Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Schrödinger's Cat
Chapter Nine: The Conclusion
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Gerard pulled the trigger three times, trying to aim for his head but still having too clumsy of an aim to hit where it would kill him instantly.
The first bullet landed through his right cheek. The second scratched his ear. The third went into his jaw.
He was surely going to bleed to death, no matter what he did. The pain that wracked his body made it seem as though he was on the verge of death at any moment, and he wished it would come already.
Yet there was an ounce of strength left in him, and there was a moment where he looked to his side and saw the marker that was used for the whiteboard, laying on the kitchen floor beside him. He thought for a moment, about how it might look when people found him lying here, thought to be nothing more than a cheater perhaps driven mad with guilt.
Gerard wanted his brother, at least, to know the truth. To know what he had realized as he had been attacked.
His entire body shaking, Gerard reached over and grabbed the marker. He pulled open it's cap, and had to practically hug the refrigerator door in order to reach the mini white board at its middle.
He wrote three words as legibly as he possibly could, then let himself collapse back onto the ground. Gerard's head slammed onto the ceramic tiles when it did, causing just the right amount of shock that was needed to finish him off.
His very last thoughts as he faded away were peaceful, as he figured he could explain things to Frank in the afterlife -- where Gerard would be able to find him, at last.
It was only about three hours later that Frank pulled up in the driveway, his heart beating out of his chest. He couldn't quite explain just how odd it felt to be pulling up into this driveway again, back at the place he once called his home.
He had come alone. Angela had offered to come with him, but he felt that this should be between him and Gerard only -- whatever "this" was.
Frank almost speculated just peering through the window quickly, seeing if Gerard was alright, and then going back to Angela's if he was. What exactly was the definition of checking on someone anyway? All he had to do was check, right?
This is a stupid idea. Go back to Angela's.
Go anywhere else.
Just not there.
But that other voice, the one that nagged him 10 years ago about his worries for Gerard, just as it nagged him now, forced him to step out of the car and onto the lawn. His brain spent the thirty second walk to the front door asking questions to fulfill hours.
Would Gerard be angry with him?
Should he be cold shouldered, or sweet when speaking to him?
Is there a chance they might end up in a relationship again after today?
Will he fold the minute he sees the singers gorgeous face, pleading him not to go?
Is he strong enough to tell him no?
How much has he missed him?
Does he have a new man or woman in his life?
Did he still love him?
Frank reached the door and rang the doorbell. He had the key, but he didn't know if it would be wise for him to go barging in. Yet he waited for a good five minutes before no one answered, and ended up using the key anyway.
From his first three steps in the house, Frank could tell that something was terribly wrong. A hint to this may have been the fact that the place reeked of the scent of blood. Frank tried to keep his cool and called out.
"Gerard? Gerard?"
With no immediate answer, Frank's heart beat escalated to a point where he was surprised that he wasn't succumbing to a heart attack right there and then. He knew he should go investigate the source of the blood, but he almost did not want to know the answer.
What other choice do I have?
Frank went in the direction of the sitting room where Gerard usually hung out on his laptop, and the closer he went, the stronger the scent became. But soon, there was no need to sniff it out. As he entered, the pool sized stain of red on the beige carpet was impossible to miss.
"Gerard???" he called out again, his voice cracking with fear and nervousness.
Then he saw it, the red trail that was sloppy, but clearly led out into the kitchen. Whatever had shed all this blood had definitely gone in that direction. Frank took a moment to recover and gather his courage, before he stepped forward and followed its path.
The kitchen opened up before him, and the trail ended there, but a table blocked it's source from his immediate vision. Frank was trembling violently at the mere suspicion of what was lying ahead of him.
And there he was, Frank saw as he walked past the table. Gerard was sprawled out on the floor, a marker in one hand, and a gun next to the other. He was afloat on a lake of blood that threatened to swallow him whole.
And he was very, very clearly dead.
Frank fell upon his knees, the tears flooding down instantly. His first few sobs were more like mangled screams as he looked Gerard over, his heart finally exploding in his chest. Yet he remained conscious as he gathered his lover's body into his arms, weeping openly.
"No... no no no no... no please...." he cried, cradling Gerard onto his lap. His red hair was dripping with the darker red of his blood, which had mingled with his hair color in quite a beautiful way.
Frank bent down and kissed Gerard gently on his dead lips, as though expecting that to bring him back to life. He kissed him many more times before he heard a clattering noise. He looked over and saw that Gerard had dropped the marker due to being lifted, and it was only then that Frank wondered what he had been doing with such an odd object for a corpse to be holding.
