Suicidal Gerard remembers Frank before his bout with leukemia.
That warm July day, I smiled and stared, in awe, as the gentle light of the sun freckled his olive cheeks. I, however, remained in the shade, never allowing the light to tamper with my pale physique.
“You’re an albino freak.” He said in a loving tone, arousing a light-hearted laugh from each of us. That was when I joined him in the sun, crawling over to him in the grass and kissing him sweetly on the nose. He was so small, so fragile- adorable, even. I always felt like I had to be careful around him, only gracing him with the most delicate of touches, always afraid that he would shatter like broken glass if I was too rough with him. Sure, I was a small guy, but if you can believe it, he was even smaller, some days even appearing sickly. Although he disgusted my parents, I found him remarkably beautiful. Captivating, fascinating, stunning.
And that was when he pulled me in. He turned us over so he was on top, and kissed me hungrily, tangling his tattooed fingers in my hair, the taste of cigarettes and coffee mingling between our dancing tongues. I sighed happily as he kissed my neck, leaving behind little love bites. “We should take this inside.” He giggled, and I agreed. We went up to my room, and made love, and it was beautiful. Back then, he wasn’t so weak. Back then, he didn’t have the bruises.
The next few months were harder. He was losing weight rapidly. I coaxed him into trying food a few times, but more often than not he would refuse to eat, not feeling hungry. He was always complaining of a sore stomach and headaches. At night, he would wake up in a sweat, and a few times had a fever. He bruised as easily as an overly ripe peach. One tiny paper cut would spurt blood for ages.
So being the loving boyfriend I am, I took him to the doctor. They ran several tests and asked several questions. I was with him the whole time, holding his hand and reassuring him that it would be okay. The blood test came back showing a high level of white blood cells. That was when the doctor asked to perform a bone marrow biopsy. Frank looked absolutely panic stricken. And yet, there I was, still telling him it was okay.
The results came back. Acute leukemia, they said.
He lived another few months. When he left me forever, I was broken. Absolutely broken beyond repair. I went back to my self-destructive ways- cutting, popping pills, drinking, coming home to our old house every night wasted or stoned. One particular night I was feeling especially low, all the old memories coming back to me. The kisses, the hugs, the loving embraces. I went to my bathroom and took out my favorite toy, an old box cutter we had used to open boxes when we had first moved in. I blew one last kiss to my favorite picture of him and whispered “Goodbye.”
I fell to my knees on the bathroom floor, taking the box cutter in my shaking hand and scribbling the word “BROKEN” into my left wrist, then slicing away until blood flowed from my right. The tears poured down my face like acid rain, the salty water stinging my eyes and the fresh wounds on my wrists.
I knelt there, soon falling over to my side, merely watching myself die slowly and agonizingly, the blood pooling around me on the white linoleum floor. Only hours later and I was gone, a ghost, damned to walk alone in the afterlife, haunted by the memories of my one true love, who I would never meet again.