I'm Not Okay (I Promise) • Geetrick

17

---Gerard---

Up until now, this had always been easier for me. Bowing my head and resisting the urge to cry. Telling myself the lie that it'll be okay when I know damn well it won't be.

The grass is wet under my knees, each blade bending under the force and laying down to the dark brown dirt underneath. The moon is barely visible through the thick clouds, but I know it's up there, watching us live our lives as we try to overcome this painful grief. Each breath in is like hell, the way it fills my lungs, the way it fuels my oncoming sobs and presses my tears to my eyes. The way it builds and builds until I can't take it anymore. The way it just keeps filling until it hurts and I'm about to crack from the pressure and explode . The tears just moments away from finally escaping, but I can't let them. The sobs just seconds away from leaving me but I don't want them to go. At that point, I'm sure it'll all just escape me, and I'll become undone, and I can't be strong.

But each breath out is a relief from my pain. My sobs are easier to hold in, and my tears are moving back little by little. The tension and pressure released to ease my aching muscles and my hurting heart. With each exhale, my energy is released in a shaky breath, and I'm able to recover just a little.

My head is down, my hands shaky as they hold the bouquet of tulips, roses, and lilies.

I need to be strong for everyone. They're counting on me... I can't break down because Mama will lose the last string of hope she has left. Patrick will only feel worse than he already does. Mikey will have to go back to stage one, he's already come so far. He's already accepted Dad's death, but he left me behind on depression to melt away. I need to be strong, but I'm not. I'm so weak, I can't accept that he's really gone. I'm so weak, Mikey's stronger. I'm so weak, I can't face the question burning into my mind like a hot brand.

I don't want to ask it because I'm scared of the answer. I don't want to face the truth, but at the same time, I can't escape it. I can't stop running away from it, and I need to accept it... But I can't... He can't actually be gone, can he? All those times he took Mikey and me to that city block. All those times we had talked with him on the Fourth of July to calm his PTSD. All those times we had heard his stories of what it was like in the army. Is it all really gone to waste? All those years drowned out by the truth of it all?

Is he really gone?

My question is finally released into my mind, repeating itself over and over again. Is he really gone? Is he really dead? Has he really passed? Each one getting stronger and stronger, echoing like voice. Like I'm a psycho. Like no matter what, it'll always be there, and I feel like I'm going to break. In front of Patrick. I'm going to breakdown and scream into the cold air.

A hand is on my shoulder, and everything is hushed. The hell of my mind quiets to a complete silence. Yes, Dad's dead... And oh god it hurts... It hurts like a motherfucker... I've never felt so much emotional and mental pain in my life. I want it to end. I want Dad back, and I want Mikey back. I want the old Mama back, too. I want her to stop smoking. I want her to be like she used to. I want, but I can't have. But it's gone now. Patrick is here and I know I can't face alone. I want Patrick. I need Patrick. It's selfish... Oh god, it's so selfish, but I need his help. And he needs mine.

The headstone is made of black marble, his name engraved in the stone with tall, narrow letters. White on black, making it easy to read.

Here lies Donald Way
Son, husband, father, veteran
Thank you for your service and Rest In Peace

I intentionally skip over the date, I can't bare to look. I don't want to see it because it hurts... It hurts so badly... But I should be respectful, so I do the thing I do every year. I speak to him like he could somehow hear me. I want to believe he does and that he's not gone forever... I want to believe he can still hear my desperate, pained words...