FicWad

The Poison
Chapter Three
And when you do your very worst
It feels the best
Be the cure.
What did that mean? I leaned drowsily against the headboard, wandering in my thoughts. I had many questions racing through my mind, the answers slow to come, if they came at all. Paranormal would have been a perfect way to categorize my earlier encounter. I had never held an interest in ghosts and the like, but that was what the mysterious pigtailed girl seemed to be.
I sighed, rolling over to the far side of the bed, where my book lay face-up on the floor (there was no bedside table). How much more complicated can a situation get? Not to mention the fact that I was still locking myself in this hell house, for no discernable reason at that.
No, I corrected myself silently, You are staying here for a reason. Food. Warmth. Place to stay.
I knew that wasn’t all. I knew. Through some strange animalistic instinct, I simply knew that another notion tethered me to Gerard and his home. It wasn’t tangible in any way, I could just feel a strange pull on my heart that deterred me from ever opening the front door and leaving behind Gerard Arthur Way and his strange ghosts.
I blinked.
Ghosts?
I had never used that word in such a literal sense before. I used it exclusively to describe the particularly quiet people (me) or the vague memories of an ordinary, mundane life. Those were my ghosts. Not translucent images of the ones departed.
The book lay on my stomach in front of me, and as I stared blankly at the pages, tears I didn’t know I had been shedding splattered against the thick yellow parchment. The moisture seeped into the paper, leaving a slightly darker, more delicate circle. I ran my finger over it lightly, thinking. I got the feeling that I’d be crying a lot, sleeping a lot, and crying some more. I didn’t mind. Crying was a foreign, lovely thing to me. I had given up on crying long ago, because as the meaty fists of my father pounded into me, I didn’t cry. Wouldn’t cry.
Couldn’t cry.
If a single drop escaped my tear ducts, a sharp blow to the head would instantly staunch them.
And now I was free to cry and scream and throw things and have a complete breakdown, and I could do it without interruption, provided that no one would be in the living room below.
The book collapsed in my hands, folding shut as I paused in breathing.
“God help me,” I whispered.
Robotically, I rose from the downy sheets, and pulled down from the white bookshelves a set of books- the ones that I knew from childhood. Dr. Seuss, Richard Scarry, Lewis Carroll, among others. Soon I had a stack of books as high as my shins. I stared down the jovial, iconic Cat in the Hat for a moment before finally grasping the worn cardboard edges of the book itself. Leafing through the thin, colorful pages, I opened the back cover, seeing a large chicken scratch on the white paper. It was done in the light, rough lines that a sketch artist might draw with. From what I could gather, it was a picture of two people, a man and a woman. Black haired, blood-spattered, eyes permanently closed. In the bottom corner in a similar rough scrawl, was the title ‘Demolition Lovers II’.
The first thought that came to my mind was Gerard drew this, the second being He’s wonderful.
I shook my head. That hadn’t sounded quite right.
He’s a wonderful artist.
There. That sounded better, more appropriate, concerning the circumstances. As I looked at the drawing, a third thought hit me- The woman looked a lot like the other one I had seen earlier that day. This struck me as more than odd or coincidental. Gerard was probably delusional- and there was a good chunk of evidence to that. I could go to the police- file a report for rape and sexual assault- and while I was at it, I might let someone know about my father. Yes, this was a good plan. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? For the first time in an eternity, I smiled just a little. I put Dr. Suess back down and stepped over to the door, which was already half-opened.
Down the stairs into the kitchen, through the great room, out the door-
But Gerard was sitting calmly in the living room, hands folded. I paused in my brisk walk, sucking in a nervous breath.
“Where are you going?” he asked quietly.
I was determined to not let my anxiety show, but my pores betrayed me as sweat began leaking from them.
“Outside.” I said evasively. “For a walk.”
“Alright.” he answered evenly. “Wear a coat, though. Here.”
