November 1st (Frerard)

11: Thursday, October 11th

Frank couldn't think straight, well he had somewhat of a problem with doing anything in much of a straight way in the first place, but this was a dilemma of a completely different nature entirely. To do with Gerard, to do with the letter, and in particular, just what the hell Frank was supposed to make of this, because surely, Gerard couldn't have written this.

Fuck, Frank didn't even really think Gerard capable of thinking like this; he always seemed be weirdly innocent, although Frank knew he shouldn't think of Gerard like that, but still, he wouldn't put Gerard down as a suicidal kid, who'd written several drafts of a suicide letter over the past few weeks, which Frank had just happened upon, anyway, it couldn't be Gerard, of course, it just couldn't be Gerard, because Frank knew that the only people Gerard was close to were Kat and himself, and the first letter had been addressed to a 'Mikey'.

So it was nothing to do with Gerard, of course, it must have just found its way there, maybe someone dropped it upon the beach and the wind had carried it towards Gerard's house, like the previous letter had been found beside tide with Lindsey.

He wondered whether to talk to Lindsey or even anyone about this, Gerard perhaps, just to confirm things, but he knew that he shouldn't upset Gerard, and he reckoned that if he did, Kat would actually decapitate him, and Frank really was not in the mood for that. He could ask Kat about it, Kat knew a lot of people after all, therefore Kat might be able to direct him in the way of a Mikey, but he was beginning to doubt that Kat even liked him at all, and perhaps even despised him a little, which baffled Frank as he'd never done anything besides look out for their brother, and surely, Kat should have appreciated that?

He brushed thoughts of Kat aside, focusing upon the letter itself, and the familiar handwriting: smudged blue ink simply seeming to solely tease him now, and found himself realising that he'd done little more than merely glance at the letter this time, just long enough to recognise the handwriting and assure himself as to the nature of it, not actually read the thing through.

Frank wondered if he could even stomach it, as he found half of his mind ready to read each word as if it was spoken directly from Gerard's lips, but no, the notion of that was ridiculous, and Frank was determined to prove to himself that it wasn't Gerard, and he would do so, fuck, he'd make some stupid excuse to see Gerard's handwriting or for the guy to write some nonsense on his hand or something, anything, just to settle his head, because he knew it, and he knew it made sense and he knew that in the very same way that it didn't, but fuck, he needed to know, and dear god, he couldn't just ask Gerard.

He bit his lip, really beginning to glance down at the letter as he sat in his bedroom, afternoon sun streaming in brightly through the window: a rare occurrence in consideration of the time of year and the place Frank lived in, before focusing his eyes open the letter before him and beginning to read.

'I don't know what to do anymore. Because this is what I've always wanted, this is a solid fact. This is what will and has to happen, but now he's here, and now he cares, and now he's a reason not to, but still one reason stacked up against millions to, so really, he's insignificant. But he's not. He's the opposite of insignificant, and I'll miss him. I really think I will. And I'm sorry, I really am, I want to say sorry to you the most, but I wonder if I should write another for him. Another useless draft, another useless apology, because ink upon paper could never come close to explaining the way it makes me feel, the emptiness inside and the bittersweetness of it all. I barely even understand it myself. Tell him I'm sorry. Tell him he's beautiful. Tell him I said that. Tell him I-'

The message cut off rather suddenly, as if the writer had been suddenly forced to stop writing, made evident in the slight smudge of ink as the letter came to a halt. Perhaps this was another draft, another letter the writer didn't quite like, another letter to throw out somewhere in the world, maybe that was what the writer was trying to do: get them out to someone, anyone, for someone to hear their story, but never to give enough away for someone to be able to stop them. Or perhaps it was nowhere near as poetic, perhaps this was another mistake, perhaps the writer changed their mind, about 'him', perhaps they weren't sorry anymore, perhaps they didn't think he was beautiful anymore.