He looked up at the white board above, and saw Gerard's last words in bold and angry looking letters.
HE RAPED ME
Frank read it multiple times as he rocked back and forth with Gerard on his lap. Could it mean what he thought it meant?
Did Gerard die alone for nothing?
Frank's mind was too jumbled to understand the gravity of the statement. But he at least understood somewhat, and a new kind of pain, one he had never even imagined before, tore through him with razor sharp claws.
"Oh god... oh god Gerard I'm so sorry..." Frank sobbed, turning his eyes back to the slain face of his beau, "I'm sorry, I love you so much.. please... please don't go... FUCKING PLEASE, OH GOD.... no......no...please baby, no....you're my everything... please, please, please ...."
Frank was blind to time for that day. He sat there, pleading and crying and screaming with Gerard until his voice was completely eradicated and his body hurt from sitting that way. It wasn't until late afternoon that he called the police, barely able to speak to the woman on the other line. When she asked him what exactly had happened, Frank could barely utter his answer.
"I - I failed."
And it was two weeks later that Frank found himself in their old bedroom, sitting on the bed that they once shared. The bed where he would go to sleep every night, with Gerard safe in his arms. Just like he should have been that very night.
But this wasn't so, because when Frank returned to the house, he had opened the box. He had opened the box, within which he had most definitely found a corpse -- and according to Eric Schrodinger, there was no refuting that now.
And maybe this Schrodinger fellow is right, Frank figured. He had limited himself to this conclusion, and there was not much else he could do about it. However another theory came to mind, more like a philosophy he once heard. It went: "No outcome is good or bad, everything is how you react to it."
While the conclusion was set in stone -- a stone soon to be in a graveyard in Bellville, Frank still had control over the reaction. For instance, he had turned in his own family, realizing that they had been responsible for Gerard's beating. Yet there was still a loose end, and Frank knew he must punish the person who was responsible for Gerard's death.
So he took his own gun, and put the barrel in his mouth.
Bang
Bang
Bang.
END
A/N: Hey, don't look at me like that. Wasn't my story, remember? This was still a request, despite the fact that the requester seems to have disappeared off the face of the planet...
So that concludes my regular chaptered stories until my very last one. Hint: It's based on cancer and The Black Parade. :3 Oh, as for Trust Me, I might save that for weekends, but either way its only really going to be like a three or four part -- not really a full length thing, I don't think.
Myren
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Gerard pulled the trigger three times, trying to aim for his head but still having too clumsy of an aim to hit where it would kill him instantly.
The first bullet landed through his right cheek. The second scratched his ear. The third went into his jaw.
He was surely going to bleed to death, no matter what he did. The pain that wracked his body made it seem as though he was on the verge of death at any moment, and he wished it would come already.
Yet there was an ounce of strength left in him, and there was a moment where he looked to his side and saw the marker that was used for the whiteboard, laying on the kitchen floor beside him. He thought for a moment, about how it might look when people found him lying here, thought to be nothing more than a cheater perhaps driven mad with guilt.
Gerard wanted his brother, at least, to know the truth. To know what he had realized as he had been attacked.
His entire body shaking, Gerard reached over and grabbed the marker. He pulled open it's cap, and had to practically hug the refrigerator door in order to reach the mini white board at its middle.
He wrote three words as legibly as he possibly could, then let himself collapse back onto the ground. Gerard's head slammed onto the ceramic tiles when it did, causing just the right amount of shock that was needed to finish him off.
His very last thoughts as he faded away were peaceful, as he figured he could explain things to Frank in the afterlife -- where Gerard would be able to find him, at last.
It was only about three hours later that Frank pulled up in the driveway, his heart beating out of his chest. He couldn't quite explain just how odd it felt to be pulling up into this driveway again, back at the place he once called his home.
He had come alone. Angela had offered to come with him, but he felt that this should be between him and Gerard only -- whatever "this" was.
Frank almost speculated just peering through the window quickly, seeing if Gerard was alright, and then going back to Angela's if he was. What exactly was the definition of checking on someone anyway? All he had to do was check, right?
This is a stupid idea. Go back to Angela's.
Go anywhere else.
Just not there.
But that other voice, the one that nagged him 10 years ago about his worries for Gerard, just as it nagged him now, forced him to step out of the car and onto the lawn. His brain spent the thirty second walk to the front door asking questions to fulfill hours.
Would Gerard be angry with him?
Should he be cold shouldered, or sweet when speaking to him?
Is there a chance they might end up in a relationship again after today?
Will he fold the minute he sees the singers gorgeous face, pleading him not to go?
Is he strong enough to tell him no?
How much has he missed him?
Does he have a new man or woman in his life?