He threw me a long black trench coat that when I put it on, reached my ankles. The shoulders were far too wide, the sleeves touching my palms. I sighed in relief, slowly picking up speed before breaking into a full run as soon as I was out the door.
The January air was bitingly chilly, making me appreciate the oversized coat. I pulled it taut around my shoulders as I aimlessly walked around the neighborhood. Because there was one minute flaw in my genius plan- I didn’t know where the police station was. Groaning, I picked up speed towards a park that I had caught a glimpse of earlier. A few moments of solitude on a swing would be nice- but when I arrived, I saw nothing but weeds and a few rusted structures resembling a merry-go-round, a slide, and a swing set. Even the woodchips were in a sorry state. My hands shook as I took my seat on the ground, soon followed by my shoulders.
It seemed that everything was broken here.
“It’s sad, isn’t it?”
I knew that voice. A bluish light flickered in my peripheral. I turned and looked up, but I already had an idea of what I’d see.
The woman from earlier, eyes half shut in sad contemplation, tied-back hair swirling around her face in a wind that did not exist.
I nodded dumbly, this time not quite so shocked. Was this what people considered an ‘attachment’, when a spirit would only haunt one person, following them everywhere? I shuddered, unaware that the lady was now smiling ruefully down at me.
“You can fix this. Just like you can fix him.”
This is usually the part where the ghost fades into a spectral swirl of white light, but none of this happened. She just stayed, watching the wind rock the merry-go-round in a tuneless song.
-.-.-
I had only stayed at the playground for around fifteen minutes, but it took me nearly an hour to navigate myself back to Cemetery Drive, and another ten to wonder why I was still going back.
I trotted up the porch steps, pulled the door open, and there Gerard was, a tight smile gracing his lips.
He knew I’d come back.
He knew.
For some reason, this made my bones shake, sending a small tsunami of rage through me. He knew something I didn’t know about what kept me here, something that I needed to know.
He pulled me into an uncomfortable hug- his hands were too low, around my waist, forcing mine around his neck- as if I were his spouse instead of prisoner. His face was buried in my shoulder as we stood on the steps for long minutes, him breathing warm air onto my neck. Soon it became to tense for me and I shrugged out of it, walking past him.
“You were going to the police, weren’t you?” he asked me suddenly.
I froze. How did he...?
“Weren’t you?” he said quietly, taking a step towards me.
Instinctively, I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for the blow. Instead, I felt a gentle pair of lips on my cheek.
“You couldn’t find the way to the station though.” he continued softly, mouth still resting on my face. “It’s alright that you didn’t, though, because you know what they do to guys like us in prison.”
What the hell was it with him and his cryptic statements?
I turned on my heel, my face no doubt heating to an impressive shade of red, ascending the staircase up to the library.
This time, I really did pay attention to Catcher in the Rye. In fact, I nearly drowned in it, immersing myself in the world of Holden Caulfield, able to think at least I’m not as much of a screw-up as he is. Soon, the dark, grand library faded away, replaced with Pencey Prep. I could’ve lived in an imaginary world for as long as I wanted...
Until Gerard softly swung the door open, jolting me out of my dreamland. He sat down on the same couch as me, saying, “I like that book, too.”
I abruptly stopped reading in the middle of a sentence, slightly annoyed. Peering over the yellowing pages, I saw him leaning on the armrest, staring at the wall with the same expression as the ghost earlier.
“It’s really too bad that so much crumby stuff is fun sometimes.” I spontaneously read aloud, startling him into attention.
Embarrassed, I shut up, hiding my face behind the book.
But Gerard pushed the edges down so he could see me.
“No,” he said. “Keep reading. I like your voice.”
I had no idea what this meant, but I obliged anyhow. For the better part of an hour, I read from the crinkled paper in a trembling, nervous voice, stumbling over a few words. Eventually, I slid onto the floor in Gerard’s lap, giving him a clear vantage point of the pages so he could help me. At some point his arms snaked around my waist, and there we were, looking more like spouses than prisoner and jail keeper.
