AFTERMATHS : THE SUBSEQUENT LIVES OF THE FABULOUS KILLJOYS

12.

12.

"Look at how adorable Bandit is. This is her in the faded pink dress we had bought her a fortnight before the actual event. It was all she wanted. It was a shame you couldn't go. You would have had fun. Our caterers cooked up some amazing mutton chops; your favorite. Bandit did not go near the mutton chops, I can tell you that."

Ray shifts uncomfortably in the leather chair he painstakingly procured from a competitive young couple at a department store, a wine class in his hand as courtesy, and also a disingenuous look plastered on his aging facade, observing Gerard with his phone in his hand, babbling away in the dead of night about his daughter's birthday, which in fact, occurred two months ago. Ray was not present for the event. He was preoccupied.

Gerard was still talking, but Ray was not listening, but rather wondering. What was he doing here all of a sudden? They haven't met in over three months, and out of nowhere, Gerard appeared sentinel in front of his door, nondescript and stoic with his red hair in sweats stuck to his countenance like a harbinger, and frightened the hell out of Ray even from a respectable distance. Ray has rushed down to obtain his exbandmate, who is acting as if he was fine, that he was just paying his old friend a visit and asked for some wine in his company.

What was that all about?

Gerard was cold. Subzero cold. Ray checked him for inebriation, but Gerard was dead sober. No signs of alcohol, no signs of drug abuse, no signs of suicide. He did recognize a faint vestige of cigarettes, but said nothing. Gerard begged him for wine, which he initially condemned, but finally gave in when Gerard decided to position himself firmly on the sofa, an indication that he was not leaving anytime soon.

At least, without fulfilling his purpose in coming in the first place.

Why was he here??

Gerard noticed the surreptitious glances Ray is signaling, and drops his phone on the sofa with contemptuous swiftness, as if his phone had suddenly metamorphosed into a venomous viper on his palms. He stares at Ray, suddenly stoic, and there and then, Ray experiences it again.

The spread of dread, initiated by a glance at Gerard's emotionless, vexatious eyes. Ray feels as if he was being enveloped by Gerard's mourning, the feeling in the bedroom, the sweat, the warmth. He turns back to his glass of wine, seeking salvation, failing, and grabs the wine bottle, pours more burgundy into translucence and empties the glass in one gulp. The cold liquid does little to mitigate the burning heat inside him.

Why is Gerard still looking at him?

Is he even seeing Ray?

Judging by his gaze, one would not hesitate to substantiate that claim.

All of a sudden, Gerard's concentration is broken and tears start to swell up in his eyes, cleansing the surface with an ominous sheen, but do not roll down hot on his cheeks. They remain in their glass chamber, awaiting.

"Mikey's in a coma."

Ray is literally at a loss for words. He detests himself for wondering, even for a milisecond, who Mikey was, and when the realization dawned on him he slams his wineglass on the table without a tact left in his system and ogles at Gerard, who looks as if he would strike Ray down at any moment.

"What?"

"He was drinking and driving. He survived surgery, but has not awaken. You should have seen him, Ray. He was all bruised up and slashed open. You should have seen him."

And the tears start to descend. But Gerard is not grieving. He is looking straight Ray, emitting that same cloying, suffocating dread.

Am I to blame for Mikey's happenstance? Ray wonders as he tries to find the words to quell Gerard's indignation, and to somewhat prove that he was not the culprit. He feels as if he is part of a situation in which the truth, however immutable, would be perceived as a lie.