Did he still love him?
Frank reached the door and rang the doorbell. He had the key, but he didn't know if it would be wise for him to go barging in. Yet he waited for a good five minutes before no one answered, and ended up using the key anyway.
From his first three steps in the house, Frank could tell that something was terribly wrong. A hint to this may have been the fact that the place reeked of the scent of blood. Frank tried to keep his cool and called out.
"Gerard? Gerard?"
With no immediate answer, Frank's heart beat escalated to a point where he was surprised that he wasn't succumbing to a heart attack right there and then. He knew he should go investigate the source of the blood, but he almost did not want to know the answer.
What other choice do I have?
Frank went in the direction of the sitting room where Gerard usually hung out on his laptop, and the closer he went, the stronger the scent became. But soon, there was no need to sniff it out. As he entered, the pool sized stain of red on the beige carpet was impossible to miss.
"Gerard???" he called out again, his voice cracking with fear and nervousness.
Then he saw it, the red trail that was sloppy, but clearly led out into the kitchen. Whatever had shed all this blood had definitely gone in that direction. Frank took a moment to recover and gather his courage, before he stepped forward and followed its path.
The kitchen opened up before him, and the trail ended there, but a table blocked it's source from his immediate vision. Frank was trembling violently at the mere suspicion of what was lying ahead of him.
And there he was, Frank saw as he walked past the table. Gerard was sprawled out on the floor, a marker in one hand, and a gun next to the other. He was afloat on a lake of blood that threatened to swallow him whole.
And he was very, very clearly dead.
Frank fell upon his knees, the tears flooding down instantly. His first few sobs were more like mangled screams as he looked Gerard over, his heart finally exploding in his chest. Yet he remained conscious as he gathered his lover's body into his arms, weeping openly.
"No... no no no no... no please...." he cried, cradling Gerard onto his lap. His red hair was dripping with the darker red of his blood, which had mingled with his hair color in quite a beautiful way.
Frank bent down and kissed Gerard gently on his dead lips, as though expecting that to bring him back to life. He kissed him many more times before he heard a clattering noise. He looked over and saw that Gerard had dropped the marker due to being lifted, and it was only then that Frank wondered what he had been doing with such an odd object for a corpse to be holding.
He looked up at the white board above, and saw Gerard's last words in bold and angry looking letters.
HE RAPED ME
Frank read it multiple times as he rocked back and forth with Gerard on his lap. Could it mean what he thought it meant?
Did Gerard die alone for nothing?
Frank's mind was too jumbled to understand the gravity of the statement. But he at least understood somewhat, and a new kind of pain, one he had never even imagined before, tore through him with razor sharp claws.
"Oh god... oh god Gerard I'm so sorry..." Frank sobbed, turning his eyes back to the slain face of his beau, "I'm sorry, I love you so much.. please... please don't go... FUCKING PLEASE, OH GOD.... no......no...please baby, no....you're my everything... please, please, please ...."
Frank was blind to time for that day. He sat there, pleading and crying and screaming with Gerard until his voice was completely eradicated and his body hurt from sitting that way. It wasn't until late afternoon that he called the police, barely able to speak to the woman on the other line. When she asked him what exactly had happened, Frank could barely utter his answer.
"I - I failed."
And it was two weeks later that Frank found himself in their old bedroom, sitting on the bed that they once shared. The bed where he would go to sleep every night, with Gerard safe in his arms. Just like he should have been that very night.
But this wasn't so, because when Frank returned to the house, he had opened the box. He had opened the box, within which he had most definitely found a corpse -- and according to Eric Schrodinger, there was no refuting that now.
And maybe this Schrodinger fellow is right, Frank figured. He had limited himself to this conclusion, and there was not much else he could do about it. However another theory came to mind, more like a philosophy he once heard. It went: "No outcome is good or bad, everything is how you react to it."
While the conclusion was set in stone -- a stone soon to be in a graveyard in Bellville, Frank still had control over the reaction. For instance, he had turned in his own family, realizing that they had been responsible for Gerard's beating. Yet there was still a loose end, and Frank knew he must punish the person who was responsible for Gerard's death.
So he took his own gun, and put the barrel in his mouth.
Bang
Bang
Bang.
END
A/N: Hey, don't look at me like that. Wasn't my story, remember? This was still a request, despite the fact that the requester seems to have disappeared off the face of the planet...
So that concludes my regular chaptered stories until my very last one. Hint: It's based on cancer and The Black Parade. :3 Oh, as for Trust Me, I might save that for weekends, but either way its only really going to be like a three or four part -- not really a full length thing, I don't think.
Myren
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