I'm Not Okay (I Promise) • Geetrick

38

---Patrick---

"Oh, hey? Mikey?"

I hear Gerard in the hallway outside our bedroom, the light on and his phone gone from the bedside table, in its place is empty space and mine right beside that empty space. I'm exhausted right now but curious as to why Mikey called. Is he coming back? Did he just want to call? Why the hell is he calling at 10 at night? Oh yeah, he's in California. It must be 6 over there, huh?

"That's great! Oh my gosh. Do you know when you'll be back?"

Pause, I can hear the soft murmur of Mikey on the other end but just barely. Only when I strain my ears.

"That's great, it's ten over here right now," Mikey, "No, no it's okay. I hadn't gone to bed yet, I'll talk to Mama tomorrow morning, though and I'll let her know, all right?"

Mikey.

"Okay, I love you... Bye."

I hear the call end, and I smile to myself as Gerard opens the door again, a grin across his lips in such a goofy way I can't help but laugh, "You're so adorable."

"Shut up," He replies playfully as he sets down his phone and crawls back in bed, pulling the sheets up, "Goodnight, Love. I'll talk to you in the morning."

"Okay..."

***

"I'm home!" I call. Why do I call? I know what happens when I get home. I always know what happens, it's happened so many times I've lost count and yet, I still make the same silly mistake of announcing my presence to a house that doesn't care. A house that's stood for at least 16 years, but it would still rather watch me hurt than help.

The stairs from the basement creak as Dad comes up, I'm able to count each step he's so loud, and as soon as he reaches the top step, I can't find the will to run. I'm frozen as a gripping fear overcomes me. I scream at myself to move. I scream from the top of my lungs but nobody can hear me while if I were to scream, "I love you," at the top of my lungs, I'd be afraid someone else would hear. It's silly how the world works. People only hear your cry for help after the danger is gone. They only answer the call if it's worth their time. Would a hurting boy be worth anyone's time? Or would they rather go to a boy who is already on the road to health?

Either way, nobody is here for me. They can't hear my silent cry for help. Only me and even I can't follow its orders.

"Where were you?" He growls a beer bottle in hand and a cigarette in the other.

Where was I? I... I don't remember...

"Answer me, Boy," he barks, slapping me.

"With Pete," I lie.

He scoffs and takes another swig of his beer, "To the wall."

I don't want to. I really, really don't want to. Blood splatters that wall, thick, dark blood. That wall smells of leather and hurt and... I know if I fight it will only be worse. I shut my eyes and with shaky hands, weak knees, and sweaty palms, I press my forehead against the wall and wait for a lash of pain, the whiplash. The tear in my shirt. The blood that oozes out of each cut. It's disgusting. I'm disgusting. I deserve it. It's my fault this is happening. I was the one who came home. I was the one who ruined his life. I was the one who killed Mom. I'm the real monster here.

The first lash stings badly, and the only thing I can do is bite my tongue until it bleeds and claw at the wall, desperate for something to hold onto or bite down on or anything. But I don't have anything.