murderer - frerard

[027]

"I — you — what?" I uttered, my hands going numb. "But...but it was only yesterday, we were here, you were kissing me, here, on the couch, you, me, the stitches, Gerard..." I was talking fast. I was waiting for him to crack a smile and punch my shoulder playfully, for him to tell me that he was just fucking around with me. That it was just yesterday. But he didn't. He looked genuinely concerned, his fingers lacing with my limp ones. "I — I'll come back, I promise."

And I'm running home, bursting through the door, my lungs stinging and my face hot. "Mom!" I screeched, but she didn't stick her head around the corner like I expected her to. I rushed up the stairs, into her bedroom, but she wasn't there. She wasn't anywhere in the entire house. The bed was stripped cleanly of its sheets, and there were fresh, pale rectangles on the barren floor where her dresser and chest of drawers used to be. My vision was blurring.

"Mom!" I yelled, my voice catching in my throat and coming out hoarsely. She wasn't here. Nowhere to be found. Everything felt so surreal, I felt heavy, as if something inside me were dragging me down, down, down, and are you absolutely sure I'm not high? But I wasn't high, and this was real. I hadn't smoked since that night with Gerard — damn, it really did feel like a long time ago now.

Rushing into my own room, I realised that the only things left in it were my old acoustic and my bed, if it could even be called that anymore, what with the lack of covers and hell, even the frame was gone. All it was at this point was two mattresses stacked one upon the other on the dusty hardwood floor. Looking at my walls I noticed the tacks were still embedded in the drywall where I'd hung my posters. Where was everything?

Something touched my hand; I didn't even know Gerard was even here, fuck, how'd he manage to get in? Did he do this?

"Gerard," I mumbled, choking on my words. "What, I mean — did you...?"

He looked hurt. "Baby boy," he said, his words silky soft and comforting. "You aren't accusing me, now are you?" I shook my head vigorously, which I quickly discovered wasn't such a good idea as my brain rattled against my skull. My feet felt like they didn't belong on my body as I trudged down the hallway, peering into every room and, unsurprisingly by now, finding every one of them stark white, robbed of the expensive furniture that I so vividly remembered my mother bitching at me for lazing on.

I stood in the living room for a long time, staring into the open kitchen which looked mostly the same; the familiar table and chairs still standing where they'd been positioned when we first moved in nearly a year ago. My head felt fuzzy, and colourful dots decorated the edges of my vision before everything was swallowed up into the heavy shadows from deep inside my mind.

But how can emptiness feel so heavy?

• a/n:
ok i know this is short but i put a lot of effort into this, even though i'm still not sure i'm completely happy with it. [[yes, i know there are probably many mistakes, especially in the tenses, because i have been reading a lot of present tense lately so i tend to lean that way when i write.]] i realise i haven't been updating lately and i am so so so sorry for that, and i promise i will be working on this much more in the coming weeks, though i cannot promise to make a publishing schedule. i have been very busy lately, what with schooling and going to New York, so please forgive. i also would like to thank every single one of you for reading this, commenting, and voting, and just staying loyal. so thanks to all of you, and stay street guys!!!

this chapter is for ash because the last line of the chapter is the opening line of one of their amazing poems that they wrote two plus years ago and wow it's stuck with me and i think it's wonderful