C h a p t e r | T h i r t e e n
In The Past
"Mommy, Mikey stole my toy!" A four-year-old Gerard comes running down the back yard to the door of his childhood home, straight into the kitchen to tug at his mother's summer dress. "Mommy!"
"Get over it, Gerard. Sometimes people take things that aren't theirs and there's nothing you can do about it. Besides, you always take his so I suppose it's fair." His mom rolls her eyes. She's always been strict and even cruel at times, giving her sons the minimal supplies they require - food, toys, beds, and other things alike - but love is more scarce. Gerard believes it's normal.
"'S not fair!" Gerard whines. "You like him more than me!"
"Gerard," she sighs, "go back outside and make up with your brother or else I'll get your father to sort it out."
That's the one thing Gerard today wouldn't wish upon his worst enemy. At this age, however, he doesn't understand the severity of her statement so much, so he resorts to pouting with crossed arms and stomping his feet. "It's Mikey's fault!"
A pudgy little Mikey appears at the doorway, wide eyes set on his older brother. "Ge-rd." From behind his back, he reveals the teddy he nicked from Gerard, holding it out as a peace offering.
"Finally," Gerard scowls and snatches the toy back, "I'm gonna tell daddy on you."
"Who's going to tell dad what?" Their father has just come back from work and is hanging his jacket up on a hook at the front of the house. His booming voice can be heard from the back yard.
"It's nothing, dear." Gerard's mom waves it off dismissively as her husband saunters into the kitchen. "They're just arguing again."
"No, daddy, it was Mikey's fault!" Gerard protests.
"Michael is too young to understand what he did was wrong." His father kicks his boots off underneath the kitchen table then bends down to Gerard's level. "You want to tell me what happened?"
Gerard looks sheepishly at his feet. "Mikey—"
"Look at me when I'm talking to you, Gerard." He raises his voice and forces Gerard's chin up so they're eye to eye. Gerard's lips tremble. His mother says nothing, continuing with washing the dishes in the sink nonchalantly.
"Sorry," Gerard mumbles, "Mikey took my toy and I got mad at him. I told mommy and she said it's fair but it's not fair at all!"
"So you thought throwing a damn tantrum with your mother was the solution?"
"That's a bad word," Gerard gasps quietly. In the background, Mikey edges away from the scene, crawling since he hasn't quite learned to walk all the time yet.
Gerard's father's hand slaps across his cheek, sending his son stumbling backwards, one open palm clutched to his sore face. Gerard sniffles a little, standing awkwardly with his feet turned in and eyes cast downward. Mikey's horrified gaze settles on his brother.
Their dad stands back up, loosening his tie. "I've had a long day," he informs their mom with a frustrated sigh, "I trust dinner won't be too long."
"Fifteen minutes," she utters, scared after seeing her husband actually lay hands on her son for the first time. Usually these things don't end up well - she's surprised she wasn't first. It definitely won't be the last time something like this happens. He's only four, and she did nothing to protect him.
"Good." He turns once again to Gerard with narrowed eyes. "Have you learned your lesson?"
"Y-yes." Gerard nods his head quickly. His cheek stings, and he sure isn't planning on annoying his dad anymore if that's all he's going to get out of it.
"Don't stutter, boy," his dad warns him, wagging a disapproving finger.
Gerard knows he won't be able to agree vocally without stammering again so he simply nods with watery eyes. His dad leaves to put his things upstairs.
Mikey clumsily drags Gerard out of the kitchen and back into the garden. Gerard holds his toy with one shaking hand and his brother's wrist with the other.
"'M sorry, Ge-rd," Mikey whispers.
"It's okay. Thank you for giving back my toy." He tries to smile at his brother but he knows it doesn't reach his eyes. "I will always protect you, okay? Mommy and daddy are mean but I'll never let them hurt you, I promise."
"What 'bout when you're not here?" Mikey worries.
"Well, I'll have to always be here," Gerard declares, "I'm not going anywhere anyway, apart from school. Then when you go to school, I can protect you from mean people there too!"
Little does he know that thirteen years later, he'll be putting himself in front of a loaded shotgun to save his brother's life.
