November 1st (Frerard)

12: Friday, October 12th

Everywhere hurt.

His throat burned: raw and damaged.

He'd been scared.

He felt like he'd been screaming for hours.

He hadn't made a sound.

And perhaps it would stay like that.

As he stayed like that.

Cold water.

So he could feel it.

But he'd still been scared.

He would always be scared.

Of everything.

Of everyone.

Of himself.

Of his mind and what it made him do. Of the letter and who had found it, and still, he lay there, eyes wide and raw: all of him, raw, burned out, drenched, wet hair, cold skin, the window open, ocean air, early morning, and not a sound in the world.

He'd taken pills, it seemed not enough.

Because he'd been scared, and this wasn't a question of choice anymore, this was something he had to do, and he didn't like it, he would never like it: it was all wrong, with weeks to go until November 1st, but he hadn't had a choice.

He'd taken the pills, he'd ran the bath, cold, cold like the ocean, cold like the lake, and closed his eyes as his head had began to throb, because he knew he shouldn't have taken so many pills, but he needed it work; he'd been desperate for it to work, and still, it hadn't.

He'd gotten into the bath and leaned back against the tub, closing his eyes and drifting out of consciousness as the water had continued to run.

But here he was, raw, aching, all over, but still alive, and with no pills left, no second try, because this was wrong, he couldn't do it like this, he had to force himself, and he looked down at the water around him, having flooded the bathtub a little.

He reached forward, turning the gentle stream of water off, and cringing a little as he felt water overflow from the tub as he moved forward, still alive, still breathing, still there, somehow.

He sat up, this time just letting the water overflow as he put his head in his hands and began to cry, because he knew that no matter how hard he tried he just couldn't, he just couldn't do it like this not anymore, he couldn't leave knowingly, because before he'd almost tricked him into doing it, he'd been silent, he'd been desperate and he'd felt unsafe, because someone out there knew.

But now, come four in the morning, Gerard Way sat in the water, so cold around him and cried, cried because he couldn't think of what else to do: Kat was asleep, god knows where his parents were, and he was alone, so fucking alone.

He began to shiver, feeling seeming to move back into his body, and he came to realise just how cold the water around him had become, he groaned a little, his sobs becoming whimpers as he leaned forward, glancing up at the light and one insect, a moth or something perhaps, that had flown in from the bathroom window, fluttering around the light bulb like it was the only thing keeping it alive.

He wondered what his own light bulb really was, because the date was just a prolonging of this all, he wondered what kept him sitting there, what kept him unable to just pull his head underwater, to do it properly.

It wasn't the way it was supposed to be, he hadn't said goodbye, and perhaps Gerard just wasn't quite ready to let go quite yet, perhaps he needed to do it now, now as the world was asleep, he needed to go out and he needed to find the letter, the one that had gone, and if he found it or even just where it had gotten to then everything would be okay again, he could wait until November 1st and everything would be just like it was supposed to be.