I don't know how to feel. I don't know what to do.
I sit there on the strairs, waiting for what seems like a century. I contemplate about philosophy, lulling into deep thought, that is interrupted incessantly by the noises of the party. I find myself feeling tired, and the thought of sleeping on these steps doesn't seem that unappealing. My body begins to get cold, goosebumps scattering my skin, making me wish I had brought a sweater. I curl up a bit in a ball, leaning towards the wooden balcony, and close my eyes. I review all the observations I made tonight about people. They all haven't changed, not even assuming that I know them, I can tell they're all quite a bit raw, stupid. I was told some time ago, by a pompous adult, that teenagers cannot be philosophers. I scoffed at his words, the audicity in the action caused him to back down, appearantly no 'kid'(as he called us) has ever questioned him. All though I do enjoy debating, I do not like debating with people who are fools, simply because they know not what they speak of, though their words may be labored with pride, they lack knowledge. I tend to have debates only inside my mind, as ridiculous as that notion is, I have yet to find some one who I can debate with.
I do believe there are some fortunate teenagers out there (whom I have, unfortunately never met) that can be philosophers. Despite the fact that they are young, and biased due to that gland (that I forgot the name of) which causes them to make irrational decisions. Seeing as philospher, came from the word philosophies, meaning lovers of knowledge, anyone who thrives for knowledge could be a philosopher as well as a teenager. Now philosopher, meaning theorists, doesn't in fact mean you must be any kind of proffessional, it just means that one is someone who makes a lot of conclusions based upon facts and evidence. People should often check the diction of words before connotating them into something, moronic.
I open my eyes once again and look ahead. I look for Gerard. I have a nagging feeling that he will not be coming back, but I also have that clinging hope that has me seated where I am now. I don't understand why I trust him to come back, I don't understand why I trust him when I am always supicious of people. I am elevated by my curiousity towards this guy, and grounded by my own distrust, yet I hold on to small red balloon that fills with hope whenever he gives me genuine smiles. I do not understand these conflicting feelings, and I don't want to. All I can feel right now, is my chilling body, and that swell of panic and shame settiling deep inside my stomach, whenever I think of Gerard not coming back.
I curl up more and close my eyes. This time my thoughts are derailed by the heavy compress of sleep. The visage of a thick chain appears in my dream. Rusty, black, threatning. It's all curled up, skewed and messy on the floor. I have no idea what to think of it. Amongst all the chains there is a key, pure and untouched, glistening in the dark. I look around, not seeing myself in the dream, and follow a trail of the chain leading to a lock, dark and bold, yet like the key untouched. As I am about to walk towards the key, I feel the presence of an outer force shake my shoulder, rousing me from sleep. My eyes open on their own accord, waiting till the haze of my dream to leave my mind. Still foggy around the edges, I shake my head and look up at the force that touched me. It's Gerard. He is similing kindly, almost tauntingly at my curled up form. I scowl. I get up and brush my legs in attempt to shake of any feelings I have felt before.
"Take me home." I demand, voice slurred by my fatigue. Gerard smirks.
"Wait." He says, he sprints inside the house then comes back out with a black sweater. He shakes it in my face then hands it to me. I clutch it in intrigue.
"Should've brought a sweater." He states, then leads me towards the sidewalk.
"Is this yours?" I ask, still not wanting to wear it.
"No, I took if from the closet, I'll give it back later." He states cooly as if taking sweaters from random people isn't weird at all. Without further question I put on the sweater. Alltough there are other lovely ways to die, hypothermia is not one of them. I look towards his figure, and I am filled with gratitude that he did not lend me his jacket, that would of been awfully weird, and uncomfortable, I do not like jackets, much less leather jackets.
