Abusive relationship type shit. R&R please. Frerard.
Sometimes I wonder why I even put up with you. You're a horrible person. You hit me, you kick me, you call me names. You get drunk almost everyday. Sometimes, after you've passed out on the living room couch, I'll sit on the cold bathroom floor and cry. Not because the bruises hurt. Not because I hate you. I cry because I know its really not you that's hurting me. It's me.
I'm hurting myself.
If I really gave a shit about my own well being, I would ditch you right now. But I can't. I don't have the heart to do that.
I love you too much, Gee.
Sometimes I like to pretend that you're just going through a phase. After you've given me a stinging slap on the cheek, I'll think, One day, he'll stop.
But you don't.
You never stop.
Remember when you took your drug dealer, Max, home? He fucked you on the kitchen floor, while I cried my eyes out in the bathroom. I told myself that you didn't know what you were doing. You were drugged, drunk and intoxicated. The next morning, Max left at two in the afternoon. Once the front door slammed shut, you ran to the bathroom, knocked down the door and told me you loved me.
I didn't say it back.
But you understood.
Remember when you asked me to marry you? I was twenty-one, and you, twenty-three. You proposed, on your knees, in a library. "Marry me, Frankie?" you'd whispered, your green eyes, not yet dulled by drink, glistening in the florescent light. "Of course, Gee," I stuttered, my eyes watering and my voice wobbling. You stood up, kissed me on the forehead and mumbled, "I'll never hurt you, Frankie. I promise."
You lied, and I believed.
After you've finished beating me up, you'll almost always leave me lying on the floor in a bloody, broken mess. In the morning, I'll still be in the same spot, because it hurts to move. Occasionally, you'll come running from the bedroom. You'll see what you've done to me. You're horrified. You'll scoop me up in your arms and whisper apologies in my ear.
I'm sorry, Frank.
I love you, Frank.
Please forgive me, Frank.
I'll never hurt you again, Frank.
Every time, you lie. And everytime I believe.
Sometimes I think its worth getting beaten up, just to hear you say that you love me.
You force yourself into me. I don't want to have sex with you, not anymore, but you make me do it. Is that rape? I don't know. All I'm sure of is that I want the old Gerard back, not this soulless monster with enough hate to fill an ocean.
I've had enough.
You're slapping me, kicking me, hitting me. "IT'S ALL YOUR FUCKING FAULT YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT. FUCKING DIE ALREADY, YOU SLUT." You're screaming, I'm crying, and then something in my snaps. I completely deflate and let myself be flung about the room. You've picked up a chair. You throw it at me, at my head. A sharp crack sounds from my skull. But it doesn't hurt. I don't feel pain anymore. Pain is for people, actual people with consciences and souls. I'm not a person, I'm just a thing. An object, a punching bag. Then it stops. The beating, the kicking and yelling stops. I can hear you stomp away, and the bedroom door slams shut. Well. That's the end of it. I close my eyes and go to sleep, blood oozing from my wounds.
I dream of you. You and me. We're falling from the sky. The wind slaps at our faces. You're laughing. Its been a long time since I've heard you laugh.
I don't want to wake up.
But I do.
It takes every ounce of strength for me to stand up and walk to the bedroom window, overlooking the street below. It's still dark outside. I open the window, and climb out onto the ledge. Our apartment is twenty nine stories high. Enough to kill someone, were he to accidentally fall. But this will be no accident.
The wedding band on my fourth finger feels very warm. All of a sudden, the bedroom door slams open. Someone's here. "Frank? SHIT, Frank, what the fuck are you doing? Come back inside!" Someone yells in panic. Oh. It's you. You're here. No. You can't be here. I don't want you to see me.
"Gee, I have to go. I can't do this anymore." I wail. I want to scream, cry, and run away. I just want you back to the way you were before. Now you're howling, trying to get me back inside the apartment. "Frank, I fucking swear, if you jump, I'll- I'll kill you!" you scream hysterically, your eyes bulging out of your gaunt, pale face.
Oh, the irony.
You've already killed me, Gee. You can't get me back. I start to quietly sob, inching away from you and your long, skinny arms.
There's a short, awkward pause. The only thing I hear is the sound of cars beeping, twenty-nine floors below.
"Frank. If you're going to go. Take me with you." your voice is suddenly quiet, a whisper in the wind. I gaze intently at your alabaster pale face, and I swear I can see a shadow of who you once were. A shadow, a memory.
But still there.
You climb out onto the ledge with me, and you grasp my hand. I tell you that you can't do this, Gerard. You don't have to do this for me, of all people. But you put a finger to my lips and you kiss me on the forehead. You kiss my eyes, my nose, my cheeks, my lips. You grasp my hand and kiss my fingers. I do the same. It's like we're doing some sick, sacred ritual. You pull me close to you, give me one last kiss on the forehead, and we both jump.
Before I hit the ground, before I make contact with the earth's surface and have my body broken apart, I hear you laugh, I hear you whisper against my ear, "I'll never hurt you, Frankie. I promise."
You lie. I believe.
Then everything goes black.