"Love you," mumbles Mikey, burying his face in Gerard's shirt as he envelopes the older one in a hug.
"You too, Mikes."
>
Present Day - Mikey
"I think I want to stay at a friend's house for a while." Mikey shuffles from foot to foot, trembling slightly as he awaits a response from his parents at his request to move in with Pete. Since the shooting, his parents have been more distant than they ever have before so this is the first time he's spoken to them in weeks.
Everyone is numb since everything that happened with the school and Gerard. His family haven't taken it well - his dad even had a little bit of his heart broken when Gerard left, in his own weird way. Despite their abnormally rage-filled upbringing, their dad would never want either of his sons to be involved with something like this.
Which is why his voice is void of emotion when he answers, uncomfortably numb. "Fine."
Mikey's mother has the decency to look a tad more concerned, having never really heard of this new friend. She brushes her hair back from her face in a jittery motion. "Mikey, during times like these it's better to stick together as a family."
"A quarter of our family is gone," Mikey tells her, "and we've each been ripped apart by that. I need some time away, to heal. It'll only be until school ends and maybe over summer." He neglects to mention the fact he doesn't know if he can be persuaded to return to school after summer. He doesn't know if he'll make it that far in life, if he plans to get to that point.
Mikey expects his dad to butt in at any moment and demand to know who the person he'll be living with for months is, but instead he simply shakes his head in dismissal, desperate for the conversation to be over. "Get out of my sight, boy. Come back when you learn to face your problems like a man."
Mikey wants to scream at him that he's the worst for dealing with his issues in horrendously unhealthy ways - for taking out his anger on Gerard when it suited him. He never got around to hitting Mikey since Gerard was always around to protect his little brother like he promised, but now everything has changed and Mikey's scared of what might happen should he stay here.
He doesn't know if he'll be much better off at Pete's but it's worth a shot. His bags are already packed and lying at the door, knowing he would be leaving whether his parents agreed or not. It makes it admittedly easier hearing his dad doesn't want him around and his mom doesn't have the balls to stand up for herself or give two craps about his well-being. It should be better, not having to come home to the deathly quiet, closed-off suburban home he despises so much now that he knows Gerard isn't coming back to it.
Pete was the one who suggested this line of action, wanting to keep the younger boy close by his side. They might have to do some sneaking around when his parents do actually show up and question the extra toothbrush in the bathroom but Pete has a king-sized bed more than big enough for the two of them. And Mikey couldn't say no to that.
And he'll get to be away from the bad memories this way, in a space where he'll have his own air and won't be worried about his neck being breathed down. He can dedicate more time to looking after Joe (it's the insignificant trivial things that keep him sane).
When he arrives at Pete's front door with his luggage, the first thing he does when his boyfriend opens the door is hug him. Instantly arms are enveloping around him in response. "It went as I expected," Mikey mumbles.
"They didn't mind?" Pete presumes.
"I thought I would make him angry," Mikey whispers, "my dad. But he didn't mind at all."
Pete frowns, not understanding what could be so frightening about getting on the wrong side of your father. He pulls away and helps Mikey with his belongings, ushering the worn-out kid into his spacious home. He smiles only to himself when he shuts (and locks) the door.
>
Present Day - Frank
I lie on the bed with Gerard's head in my lap, running my hands through his hair to his content. I don't know if he's sleeping because his eyes are closed but there's a smile on his face.
How did we get here? I don't think I'll ever know. Is he aware of the monumental mistake he's making by getting this close to me, a psychopathic, abusive murderer? I did a little research on Stockholm Syndrome and the results were disturbing.
The term is recognised mostly in correlation with Patty Hearst, who at only nineteen years old, got in deep with the revolutionary militants who kidnapped her in 1974. When she aided them in a robbery, she was caught and imprisoned. Of course, it was first coined with a separate case in Sweden. It goes in stages: first, the captive person is terrified and thinks semi-rationally that they're going to be killed. Second comes the stage similar to infantilisation - Gerard couldn't partake in any activity without my permission, when small acts of mercy were seen as another chance at life. In his subconscious, he thinks I'm the one who lets him live, not the one who took his life away from him.