We walk towards my house in heavy silence. Not really feeling the need nor the energy to talk, I look towards Gerard and give him a glance of reassurance. He doesn't smell like perfume anymore, which is weird considering he obviously banged the chick. His neck is barren of lovebites, but maybe they are only imperceptible due to the lack of lighting. His cheeks are a bit red, but not enough to state that he has sweated or blushed under the heat, I'd imagine, of sex. His mouth is the same pale pink color, not swollen nor red, so obviously they did not kiss. I find that weird, I've heard of it before though, no kissing during sex. How can one consider a kiss to be far more intamite then sex? I don't get it. Sex is far more intimate than kissing, so I persume. People are complicated. We near toward my house. Gerard leans into me and hands me an apple. I turn it around in my hands, a yellow green small little apple with blossoms of blushed red. It looks interesting I stuff it in the sweaters pockets, then keep my hands inside as we walk towards my balcony.
"It's called an Adanac apple." He declares as we walk up my stairs. Once I'm near the door I turn around to face him.
"Did you wash your hands?" I blurt out, thinking about the apple he gave me. It would be very gross touching an apple that was held by the hands of a guy who had sex. Hands most likely sweaty and clammy, roaming and touching, groping and carressing the female. Pulling, pushing, holding his genitals, touching her parts. A sudden clump of anger and disgust swells in my stomach. I feel it rise in my throat like a thick fog, I swallow, jaw tightening in response.
"Of course, Dirty bussiness is dirty bussiness. Must be washed off afterwords." He says nonchalantly. I glare at him.
"Don't say it like that, you just fucked a chick, it's not like you didn't enjoy. Maybe she deserves a little bit off respect seeing as she obviously got you off." I have no idea where that came from. The anger pulstates inside me. I'm being so irrational. Gerard's eyes widen in suprise. I glare hard at him, eyes roaming towards his body, clothes unrumpled, neat even, towards his hair, which contains the usual muss, not sex hair then. I look at his neck, now having the light to detect any hickies, it's barren. I glare at his neck even harder, eyes squinting for evidence. I almost missed it, the mark being so undetectable in the dark but there it is. A red splotch, of something I don't know yet, on the dent where his jawline meets his neck. It was almost impreceptible by his raven hair that covered it. My eyes quickly shift up towards his face, fearing being caught staring. Gerard is still staring at me, still quiet as if not knowing what to say. I stop glaring, overfilled with fatigue.
We continue to look at each other, for seconds, minutes even, the silence eating at us, compressing. Then Gerard takes a step towards me. My heart pounds, I begin to panic. His gaze looms over me, eyes looking down in, concentration, in something I don't know. I know that he will take another step, yet it still takes me by suprise as he does, I jump in startlement. My little heart hammers against my ribs, begging for realease of the supressment. Gerard's so close to me, so close I can feel his breath whisper over my lips, not smelling like anything of sex. A sudden wind tickles our hair and I feel Gerard's raven locks brush up against my cheek. He's too close. He doesn't smell like perfume, he smells of something darker. Amongst all the scents of tabacco, wine and apples, that his figure emits, a scent laced in iron dominates the smell. Iron, why iron? Gerard leans down, and a feeling within my gut clenches and I fear I know what he is going to do. I gasp, as if in pain, and clench my eyes closed. My breathing is labored in fright, in anticipation. Finally, in a sense of rationality, I break away from the feeling, quickly turning around to unlock my door.
"I have to go." I blurt out amongst my heavy breathing. Eyes staring at Gerard in panic, not daring to look any longer I get inside my house, and close the door on Gerard. My heart still pounds away, like a vicious drum, it pulstates within the supressed atmosphere of whatever that was. My breathing calms down as I walk towards my room. And as I enter, my heart ceases to pound viciously. I collapse on my bed and close my eyes.
I have no idea what that was, I try to fool myself. I know exactly what that was, I didn't want it to happen. I try to avoid the thought, it's terribly hard. I don't know what I am experiencing, but I do know. I try not to think. That being impossible, I end up thinking of Gerard's lips, then replacing my thoughts to the red splotch on his neck. It was dark, and most defintely not a hickie. His lips looked so delicate, untouched in the night despite the fact he made out with that chick. And that smell, that iron smell, what was it from? My thoughts layer and stack over each other haphazardly. I cannot control them, I cannot control this.
I have a night full of restless sleep, and amongst my fidgeting, tossing and turning I hear Gerard's sly voice utter in the dark.
"I'd like to remember this as the first night I conquered the beast of Frakenstein ."
Hope you guys liked it. Please R&R merci.