I hate this absence of you; now I'm just dripping my life away. FRERARD one-shot. Read, review, rate and feel my love! :P
There is no more laughter.
Not from your lust-cracked tulips that once tangoed upon my own. No more high-pitched shrills of light amusement breaking up the dicey moments of tension between us, nor are there any deep and throaty rumbles of joy erupting into my starving ears like music to a baying crowd. There aren’t even brief sprinkles of your childlike giggles echoing into the apartment anymore. Nothing that can ever connote anything brighter than misery is heard here now.
Even the drip from the faulty tap that you were supposed to fix whilst I was at work last Monday sounds melancholy, kind of like it’s crying. But the sort of crying that isn’t hysteric and unorganised; rather steady and mournful, as though it’s rationed out the tears because it knows the duration of time between now and happiness will be vast. Before the dripping was just mildly annoying, but not to the point of it making me mad. Just like you; vaguely annoying in your loudness, but never something that could ever make me anything other than aware of the fact that I’m home and that I belong. Now though the drip, like all thoughts of you, has turned into something that agonizes me. Something that tears at my heart like a storm through a ship’s sails; without you I will sink and then drown in this gulping sea of despair.
I miss the way you snore at night, the way your arms tighten around me as naturally as slender vines around a sturdy tree whenever your sweet breathing becomes ever so slightly congested through ghastly terror at whatever caused the lack of breath in the first place. Then there’s your content snores too, the ones caused not by lingering thoughts of darkness but by your permanent knowledge of joy and safety and love. I don’t know if I ever told you this, but the reason for the constant black bags weighing down the phantom-paleness of the skin around my eyes is not through some kind of insomnia, but is actually caused by my forcing myself to stay awake long enough to simply watch you sleep; to listen to those content snores and savour them in the back of my mind like a diamond in a bank vault. I don’t know why but- No. I do know why; it’s because hearing you sleep so innocently and safely reminds me that I’m doing my job of boyfriend correctly, that you’re right by my side here with me in our bed.
You’re not anymore though. You’re gone. Left me forever choking on the deafening silence caused by the absence of you.
It happened on Sunday; the so-called holy day of rest that I was taught to spend worshipping as a child. Maybe that’s why this happened. I never did pay much attention to any form of religion, other than you of course, and now God or Buddha or whoever is cruel enough to decide that they can control the world is taking their revenge upon me by taking you away. By making you leave and take all of the music in my life away with you. I never did like Sundays; the comic book store downtown, the one where I met you all of those years ago, is shut on a Sunday. Everything just seems so quiet, so solemn, so… dead, on a Sunday.
Just like you. And without you there is no Us. Without Us, what’s the point in Me?
There is no point. Other than the sharp, unforgiving one of my razorblade, anyway. It used to be yours and I used to beg you not to use it but now I’m being the worse kind of traitor, as you would say, by being a hypocrite. I saved you from the addiction of self-inflicted agony, an addiction I’ve never understood until feeling the need to drown everything out with seething skin and mind-blurring blood, just like you would have saved me were you still here right now.
But you’re not. You’re dead. Forever silent; no more snoring, no more giggling, no more chuckling. Just that annoying drip of the tap that you never got around to fixing whilst I was at work.
I can’t believe I yelled at you about that, that I let my voice sear into your precious little head and say hideous little lies that have since been punished with the blade that has become my only comfort. It was a silly row really, just like you were silly to forgive me after I made you cry. I’m so glad you did though; so fucking glad that you didn’t leave me with guilt drowning out the acidic silence.
How did it happen to you, to the loveliest little teddy-bear any being could ever hope to hold? I don’t think I can ever understand it, how you just wouldn’t wake up on Sunday morning. How your eyes, once something I never wanted to have out of my mind, became so void of life and joy that I know I will never be able scrub the image that will haunt me until the end of time out of my retinas. How your lips were slightly parted, as though ready for a kiss, yet no breath was flowing and how they had a bluish tint to them, making them as grey as the storm clouds that always forced you to snuggle away the adorably irrational fear within my arms. How your heart, my heart too, just stopped beating.
How everything I once found solace in knowing I would always have in my head instantly became something I’m dying to forget because the memories just sting too much for them to be bearable.
The paramedics came like an emotionless army, clearly aching to be on their mid-morning doughnut break as opposed to in the apartment of two guys who could barely cover the rent of their shabby little piece of paradise. And then I let them take you away; zipped-up in a body bag and getting dragged away from me by heartless zombies with no desire to show any kind of care or respect to the sleeping beauty that they knew nothing about. I gave them you and all I got in return was a little piece of paper.
A Death Certificate.
A voucher swapping my happiness for life-blinding misery. It told me, in harshly cutting print, that you’d suffered from some sort of undetected tumour feasting on your ingenious brain. I looked up what it meant on the internet, using the same window that you’d left open for instant access to your beloved Twitter account, and it told me that it would have been a painless passing.
Painless for you. Endlessly painful for me.
Everyone always pities the deceased, the one whose brilliance has been deprived of the world’s caring nurturing, but it’s the ones left behind that I feel truly sorry for. Or rather, I do now. Like when Mikey’s hamster died it was the small rodent I felt sorry for, not the sobbing eight-year-old who still had a life left to live. Now I know that it’s Mikey I should have pitied; he was the one who had to wrap his head around never seeing Champy ever again, who had to get used to never waking up to the sound of Champy’s wheel squeaking away again.
Because it’s worst to be left behind than to move on to something brighter and better.
Especially when I’ve been left behind without your laughter to drown out the silence of your excruciating absence. Especially when I know I will never move on to anything.
Not without you here to guide me; I’m nothing without you.
Without my Frankie.
A/N: So, I’m extremely sorry that I haven’t been posting/reviewing/responding to reviews lately, but I’ve been snowed-under with schoolwork/exams and I’ve had a lot of heavy shit on my mind. I’m going to try to be back now though and post things again, so sorry about my absence. Anyway, I really hope that you liked this and please let me know what you think! :)