Frank reflects. [minor edits]
I don’t know, meh, i’m freaking tired and I’ve had this on my ipod for about a hundred years so thought i’d put it up
As I sit in the cheap plastic chair in first period psychology class, I look to my right and can't stop a stupid smile from creeping across my face when I look at the boy sat next to me. He looks intently at the whiteboard at the front of the room, his face contorted with concentration and avid interest. I notice his regular breathing; he is completely relaxed and so obviously and beautifully captured by the subject.
Before he catches me staring, I look down and read once again the title of the assignment we have been given. 'To complete an extensive personal profile of the chosen subject analysing personality, mental state and emotional attributes.'
The first statement we're supposed to write below is painfully dull; description of the subject.
My chosen subject is the boy sat next to me. So how can I describe him? Well, I'll start with the basics. His name is Gerard Arthur Way. He is seventeen years old, he goes to Belleville High School, he has brown eyes and black hair that he's been dying since he as fourteen, his favourite song is Iron Maiden's Aces High, he loves art, especially comics, he hates all sport, his favourite movie is Halloween (the original, of course) and his favourite season is Winter because its cold and dark and damp but beautiful and white and sparkly at the same time. He's not afraid to stand up for himself, he just likes to do it in his own, quiet way, and you can see the pain in his eyes every time he sees an innocent person wronged. Wow.
He is my best friend.
And sometimes I make the mistake of letting myself imagine that maybe one day he'll be more than that. Sometimes I think maybe we're soulmates; that the way we can almost tell what one another is thinking and the way we can have whole conversations in complete silence, speaking our thoughts with simply looks and body language means something...but then again that could just be wishful thinking, or teenage hormones. Who knows.
I breathe deeply. He smells of paint and cigarettes and it makes me smile, and in that moment I am completely and utterly happy.
I blink. A solitary tear escapes my eye and falls onto my cold cheek. I breathe in, smelling wet grass in the winter and the unmistakable damp misery of a churchyard. I feel an icy wind graze my face, causing my delicate body to shiver, even though it already feels like I'm about to shatter into a million tiny pieces.
Distant-sounding voices and muffled sobs begin to drag me from my reverie.
Is that me? I can't seem to process any coherent thoughts. I look around. I'm in a large graveyard, draped in a blanket of fog and depression. Droplets of dew cling to a broken spider's web, twinkling ever so slightly, like broken Christmas lights. I look around, but I don't see. I don't see the world as I used to. Darkness and despair are everywhere.
"Frank?" Quieter now, gentler.
I look down and in that moment all I can do is stare at the grey headstone lying at my feet. It's new. Too new. And the dates engraved into the cold marble slab are what is most heartbreaking: they're close. Too close. And the name etched above those dates is familiar. Too familiar. It makes my soul shatter and break and I can't look anymore. I turn away, falling into the arms of a woman. Soft, warm. My mother. But the words on that stone stay with me, even after my eyes are closed, tattooed onto my memory.
Gerard Arthur Way
Son. Brother. Friend.
I suppose I can't say I never expected it- Gerard had always struggled. He once said to me, in amongst a mess of tired red eyes and salty tears, "I'm a mistake, Frankie. I don't fit in this world, I'm not supposed to be here". But the pain and fear in his eyes screamed at me more than his words ever did.
I did see him happy, of course I did. When we were together it was like he relaxed and just, let go. We told each other everything. I told him when I first started questioning my sexuality. He told me the first time he tried to kill himself. And the second. And the third...
Whenever he was having one of these 'episodes' all I could do was hold him while he cried, his despair flowing out of him. He hated himself so much. Towards the end I think he just couldn't bare to be alone. If he was alone, his thoughts took over, and a spiral of self-destruction began.
But now I can, at least, find a tiny shred of hope. Hope in the fact that wherever he is now, if he is anywhere at all, he's not suffering anymore. He's finally at peace. And I'll forever love him too much to imagine anything else.