-.-.-
Eventually, my voice began to wear out. The edges sounded rough like a smoker’s would, my throat hurting just a little more after each sentence. Eventually Gerard took over, his Jersey accent sounding far smoother than my own.
I think the only things I truly like about Gerard so far are his books and his voice. It’s velvety in a way, but not incredibly suave. Higher than normal and even cracking in some instances. His pronunciation was of standard Jersey protocol, and strangely... musical. He had a singer’s voice.
Half past five, I made a resolution to hear his singing voice. Half past six, the desire to hear it was so strong it was nearly painful- that scared me a little. At seven, Gerard’s hands clapped over mine and closed the book. I blinked heavily, shaken out of my daydreaming.
“Hungry?” he asked me.
“Yeah.” I croaked, still gazing dazedly at the cover.
A hand unexpectedly brushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I think I’ll let you make it this time.” At this, I smiled wryly, silently agreeing. I think I’d had enough paprika to last a lifetime.
-.-.-
I stood facing the large cabinets in the kitchen, finger placed inquisitively on my lips. I had already scrounged throughout them, and all I had managed to find was a half-full box of fat bowtie pasta, a jar of Prego, and more paprika (how much paprika can one person have?). I pushed the paprika to the farthest region of the counter and stared at the pasta ingredients. After a few moments, I turned to the refrigerator and hunted out a bag of mozzarella cheese cubes and parmesan.
“Now to find the salt and pot...” I trailed off, staring up at the higher cabinets. “...Great.”
I wasn’t very tall, only five foot three, and climbing up on the counter to reach it would be a quickly dismissed thought. The only thing left to do would be to ask Gerard. I twitched- not that he was horrible or incredibly disgusting- something about him made me want to avoid him constantly. Now I would have to go directly to him for assistance.
Luckily I didn’t go too far before finding him in the great room, staring emptily at the fireplace. I tugged lightly on his sleeve.
“Can you help me with something?” I whispered.
He nodded absently, placing his feet on the ground.
Back in the kitchen, Gerard’s fingers wrapped easily around the pan handle and pulled it down, placing it beside the bowtie pasta. He looked down at the floor and mumbled something.
“Need me to help with anything else?”
I thought for a minute, deciding that him simply being in the kitchen wouldn’t affect the quality of the meal itself.
“Okay.” I said. “Can you fill the pot with water and let it boil? Throw a little salt in, too.”
With confusion written on his face, Gerard filled the pot with water and was about to dump the entire jar of salt in before I stopped him.
“I said a little salt.”
“…Oh.”
After that, Gerard slowly learned to make bowtie pasta under my careful guidance. When the plates were all set out and we could eat, Gerard awkwardly tried to start a conversation.
“So... what is this called?” he asked through large, rushed bites- my assumption that he hadn’t had a decent meal in awhile had obviously been correct.
“Oh. Well, my mom usually made this around Halloween, and called it Bat and Cobweb pasta. See?” I said, pointing at the pasta. “The pasta’s the bats, and the mozzarella’s the cobweb.”
“Mm-hm.” he said flatly, not seeing the connection.
I blushed. “Her idea, not mine.”
Why was I lying? It wasn’t like his opinion mattered to me... did it?
He shook his head. “No, no! The idea’s cute. Creative.”
He looked at me in a way that said I’m lying, and I deflated, picking halfheartedly at the food.
A sudden warmth on the heel on my hand made me tense- Gerard had placed his on top of mine in a strangely comforting way, and I guess it didn’t bother me. I wondered if he had known the ghost woman and if he had put his hand on hers like this. Maybe he did.
For some reason, I found myself hoping that he did.
And this is my slightly late beginning-of-March present for all of you. Honestly, it isn't one of my favorite chapters, but it's alright, I guess. I just hope it's good enough.