Frank (20-23 just posted)
Frank, I'm sorry. I know you're never going to forgive me for what I'm about to do, and I wouldn't blame you. Hell, I don't think anyone will forgive me. But I just can't do this anymore. I'm tired of putting on a show for the world.
The hospital called a few minutes ago. Bob's dead, Frank. He's dead and he's never coming back. I thought you should find out now, because, well, I don't know exactly what's going to happen.
I nearly dropped the page when I read the heartbreaking words. Bob couldn't be dead. He just couldn't. I felt tears sparking at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them away. I wouldn't be able to read the rest with blurred vision.
There's just nothing else I can do, Frank. You know me. I hope you'll understand, because there's absolutely no way I can explain it. It's just impossible to put into words how horribly sick I feel right now. I feel worse than ever. I just want you to know that it's not your fault. It's nothing you've done. It's because of whoever did this to us. I just want it all to end, and I want to be the one to end it all.
I screamed a curse and set the paper on my bed, rushing to get dressed. I wildly searched for my car keys, finding the spare set in the pocket of my jacket. I returned to the note.
I love you. I love Mikey. I love Ray, and Bob, and Brian. I love this band and everything it's done for us, everything it's done for me. I love our fans. But the hatred I have for the person that did this to us outweighs it all, and for that I feel stupid. I'm letting this one setback ruin everything I've worked for and everything I live for. But I know I don't have to explain it to you. Because you understand me, Frank.
I don't want my little brother to find this, or anyone else, for that matter. I don't want the media to find this either, or to let the fans know I've let them all down. I want you to do one last thing for me, Frank. Write a note. Tell them it was the poison, that I finally succumbed to this disease. They can't know. No one, not even Mikey can know what I'm about to do. I only want you to know. After you're done with that, I'd like you to burn this.
I crumpled the note and shoved it in my pocket, then raced outside. Sure enough, Gerard's car was gone, but mine was there. Even though I knew it was dangerous to drive without being able to hear, I didn't care. I had no idea how long the note had been there, or how much time I had left.
I raced to his house in ten minutes, shortening the trip to less than half of what it usually was. The darkness seemed to press against me on the trip, and blood was pounding in my ears, but I ignored it all. I saw no other cars parked near the Way house and nearly sighed in relief until I remembered I had nothing to be relieved about. I threw open the front door and raced upstairs, knowing he would be in his room. That door was locked, but I managed to break through it. I could have a surprising amount of strength when a friend's life was in danger.
No. No. No.
I refuse to believe it.
This is not happening to me. This is not happening.
Gerard Way is not right here in front of me. He's not slumped over on the floor, crumpled up like a useless piece of paper with his head lolled to one side and blood soaked into the carpet around him. His sleeves are not halfway pulled down over his arms, which are not bleeding.
This is not happening.
I collapse to my knees, shaking in absolute fear. My eyes fall upon a silver object next to him. His phone. I grab it with numb fingers, but I drop it almost immediately. I can't call anyone. I'm deaf. Instead I crawl closer to Gerard and place a hand on his forehead. He's cold, colder than usual. I suddenly embrace him, crying hysterically and begging him to wake up. He can't be dead. He's only asleep.
A few minutes later and all my tears are gone. I'm reduced to an empty shell completely void of emotion. He's left me with nothing. I pick up the knife, cleaning off some of the blood. I lie flat on the floor and hold my wrist up near my face, blocking the glare from the overhead lights. My skin seems darker now, but I know it's not. I press the blade against my skin, shuddering slightly upon feeling how cold it is. I'm about to drive it deeper when I feel a vibration from nearby, something near my foot. I sit up, dropping the knife to the carpet, and look at the caller ID.
It's Mikey. Why would he be calling Gerard, knowing he can't speak? For that matter, why does Gerard even have his phone with him? Habit, I guess. I had caught myself trying to make phone calls a few times. I just let it ring, but it bothers me. Maybe I shouldn't kill myself. Maybe this is his way of trying to tell me I've still got something to live for.
Then my eyes fall upon the black-clad figure next to me, and his words break my heart all over again.
I drop the knife and hide it under the bed. I don't care that they'll find it later. I run downstairs and raid the cabinets, finding exactly what I need. I take a bottle of water with me and head back to his room, still crying. I'm a coward. I can't face the pain Gerard had faced. I'm not brave like him.
I sit next to him, almost as if we're about to watch a movie together like we always used to. I pull his note out of my pocket and add my own words to it, placing it delicately next to him. I begin downing the pills several at a time, taking sips of the water in between. The effects settle in soon after, and I embrace him one last time.
"I'm sorry too, Gee," I slur, feeling the fog of sleep begin to overtake me again. "I never had the nerve to make the final cut."
My eyes close and my world goes black. Surprisingly, though, I feel arms embracing me back, and someone's head resting on my shoulder.
I pull back, staring into Gerard's smiling face. He's deathly pale, like a ghost, or a vampire. His hair is a midnight black that it never was before, and it's a perfect match to his eyes. I just stare at him in numb shock.
His voice is back. No, not just that. My hearing is back. I can hear again.
"...Gerard..." He softly smiles when I say his name. I pull away from him and look around, seeing near-complete darkness everywhere save for a few pinpoints of light that I recognize as stars.
"Frank!" calls another voice. I turn in time to be tackled to the ground by Bob, making Gerard laugh. I manage to stand and brush myself off. Bob's hair looks golden, not just blond. He's just as pale as Gerard, and his eyes are just as black. He smiles.
"It's good to see you." Gerard shoots him a serious look before stepping closer to me.
"What are you doing here?" he asks softly, solemnly. I shake my head. How am I supposed to know when I just got here?
Then I realize what he's asking. He wants to know why I killed myself. I look away from him, unable to meet his coal-colored eyes.
"I never had the nerve to make the final cut."