelp. "This isn't professional."

I snorted. Anyone could have made that observation from the uneven stitching. And, undoubtedly, the pain they were causing me wasn't normal. I'd had stitches before, and I'm pretty sure they aren't supposed to hurt that much.

"Yeah, yeah," I said. "I need a nap."

So that's what I did.

[]

Mom didn't work for the next two days so she could "take care of me", but I think she just wanted some time off. I didn't blame her. I couldn't complain; other than the ugly stab wound, I had it pretty good. I didn't have to leave my room unless I needed to use the bathroom.

[]

It was Thursday, I think, when Mom went back to work and I woke up with an unfamiliar-looking shape sitting on the edge of my bed. After the past few days, any shape that wasn't short and had long dark hair was unfamiliar to me.

Turns out, that shape wasn't so unfamiliar after all. I guess I had forgotten Gerard dyed his hair; he looked at me with guilt evident in his hazel eyes.

"You've got one hell of a lot of explaining to do," I demanded, rubbing at my sore arm.

"Mikey relapsed," he said gravely, taking my hand.

And I remembered.

[THREE NIGHTS PRIOR]
[T R I G G E R  W A R N I N G]

"Please just do what I say and don't go to therapy, don't come over, don't go visit Ray, don't do anything."

It was dark, but I could see Gerard's sparkling hazel eyes as he pressed a quick kiss to my temple and pushed me toward the door. "Go!" He yelled and turned away from me. There was a loud crash from across the house and I knew I was supposed to be leaving, but I couldn't bear to leave Gerard in such a situation. I didn't know what was going on; I ran after Gerard and tugged at his shirt as he tried to push me away.

"What's happening?!" I screeched, so bewildered by everything that was going on. Gerard ignored me as if I weren't there, slamming his body against —

The door fell in and Gerard landed on the floor with a loud thud, his shoulder taking the blow.

Mikey. It was Mikey. Hanging from a rope suspended by his ceiling fan. I screamed until I couldn't scream anymore and I tried desperately to pull Gerard away from the scene, but he wouldn't budge. He was crying loudly, yelling for help and attempting to undo the rope, attempting to save his brother's life.

"Help me!" "Don't just fucking stand there!" "I need help!" "Get me a knife!"

I couldn't handle it.

There was a knife. And as Gerard was hacking away at the rope and wailing himself voiceless, the blade caught me in the bicep. I couldn't hear anything.

Everything was red.

And I blacked out.

[]

"I didn't know what to do," Gerard said, his chin dimpling and large tears spilling out of his bloodshot eyes. "I panicked."

I closed my own eyes, letting out a long breath. "He's your brother."

"Was."

It hit me like a truck, taking my breath and ripping my chest open. Mikey was dead. It was so hard to take in: Bob and Mikey both gone in the same day.

"I expected it," Gerard said softly. "And I'm so sorry, fuck, I wouldn't hurt you for all the money in the world — I just — Mikey and —" he wiped his swollen eyes and I squeezed his hand, tangling our fingers.

At least I was alive, though. Mikey wasn't.

I'm back I'm angry and I'm killing off characters