Folie à Deux

Chapter 5

In the hallway, Frank leans in and asks "So, how long have you been here?"

"A while," I counter, not missing a beat.

"Will I be here a while, you think?"

"Depends on whether that vending machine over there dispenses Snickers or batteries."

-

Lunch passes almost normally, except for the fact that all I can focus on is my thigh, specifically the outside portion that Frank's leg is touching. Meds are passed out, food is half-eaten except for any given to those with eating disorders, which sits untouched. Brendon is loud, Dallon is quiet, save the few times he had to interject a sentence into whatever story Brendon is telling. A heavy air of routine settles around me, and I have never reacted to this in any way other than feeling depressed or feeling safe. I'm hoping I start to feel safe soon, because if it doesn't happen soon, it's the former of the two I can count on.

Routine falls away, though, almost immediately after lunch.

"Hey," he starts, grabbing my forearm. "I asked my family to drop something off last night. Could I show you?"

I have no idea what sort of thing he means, but there are no suggestive eyebrow lifts or glinting eyes. His fingers are shaking though. Nervous. "Yeah, sure."

-

His room is completely clean and impersonal because of how new he is to the Asylum. White walls and white sheets and white light just barely making it past white curtains, and maybe I would like to paint it. I would have Frank sit on the bed, completely normally, maybe facing the window so the light really catches the planes of his face. The contrast of his black and leather clothing against the soft and inoffensive institution sheets would make for an incredible focus on Frank. I make a note to try to sketch it from memory later, because I don't have enough confidence to ask him to pose yet.

He looks down and pulls at the skin around his Frankenstein stitches and says, "Soon, it'll look pretty cool. I've got some nice art, a few band posters. Black Flag, Misfits, The Smashing Pumpkins. It's gonna be good."

"I'm sure it will."

He looks like he wants to ask a question, but quickly forgets that idea and goes into the back closet. It takes him a few minutes to get what he needs, and I continue to look around. I imagine the same sketch with his personal touches on the room. Maybe a before and after style series? In the first, he would look around, perhaps a little lost looking. The second would see him relaxed and happy.

"What're you smiling about?" he interrupts my thoughts.

I can't tell him that I'm thinking about doing a series of pieces that are just him in his room! "Uh, just remembering the last time Michael... sorry, Mikey, came and talked to me. He's in high school. Junior year, I think."

"That's sweet. I don't have siblings." It gets silent again. "So, um, I found what I was looking for. I'll go get it." He emerges from the closet a few seconds later holding a beautiful guitar. Like, actually gorgeous. It's sleek and shiny black with a white outline, and I feel my hands clench and unclench, wishing for sketching pencils. I've decided I will just draw everything Frank owns at once, to make it easier.

"It's so incredible."

"Gee, it's just a guitar."

My cheeks go pink and I have to will my eyes back into focus. "Well it's one hell of a guitar. You play?"

"No, I just keep this around to hold sometimes. Yes, Gerard, I play. And that's actually what I wanted to show you."

He wants to play guitar for me. Is this because I showed him my art this morning? "Okay," is all I can think to say. I sit down on the edge of the bed, not wanting to overstep any boundaries, but he crawls on and crosses his legs, not even taking his shoes off. I turn around to face him and nod a bit to let him know I'm ready.

He starts off slow, but it soon gets faster and more energetic. He begins to hum a bit and then interjects with "I wrote this with my most recent band. It's better with all of them." Before I can assure him that I'll think it's good no matter what just because of how in love with his guitar I am, he starts to sing. "I'm not sure what they said, But if it's true I'll bet, It's just one more thing I'll regret, I hate my weaknesses, They made me who I am. 'Yeah, it's cool, I'll be okay', As I felt your pain wash over me, So I dry your eyes and hide my shakes, Cause I hate the look that's on your face. These things inside my head, They never make much sense, So I wouldn't hold my breath..., I hope I die before they save my soul."

He takes another sharp intake of breath for a second repetition of the chorus, but I feel something on my face that isn't usually there. I haven't cried in months, maybe years. I put my fingers on the strings, stopping them from vibrating and sending out any more notes. "Frank, stop." He finally looks up from his hands and sees me.

"Gee, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"No, it's fine. I'm just not used to it." I pause and control myself before asking my question. "That's not about you, is it?"

"Kind of."

"It makes everything harder, having this dumbass filter over everything you see. I wish you didn't have it, Frank."

"Calm down, Gee," he says, rubbing the tops of my knuckles with his calloused fingertips. "It's fine."

I'm not crying anymore, but I still want to talk to him about it. "It's not fine. You're not fine." Pause. "I'm glad you're here."

"I'm glad I'm here, too. I couldn't deal with my roommate putting batteries and cans of dog food everywhere as a joke anymore, anyway."

Suddenly, a voice sounds from just a little farther down the hallway. Pete. "Gerard, I need to talk to you! Where are you?"

I jump up from the bed, willing the skin around my eyes to return to its normal color. The door is wrenched open and I poke my head out and say, "I'm right here. You don't have to yell, idiot."

Pete looks into the room at Frank sitting on his bed, playing around with the strings of his instrument. "Hey, Frank. I've got to borrow Gerard for a minute here." Frank just nods in response.

I'm dragged into the hall, quite violently. "What the hell, Pete?"

"You have skipped out on so many of your meds!"

"What?" I genuinely didn't even realize.

"For weeks, Gee, you have missed your meds. They say they've found them in the trash cans, and you're the only one on this prescription. You pick them up every day at lunch and don't take them!"

"I- I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"I'm pissed, Gerard!"

"I know. I didn't realize."

He presses his the pads of his fingers into his eyes and says, "I know, I know. I just really want you to get better, brother."

"How could I have just not taken them?" I ask more to myself than to Pete.

"I don't know. Gerard, I need you to promise you will make a conscious effort to remember them from now on."

"Okay, I promise. I'm sorry, Pete."

"It's fine, don't apologize. I'm just worried about you." And then he walks back down the hall, presumably to go do more stressful things with different stressful people. I stumble back into the room as what had actually happened sinks in.

"You okay, Gerard? I heard yelling."

"I'm fine. It's just-" I think out loud. "I thought these new meds didn't work, but I haven't taken them. Frank, there's a possibility I could get better."