FicWad

Nothing is real anymore. I've officially lost all link between dream and reality. My life is neither. My life is both. My life, my entire being, has lost all meaning. Nothing matters anymore. He's gone. That much I know is true.

It took a while for them to convince me of that fact. I spent weeks sobbing and screaming.

"You're lying! It's not real!"

Oh, how real it was. I could only spend so long without him before the pain in my heart began to tell me it was real. My heart. That's the only part of me that has never betrayed me. It's faithful, strong, and honest. Why can't the rest of me be as true as my heart?

Too late now, of course. Even my heart is beginning to fade. I'm losing compassion for others. I'm losing the will to go on. The only thing that keeps my heart beating is him. His memory.

"Mr. Way?"

I look up into the eyes of the group counselor. He looks tired. Tired of us. Tired of our shit.

"What."

"I can see that by your rude tone, you've regressed today. Am I right?"

I say nothing.

"You're going to have to answer me. You don't want to lose your blanket privileges again, do you?"

"What do you want," I reply, stringing out the inevitable discussion.

"I want to know if you know what you did."

A simple request, really. So why does it make my chest literally cramp? I do know what I did. Of course I know. They've told me countless times. Forced the truth down my mouth like bitter medicine. But I have yet to fully believe it. How could I ever be capable of something like that? And yet I was. I've heard the word schizophrenia tossed around in the corridors outside my room. They talk about me as if I can't hear them. As if there's something wrong with my fucking ears. As if I'm stupid.

"Mr. Way!"

I roll my eyes and look at the floor, deciding not to dignify him with eye contact. I can hear him sigh loudly, a noise that makes my fingers twitch. What an aggravating man. He doesn't know me, so why does he even care?

"I want to know if you know what you did," he breaks the silence angrily, repeating himself.

"They've told me plenty of times. They never let me forget," I say quietly, focusing on the bright linoleum.

"Did I ask you what they told you?"

"Fuck you, man!" I stand quickly and lunge toward him. The orderlies catch me in time and pull me from the room. I can see the counselor shaking in fear before he disappears from my sight. I struggle against the tight grips of the women in white, but they're holding on for dear life as they lead me to the head psychiatrist's office. They shove me into the chair across his desk and leave.

"Well, well, well. You're here again. What is it this time, Way?"

This son of a bitch is too mean to be an actual shrink. And yet he is. I sigh angrily and stare at the floor.

"That's not going to work on me, Way. Look into my eyes and tell me what Mr. Fischer asked you."

"Is that the bastard's name?"

"I will not tolerate this. Answer me."

"He asked me if I know what I did."

"So... the same question you've refused to answer the last five group sessions."

I sit silently, biting my lip.

"Do you... know... what you did?" fucking jerk, treating me like I'm stupid.

"Yes! Yes, okay?"

"So... what did you do?"

"I-I... I k-k" I bite my lip harder.

"Go on."

"K-Ki..." my lip is bleeding now.

"Stop stalling, Way. Tell me."

"I killed him, okay? I fucking killed him!" I scream, spitting in his face. He calmly wipes his face with a handkerchief and sets his hands on the desk.

"Killed who, Gerard?"

I shake my head frantically and cover my ears. Anything to avoid this. I can't have done it. There's no way I ever would. But I did. Why? Why would I ever be capable of something like this?

"Answer the question, Gerard," he says quietly.

I begin to sob, pulling my feet onto the chair and hugging my knees. I'm still shaking my head and I notice after a minute that I'm rocking back and forth.

"Gerard."

"I-It was..." I whisper.

"Yes?"

"Frank."

He nods and sends for the orderlies. We sit here for a few minutes in silence and before long, they arrive to take me away. I can't stand, so they carry me. If I wasn't broken before, I sure am now. I'm numb. So numb that I can't remember my face hitting the cold pillow.

*

I wake in the dark and curl into a tight ball. My head feels like it's caving in on me. I'm still numb. I can't cry. All I can do is think.

I killed Frank. And it wasn't until now that I admitted it to myself. It still doesn't feel real. It felt like all the other dreams. But when Mikey came back and found Frank's body in the door and me passed out on the floor, he definitely saw how real it was. I'm not sure whether they've figured out I'd been having dreams. I haven't told anyone here. Mikey gave the police the drawings. I think it's the only reason I ended up here and not prison. My court date is soon. Maybe they'll let me stay here. Maybe it's better than rotting in prison. Maybe I can become sane.

Maybe.

I sigh, unconvinced. So much for optimism.


Mikey hasn't visited. I think he's afraid of me. I don't blame him. I shoved him and murdered his best friend on the same day, leaving him to find both of us unmoving and bloody on the floor. I could tell he was freaked out from the first picture. I was afraid to face him after that. Ray and Bob haven't visited either. I'm not sure what to make of that. The emotion begins to flood back as the weight of the situation hits me like a brick wall.

I killed Frank Iero. I was in love with him. I never got to tell him, and I know that alone will haunt me for the rest of my dreadful life. I loved him more than I love my own brother. He was my everything. Those few days we were together will have been the best. I will never feel that joy again, or anything to compare to it. Not that anyone will ever look at me again. Not that I'll ever get out of here.

I miss his eyes. I remember the beautiful deep green, so thoughtful and caring. I remember them well. But when I close my eyes, all I see are his bloody, mangled ones. On better days, I can still see his face. Perfect and untouched.

Every moment I have ever spent with him plays in my mind like a loop day in and day out. It's only when I try to rest that I see the horror of what I've done. Maybe I'll tell them everything. Maybe they'll be able to tell me why my dreams became reality. Why I dreamed this in the first place. Why I don't remember the pictures.

Maybe.

One can hope, right? But I don't have much hope for anything. He's gone and he's never coming back. I've lost him and it is completely my fault. No one wants to have anything to do with me. I don't blame them. All I have now is my heart. My broken heart. One good thing, though?

I no longer dream.