ShadowPlay

Alone Again

Gerard Keay's key turned in the lock to his surprisingly spacious flat in Morden. He stumbled in, still fuming over that afternoon's events. He had been so close to breaking his art block today only to ruin his ideations completely and then become disoriented by this handsome stranger.

Gerry winced at the thought, repulsed that he could find someone that off-putting attractive.

"I need higher standards," he mumbled, slipping off his platform Doc Martens. His cracked leather messenger bag hit the ground with a thud, landing next to the entryway bookcase.

"That's something we can agree on," chided an older female voice from the darkness.

Gerry yelped in fright, instinctively throwing his keys toward the voice and frantically flicking on the light.

"Quite right, because as we all know, keys are the only means of taking down a cat burglar," mused the woman.

Gerry sighed in relief, panting a bit, still caught up in the adrenaline. "Christ, Gee Gee, you aren't supposed to be home for another two weeks. You're the second person to scare me half to death today. I think something has it out for me," he groaned, slumping into a plush dark teal accent chair near the opening of the living area.

Gertrude gave a short laugh. "Glad to see you missed me, Gerard. I've been gone for three weeks and not a single phone call. I was beginning to think you didn't care," she teased.

Gerry's face fell. "Shit. Has it been three weeks already?" he murmured as he rubbed a hand over his clean-shaven face. I must have lost track of time..." he trailed off, staring into space. "Art block, you know?"

A few moments passed in silence, save only for the constant ticking of an antique clock atop the mantle.

"Also, that comment? Extremely uncalled for," Gerry breathed with feigned annoyance. "I'll have you know my standards are high. So high, in fact, that I'm sick of every painting I've done recently," he moped, running a hand through his long black hair. "I'm afraid it's never going to end," he whispered admittedly.

Gertrude stared at him, her gaze softening slightly. "Just keep at it. It will come soon enough. I heard Picasso went through one of these things."

"Yeah, well, Picasso was- well, Picasso, and I'm a 36-year-old washed-up artist that hasn't had a gallery showing in the last five years," he spat bitterly. "People loved my optical series, but I don't want to do that anymore! I want people to love what I'm doing now and not just for stupid fucking eyes," he seethed.

"When are you going to stop chasing how people felt about your old work and focus on the potential you still have?" Gertrude demanded. "When will you let yourself create for the sake of creating?" She said with a shake of her head.

Gertrude sighed "Gerard. You are my grandson." She rose from her floral embroidered arm chain, closing the distance between Gerry and her, taking his hands. She gave a gentle squeeze.

"And all I want for you is to be happy. But you alone have the power to make that happen. Nobody can do it for you."

Gerry's throat bobbed, tears threatening to sting his eyes. He squeezed Gertrude's tiny age-withered hands and looked down.

"Thanks, Gee Gee," he croaked, gaze fixed on the floor.

Gerry cleared his throat and rose to his feet, pressing a quick kiss to her snow-white hair.

He ambled to his bedroom, shutting the door gently. He leaned against the back of the door, inhaling deeply. The faint scent of incense still clung to the room from the last time he lit it. He slid his hand into the pocket of his black duster, finding his lighter. He pulled it out, turning it over in his hand a few times before flicking back the lid. He hesitated for a moment before pulling down on the flint wheel, sparking it to life.

He stared for a bit, mesmerized by the dancing light of the flame, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He made his way to the dresser not taking his eyes off the flame as he lit a stick of incense, setting it gently in its holder. He looked up, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

He ran a hand through his hair as he studied his face. God, he looked worse than ever. What a state, he thought.

The lack of sleep was starting to get to him, not just mentally but physically. His large, stormy gray eyes were framed by dark circles not caused by the copious amount of kohl eyeliner he applied precisely each day. He ran a few fingers over his chapped lips as if reading the cracks like braille. He didn't even apply his usual white base of foundation today, and his skin was almost just as pallid. Even his facial piercings weren't sitting right.

Growing increasingly frustrated with himself by the second, he let out a prolonged defeated groan and grabbed a joint from the drawer on his bedside table. He lit up, plopping onto the bed with a deep inhale followed by a sputtering cough.

A small price to pay for a bit of dopamine

He smoked for a while, staring up at the posters on his ceiling, and frowned at the Smiths. He made a mental note to himself to take it down later because if he brought anyone over, he wouldn't want them to think that he was a white supremacist or something.

He stopped mid-thought to laugh because who was he kidding? Nobody would probably ever step foot in here besides GeeGee. He didn't have any friends besides Jon, and he hadn't seen him in over six months. Jon was married, and now he and his husband were on an extended holiday for god knows how long. There had been a few texts here and there, but Gerry had resigned himself to never hearing from him again. Yet another person living a life to be proud of is too busy to make time for him.

A pang of guilt struck a chord in Gerry's chest. He was genuinely happy for Jon. He deserved to settle down with someone as good and kind as Martin. Jon had been through his own shit, and he deserved to have things turn out well for him. He knew deep down it wasn't bitterness or jealousy. Those were just a mask for the real culprit—loneliness.

He extinguished his joint on the opal ashtray perched on his window sill and sighed.

He settled back onto the bed. He flexed his black nail polish-clad hands, stretching his fingers as far apart as possible, and then curled them into the soft black throw blanket resting atop his comforter. The fullness of the high had hit him, and he allowed himself to smile slightly. Teenie silver stars dotted the blanket, and he rolled a few of the stars back and forth between his forefinger and thumb before lazily turning over to his nightstand and pressing play on his stereo.

The cassette in the tape deck whirled to life, and the steady drum beats of "Disorder" by Joy Division filled the room. The poppy bass line joined in, followed by the shrill but haunting guitar track. The tension in his shoulders eased, and his jaw slackened as Ian Curtis's voice floated out of the crackly speakers. He closed his eyes, letting the music take him away—a slight but peaceful reprieve.

He remained in this meditative state for a solid five songs into Unknown Pleasures before he heard a sound he hadn't heard since 2004.

The nostalgic chirp of "YOU'VE GOT MAIL" sounded from his computer. 

(AN: If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading. I love Gerard Keay with all my heart and want to give him the happy ending and healing he completely deserves. More updates coming soon. Please consider sharing with a community that you know would appreciate this. <3 Also go listen to Disorder by Joy Division, the song featured in this chapter. Joy Division shaped my own experience as a goth and I feel it shaped Gerry's as well. It's super dancy.)