November 1st (Frerard)

19: Friday, October 19th

Last November had and would be Gerard's last November. Yet, he'd been very much unaware of it at the time, and last Christmas had been his last Christmas, and yet he'd been so very unaware of it at the time. His last birthday had been his last birthday, he'd been slightly more aware of it at that time. Kat's last birthday was the last one he'd be around for - this he had been aware of; he'd put in what everyone had described as entirely too much effort.

They had been very much unaware of it all.

Because that sixteenth birthday was more than just a sixteenth birthday for Gerard, it wasn't just his sibling's sixteenth birthday, but Kat's seventeenth, eighteenth, nineteenth, twentieth, and every one on from that, because those were September 10ths he wouldn't live to see.

He'd painted Kat this honestly beautiful watercolour piece of the beach and the ocean and the cliff tops in the background, he'd even painted two little black silhouettes upon the beach: the two of them, the two of them and the sunset. Kat said it was lovely, Kat smiled, Kat looked at it for a week, maybe two. It now lay at the bottom of a drawer somewhere.

Gerard didn't paint anymore.

Pete had given Kat a blowjob.

Gerard's paints were drying up in the drawer: his drawer - the one he kept everything that didn't matter anymore in, because everything just keep itself there: present at the front of his mind, screaming, mattering, existing, yelling, and screaming, and physically putting it away, locking it away, out of sight, out of mind, did a little to cease the compulsive thoughts. Only a little.

The pills had helped with that.

But it had been so long since Gerard had taken them that he found himself honestly unable to remember anymore.

He wasn't going to start again, not even to find out, despite his curiosity, because he really didn't fucking want to get 'better', because 'better' was all a fucking lie: all in the pills and the words they force into your brain and safeguarding you and blocking you away from everything that might hurt you... it wasn't fucking real.

He couldn't take photographs on the pills. He couldn't appreciate the ocean on them. He couldn't appreciate anything. He couldn't feel anything at all.

His last November 2nd. An significant date to everyone he knew. His last November 2nd - their last that didn't hold the blow of the news of his death. So unaware. Forever. Unaware. Naive. Because Gerard kept secrets, and then suddenly come November 2nd everyone would know everything, and he honestly didn't know how to feel about that, but truth be told, he didn't have to worry, because, to put it bluntly, he'd be dead.

He was worrying in preparation, though: his whole life was perhaps one big worry, which didn't exactly make it out to be worth much, but then again, Gerard was never one for over-exaggerating, never one for lying, of course, until he had to, because there was something utterly impractical when it came to your mother asking you how you were feeling and you responding with an honest 'like I want to kill myself, literally', as opposed to a shrug and a badly annunciated grumble that may or may have not translated to 'fine' in some language, probably.

November 2nd had been a Wednesday. His last November 2nd. A fucking Wednesday. Gerard didn't dislike Wednesdays, in fact, he felt very little in regards to them at all, in fact, he felt very little in regards to most things last year - that had been when he was taking his pills.

Naivety was such an odd, such a beautiful, such a tragic concept, and one he had subjected everyone in his life to as he sat up at five in the morning on Friday the 19th of October, with little less than two weeks until he killed himself.