Don’t cry...whatever you do...don’t cry...why do you even want to cry, anyway? Of all the things, why cry? Or maybe you’re just thinking about crying- were you really about to cry? Okay, now I’m confused...wait....
“Frankie?” Gee asked as we pulled out of Morgan’s driveway. “You okay? Did she say something?”
“Uh...I don’t know,” I told him truthfully. “I...don’t know.”
Gee wasn’t the type of person to blatantly laugh at people if they told him strange things...as long as they said them seriously. He always took me seriously at the right times. But I still couldn’t bring myself to tell him what was really going on. How could I tell him I kept hearing voices? I couldn’t. That was too intense.
“What’s wrong, babe?” he asked.
“I...don’t know,” I said again.
“Seriously, did you take your medic-”
“Goddammit, Gerard, I don’t need fucking medication!” I snapped.
His expression quickly flickered to a hurt one, and he swerved a tiny bit on the road. In order to regain control, he snapped his gaze toward the road, and kept it there
“I’m sorry,” I squeaked, shocked with myself. “I’m sorry, Gee, sweetie, I’m sorry.”
“Just take your damn pills,” he said morosely.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured again.
He didn’t respond, but I saw his expression change again, back to concern.
I bit my tongue, angry with myself. But there was the anger again. How did I become so angry? And why? Maybe I really did need medication.
But I really didn’t think that was it.
It was Morgan. It was her fault. And funny enough, I actually had known all along. This wasn’t even the cliché “I knew it,” it was the legit “I knew it.” Of course, how could I tell Gerard? He’d think he needed to commit me. But he knew Morgan existed, and Morgan had said things. She’d said...things.
Shit, I felt so scared. What was going on? I knew Morgan had something to do with it, but she wouldn’t say anything, obviously. Was she evil? Had she ever said anything truthful? Was she even thirteen?
Gerard would definitely think I was schizophrenic. Definitely. I wasn’t even sure. But then I guess that meant I was normal. But did all normal people think they were crazy? And did all crazy people think they were normal? See, now she had just messed up my mind. I didn’t even have my own thought process anymore.
But maybe that was it! Maybe I had her thought process, which would explain the anger and snapping, and why I could hear her thoughts. It would explain a lot, actually. But did I really think that was it? Or maybe I should have been asking if she wanted me to think that was it. Because if I had her thoughts or her thought process, then whatever she would want me to think I would think. Would she want me to get that far ahead in our minds and suspect something awkward going on that had something to do with thinking? But then would I even be thinking that?
What was I thinking? Did it even matter to me anymore? Why did I look so pale?
Oh, yeah...Morgan scared the shit outta me earlier. With our thought process. Would I ever think of it as my thought process again? Okay, honestly, she cannot have a thought process like this. Even I can’t handle it.
I looked at Gerard, who still looked upset, and I remembered why I cared in the first place. She made me hurt Gee. I loved Gee more than anything; I couldn’t stand that. I wouldn’t stand that.
I didn’t care if it was morally right or not, I listened to Frank’s thoughts. It seemed amazing how completely A.D.D. he was sometimes. He was so on the wrong track...whenever he could even find a track. Somehow, maybe due to the tainted musician’s brain his father gave him, the possibility of simple telepathy totally evaded him.
Of course, I guess you can’t call it simple. But the shit he was thinking was way more complicated than telepathy.
And I didn’t make him hurt his boyfriend. He did that on his own. Maybe at least his boyfriend thought it was a symptom of the non-existent depression, which was sincerely non-existent. Frank’s symptoms of depression, actually were my fault. I gave him the dreams somehow. I never really understood how I could do that without being near him. Probably because I made him.
It didn’t really matter. The dreams prevented him from sleeping, lack of sleep made him tired, being tired made him not pay attention - along with his A.D.D. - and so on and so forth. And he was right; he didn’t go anywhere, because there wasn’t any damn place to go.
If anything, Gerard was the one who needed help, because I swear he was always high. Truthfully, it was kinda amusing sometimes.
A/N: And now you get a little more info. Did Frankie's thoughts hurt your head? I reread it and it sure as hell hurt mine. But my sister's a musician and, sadly, that actually seems like their thought process.