When we finally got inside, Frank decided we should watch a movie. I wasn't really sure why at first, but I quickly figured it out when he muted the volume started adding his own sound effects. Some of it didn't make much sense, but it was definitely funny. I only wished he could have heard himself.
He fell asleep halfway through the movie, so I had to find a new way to keep myself entertained. I grabbed a notebook I found nearby and started writing whatever came to mind, something I often did. I had even used this notebook before, finding some of my older sketches littering the first few pages. Frank never seemed to mind.
I changed the channel on the TV, cycling through all thirteen before settling on the news. I wasn't even paying attention to it as I wrote.
The time dragged on, and I soon lost track of it. I finally stopped writing, maybe several hours later, and reread some of what I had written. Mostly sketches, with a few absentminded poems. As I looked over one, a melody appeared in my mind. Apparently I was trying to write songs again, whether I knew it or not.
Darkness began to creep through the windows. I checked my watch. Ten. Wow, I had been working longer than I thought. Frank finally woke up and stumbled off to his room. I wasn't tired, and even if I had been I planned on sleeping on the couch. I just couldn't go home and face my brother. His eyes were too empty, too haunting.
I lit up a cigarette, taking note of the yellow stains on my fingers. Remnants of the nicotine all cigarettes contained. Frank wouldn't mind about this, either. He often smoked inside his own home. As I slowly wandered around, I caught sight of my own reflection in a mirror on the wall. I looked into my own eyes, seeing that they were as dark and staring as my brother's. 'It must be the poison,' I thought to myself. 'I bet Frank's eyes look the same.'
Finishing off the cigarette, I walked into the kitchen to make some coffee. Just as I stepped through the doorway, the phone rang loudly. I waited until it went to voicemail. Neither of us could answer it, anyway.
"This is Dr. Howes, from the St. Rose Hospital. I'm calling to inform you that a Mr. Robert Bryar passed away earlier this evening..."
I didn't listen to the rest of his words. I picked up the phone and immediately set it back on the receiver. This couldn't be happening to me. Not him. Not one of my closest friends. It was impossible.
I crept back into the living room and picked up the notebook, tearing a piece of paper out of the very back. I began writing again, forming each letter carefully and neatly. It took longer than usual, but I finished in enough time. I silently entered Frank's room and placed it on the desk, leaving just as quickly.
I drove home in numb shock. I opened the front door with the same silence I had become accustomed to. First I walked up the stairs to check on Mikey, but surprisingly, he wasn't there. Nobody was home. I found a note from Ray saying they had gone back to his house, much like I had gone with Frank. This only made things easier.
I went upstairs to get what I needed, then returned to my own room in the basement. Tears began to fill my eyes as I rolled back the sleeves of my jacket, then buried the knife in my pale skin. The crimson blood pooled around me, but I didn't care. I truly had nothing left to live for.
I felt myself growing dizzy and my fingers growing warm and numb. I slid my phone out of my pocket and set it on the ground beside me. I had been carrying it around out of habit, but now I wouldn't need it anymore.
It doesn't take long before I start to feel weak. I prop myself up against the bed so I don't have to support my own weight. My eyelids feel heavy and fall close, bringing darkness to me. Funny. I've lived an important part of my life in almost total darkness; ending it the same way almost seems normal.
'I'm sorry, Mikey,' I think as the darkness begins to overtake me. I feel numb.
I open my eyes to see a star-filled sky before me. I'm standing in a rock-covered wasteland, a place where everything is black. I almost can't see the difference between the sky and the ground; both look like charcoal. I hold a hand up to my face, seeing it glow milk-white. I inhale sharply, but nothing fills my lungs. It's a strange, empty feeling.
"Hey, Gerard," says a quiet voice next to me. I turn and see a familiar face, framed with blond hair that almost seems golden. His eyes are coal black. Reality hits me.
"Bob?" I ask softly. He nods with a smile.
"It's good to see you," he responds. I take a sweeping glance of the world around us, still unsure of what I'm looking at.
"Where are we?" I ask him, hoping he'll know. He just smiles again.
"This is the dark side of the moon."
"Are we...dead?" I nearly whisper. He nods solemnly. I suddenly realize my voice is back, and it sounds exactly the same. I smile in spite of myself. I almost feel normal again, save the fact that I can't actually breathe. Bob's eyes narrow as he stares out at the sky.
"What's wrong?" I ask him. He turns to me and gives a sad smile.
"It won't be long now."