I'm his God. It's a sick and twisted thing to believe but I literally control him, instruct and boss him around, toy with his emotions and actions. I don't know how to stop doing that because no matter what happens, I will always be scared Gerard will try to run away and abandon me. I guess that's my own abandonment issues at the mic.
I shamelessly admire his features, his cute little nose, his brows pulled together over his eyes which are framed with long, dark lashes. He has a round, slightly chubby face and small teeth that seem beautifully out of proportion, and not even a hint of stubble which adds for a hint of a more feminine look. Overall, I think he really is adorable, and if I could stay in this position forever, I wouldn't complain.
I sigh and look away when I realise how messed up this situation is. I kidnapped and abused him; I can't catch feelings for him. I wish we had met before all of this, before I became a murderer, then maybe he could've changed my mind or stopped the bullying. He and Mikey could've put an end to the needless beatings. He could've saved me and I'd have let him, maybe.
I'm starting to believe in karma and the ironic world of fate.
"Frank?" He stirs and his eyes flutter open. "What time is it?"
"Who cares?"
I don't know where that came from; it's a simple question and I don't have to be rude about it.
"Is something wrong?" He frowns, noticing my indifference.
I shake my head. "Sorry, I just—" I bite my tongue to shut up. I shouldn't be apologising to him under any circumstances. I should be playing God like I always got a secret satisfaction of doing anyway. "I'm taking a shower." I reluctantly slide off the bed and toward the bathroom, leaving him still half-asleep and confused.
Ray catches my wrist down the hall before I go in. "So how's it going? Have you thought about what I said?"
"Nice to see and finally speak to you, Ray." I roll my eyes and retract my wrist from his iron grip. We've been a little distant later - all the pressure is affecting us in different ways and he's choosing to ignore me. I was his best friend and I guess I changed somehow after shooting up our school.
"What are you doing to that poor kid, Frank?" He continues to ignore my remarks. "If you're going to keep living in my house—"
"Like you pay rent here." And there I go, rolling my eyes again. I can't help it, the sarcasm is in my blood.
"—I need an answer," he finishes.
"He's not a kid, Ray, he's our age." I avoid the question because I don't have an answer.
Ray sees right through me and shakes his frizzy hair. He's good at reading people. Thankfully, he doesn't push me further and lets me go.
In the shower, I scrub at my skin until it's bright pink, slightly disgusted with myself. I've touched Gerard - he didn't want me to, even if he liked it - and it makes me sick. All these emotions are alien to me, because I've never been in a relationship with anyone, and... is that what this is? I have claimed him as mine, and promised myself as his, so are we together?
I don't think in any universe you could safely call this a 'relationship'. That's a hard smack in the face to modern civilisation. He's more of my butler than he would be my boyfriend.
I finish bathing and wrap a towel around my waist when I step out, clutching the sink to hold in my sudden anger. Goddamn it, I wish I got on some meds for my anger issues and mood swings before I drove all the way out here to the middle of nowhere. I guess even if there was a pharmacy nearby with any pills that could help me, I probably shouldn't be leaving the house if I can help it. I shove on some clothes already lying on the floor and brush my hair with my fingers. It badly needs cut.
The noise of the front door opening grabs my attention and I step out into the hall to see the back of a familiar black haired boy making for the outside world. Before I can react, the door slams shut and then it dawns on me.
He's trying to run.
How was I so careless to leave the door unlocked? I hate myself a lot more than I hate him for allowing this to happen. Why can't I have two brain cells enough to properly lock up my hostage? He clearly needs it.
I go after him with a knife in my jean pocket, almost ripping the door off its hinges and sprinting after Gerard. He holds a set of keys in his hands and is heading to my car. He throws himself inside and turns the ignition but he doesn't get far before I open his door.
There's a bit of déjà vu here.
He screams in fright when I yank him out of the car and push him against it, flattening my body against his and pressing the knife to his throat. His eyes are wide and brimming with tears.
"You never learn, do you?" I snarl. "Everything was going perfectly then you had to ruin it, but you're never going to pull a stunt like this again after I'm done with you."
