You're a Mind Fuck, Babe

Chapter 61: Baby, Can You See Through The Tears

Later that night, we head home and Gerard does absolutely anything in his power to distract himself, I can tell. He's playing music loud in the car on the way back and singing along at the top of his lungs to Morrissey. He's tapping his hands on the steering wheel and barely paying attention to actually driving. When we get back, the police have cleared and we're left to clean the place ourselves so we do. There's an eerie awkwardness that fills the room once all the blood is cleaned up and the order of things is restored. We sit on the couch in silence, feeling absorbed by the cold, haunting feeling before he turns on the TV, unable to handle thinking. The shows that play are just background noise to my own thoughts and I sense the same vibe coming from Gerard. He can't keep his hands off me while we watch various movies and his lips mess through my hair as I lay against him, feeling his heart beat against my body. When we finally crawl to bed, he won't stop tossing and turning and groaning every few turns as though it'll somehow take him from this room into a state of dreaming or tranquility where he will find some peace. I know how he feels. The guilt is probably playing with his heart strings, making his anxiety sing like a harp. I'm not sure if he ended up falling asleep that night but after keeping my mind focused on the uneven rise and fall of his chest, my mesmerization soothed me to sleep and my eyes no longer observed the world.

I awake to the sunlight illuminating the sheets and knocking on my eyelids to pull me from sleep. Gerard's not beside me and the curtains are wide open letting the soft light enter the room, exposing the dust covered room we live in. I throw the sheet off me to feel the cold air hitting my skin. I stumble out of the bedroom to find Gerard sitting on the couch with a cup of coffee in his hand, the smell rising to my attention. I walk groggily into the kitchen and take two slices from the loaf of bread I asked him to buy on the way home last night. I make myself some toast with butter and pour myself a cup of coffee before going to sit at the table to eat. Gerard moves off the couch and comes towards me.

"Can I paint you?" He asks as I bite into my toast. I shrug and continue chewing on the nearly burnt bread coated in butter.

"Do you me to sit in a certain way or can I just keep eating?" I ask, slightly confused.

"Could you sit on the edge of the table? You can keep eating," he says, leaning on one foot thinking about how he wants me. He nods after making his statement like he's sure so I do as I'm told. Instinctively, I cross my legs upon sitting on the table. He pulls out an easel with a blank canvas. He takes out these small containers of paint and has about a hundred paint brushes with him when he starts. He studies me for a few minutes longer before deciding where he wants to start. I continue chewing on the toast and drinking my coffee as he works his magic. I was never good with painting, at least when I would draw, you could tell what it was supposed to be, with paint, it looked like a bleeding sky mixing into forest green grass and baby blue oceans. They weren't pretty and I gave up. An hour or so goes by and I wish I knew how far along his painting was. I don't expect it to be nearly finished but I'm out of coffee and my tongue's dry. I stare aimlessly at Gerard as he takes small glances from me to the canvas where he flicks his wrist, leaving trace after trace in alternating colours. I can feel my heartbeat in my skull as I look up to the clock and pray for a break. My legs are dying to be uncrossed and my throat is begging for something to drink. I count the seconds, praying he'll say something but his routine continues. He looks at me, he looks at his work. On top of being thirsty and aching, my leg has fallen asleep. It's piling up now, just to piss me off. I bite my lip, trying to distract myself from these crushing necessities before I cave. I throw my legs to the ground and head towards the kitchen. My feet drag across the floor as I push forward, feeling pins and needles jump through my leg from the lack of circulation. I trip over my own foot and crash into Gerard, smearing paint all over his shirt.

"Shit, I'm so sorry," I exclaim, getting back on two feet and staring at the mess I made. Gerard chuckles and dips his hand into his navy blue paint. Before I can process what he's doing, cold, thick paint is smeared across my face.