"You can't blame me," he chokes but there's conflict in his eyes, like he can't really believe he's done this and he's cursing himself for trying again. He knows he'll fail every time. The conflict tells me a part of him knows he should have just stayed put.
"I can blame you," I laugh cynically, "because if I don't, I can only blame myself for trusting you. For letting myself believe that for one second, we had something between us - something worth staying together for."
"We do," he quickly tells me, fully believing it.
He would tell me anything to appease me right now. Wouldn't anyone make up lies to save their own skins? "I'm so tired of this, Gerard!" I yell and press the knife further into his neck, drawing out a few beads of dark blood. "Of looking over my shoulder for everything! You didn't have to add to that problem!"
"Frank, please—" He starts to whimper but I ignore him and drag him back to the house, brushing off the fact that my car is still on. He fights to get away from me but I'm stronger and he hasn't got a chance. I don't think he really wants to get away from me anyway. He doesn't want to leave, not really. I'm all he has - I'm his God, I said it. Or maybe that's called denial.
In my blind fury, I decide how I'm going to punish him. I throw him inside the bathroom and turn on the cold water tap in the tub, locking the door behind us.
He tries to get up but I slap him so hard he falls back and holds a hand to his cheek, cowering and sobbing. He huffs out a laugh in between his cries like this is a recurring game he's always losing, and he has no cards left to play.
"You thought your little ploy of tricking me into liking you was going to work? I'll give you this, Gerard, you had me fooled." I mock with venom in my voice. "Maybe I should've done this a long time ago, to prove that you're nothing without me, that you belong to me, and now you'll never leave."
Here's the worse side of me coming out: the one that possesses and hurts and drags down to hell. The darkest part of me that simply wants to own Gerard like a caged animal, a little brat that gets fed scraps of raw meat through the bars of a prison. This is what it's supposed to be like for him: a prison, a personal hell he'll never be able to escape.
When I reckon there's enough cold water in the bathtub, I pick him up by his hair and he falls in. I forcefully push his head under the water and he thrashes around, muffled screaming escaping his lips which are quickly turning blue.
I don't know much about waterboarding besides the snippets in a news article I read in relation to Stockholm Syndrome. I can blame this on some scientist online who said kidnappers might like to physically punish their victims to keep them in line. That's all I want. Secretly, I do enjoy it.
I hold him in the water for a while longer until his squirming becomes truly desperate then I pull him to the surface. He takes one gasp for air then I push him back under. His hands claw at my arms and his feet try and fail to kick me off. Both of us are soaking at this point.
I pull him up once again and taunt him, "Have you learned your lesson, Gee?"
"You're sick!" He croaks, his throat too abused to scream, and I see red as I hold him under again, for longer this time.
I want to drown the rage out of him and take it for myself. He doesn't have the right or the authority to be as livid as I am in the current moment. He's the one who betrayed me and tried to leave me.
His thrashing gets weaker and I know he's on the verge of passing out so I let him breathe as he returns to full consciousness. He's crying harder than he ever has before, no more anger, and choking out, "Stop, please! I'm sorry, I'll be good!"
"Yeah?"
"Yes, I promise! I'm sorry, please, no more!" He's practically convulsing in the freezing water and his eyes are shut. Tears stream down his pale face.
I pull him out of the tub and let the water drain, deciding I've reached his limit, or perhaps already passed it. Sobs wrack his body and he clutches his knees to his chest on the floor, hiding his face in his hands and breathing raggedly.
I wonder if something like this exact situation has happened to him before because the haunting look in his eyes tells me that this isn't new to him. That he's used to being used as a punching bag. Maybe it was his so-called perfect home life that I never considered before.
No. I'd feel a lot worse if I thought like that. I straighten myself out, wringing out the water from my shirt.
"We're not going to have another incident again, yeah?"
"No," he cries hysterically, "I promise, I'm done. Frank, I - I'm done, please let it be done."
I shake my head in disbelief. Can't he see he was the one who caused this? I consistently tell him I don't want to hurt him unless I have to but he insists on provoking me. "It's done if you're ready to behave."
"Please," he sniffles, "don't hurt me."
I toss a couple of towels at him and leave him to recover, unknowing to the fact that Ray heard the whole thing.