I'm Not Okay (I Promise) • Geetrick

41

---Gerard---

At times like this, having a boyfriend is nice. It's late at night. The stars are high above the ground, the moon has yet to fall down, and the sun is already gone. Off to another continent to shine its beams on another man's home. All I focus on is how happy I am and the warm body beside me.

But the thing that wakes me up is the soft moving of bedsheets, Patrick's shaky breaths as he gets out of bed to head to the bathroom. It doesn't wake me up so much as let me know he's in the bathroom because soon enough, I've drifted back to sleep without protest.

The second thing that wakes me up is the ongoing feeling of loneliness because as I look up at the clock, I realize Patrick's been in the bathroom for a while. I don't think anything's happened, but after a bit of worrying, I slip out of bed and walk to the bathroom door, listening for a moment. My ears are straining, and my eyebrows are furrowed.

That's when I hear a sob.

I swallow and pull back for a moment, "Patrick? Are you okay?"

He gasps, and I hear the drop of metal. I don't need to see it to know what it is.

I yank the door without a second thought to find him on the bathroom floor, the blade on the floor-my blade on the floor-and tears in his eyes as blood drips from the self-inflicted wounds. He looks like a disaster, to say the least. His hair is a tangled mess, his shirt hangs loosely on his thin shape, and his jeans are pooled at his ankles as he cuts at his thighs.

His head spins to look at me, and I can see the fear in his eyes as he stands up a little too quickly, wincing at the pain in his leg.

"Patrick..." I whisper, covering my mouth. He shakes his head and quickly rips off a piece of toilet paper to soak up the blood.

"Get out. I'll be out in a minute," He whispers with his voice filled with shame.

"The blade," I demand, holding out my hand.

He glares at me but hands it over, I turn and shut the door behind myself, waiting for him to bandage up his new cuts. He promised. He promised he'd stop, and the more I think about it, the more I realize this is what he meant when he said he needed relief. He lied about the sex. He lied when he said it wasn't about cutting when now I know full well it was, he just wanted out of the situation. There's another broken promise.

What's happening? What's going to happen to us? Are we just going to accept and move on? Or is he done?

Is he done?

That thought scares me. Is Patrick over with me? Does he want to break up? Am I not enough for him?

My breathing is growing unsteady as I watch him open the bathroom door.

"Talk," I immediately demand, my voice hushed in the hopes that Mama won't wake up.

"I've been craving it," He says bluntly, his irritation not even bothering to become hidden.

"So? You promised. You promised you would try to stop and you promised you wouldn't lie. You just cut, and you lied about needing release earlier. What the hell is up with you?" I growl.

"It's a few broken promises, we both know we're falling apart. We both know this isn't gonna work itself out. Don't you fucking see? I want a fucking break." He says, trying not to raise his voice because he has the same thought as me.

"Goddammit, Patrick," I run my fingers through my hair, frustrated, "Why can't you just stop? Why are you so fucking... weak. At least I can try and succeed when I try not to cut! I don't go off breaking down every five minutes. I don't fucking cry whenever something shitty happens. I watched my dad die from cancer. I watched him give up on me! And you're crying about some stress!"

"You know it's more than that!" He yells I'm sure Mama's woken up by now, "I killed my own fucking mom! I'm a murderer, Gee! And you expect me to just live with that?"

"I expect you to realize it wasn't your fault! It was never your fault! I still haven't gotten over the fact that he died, but at least I know it wasn't my fault. I'm doing just what he wanted. I'm trying to be as brave as he fucking asked. I'm doing exactly what he wished of me! You're so fucking pathetic!"

Patrick glares at me, "You aren't the one who was raped. Mikey never laid a finger on you! You didn't have to watch as your dad beat your sister and you could do nothing about it! You had the perfect fucking life! You were never touched! You had it good. You had anything you wanted. YOU WEREN'T SHOVED ON A BED BY YOUR OWN BROTHER AND FORCED TO JUST TAKE IT! YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE TO LOSE CONTROL! TO HATE YOURSELF EVERY FUCKING DAY UNTIL ALL YOU CAN THINK OF IS TRYING TO FIND THE RIGHT DAY TO KILL YOURSELF! I WOULD HAVE BEEN OUT OF HERE IF IT WASN'T FOR YOU!"

"AT LEAST I DON'T KEEP COMPLAINING ABOUT IT FOR NOTHING!" I belt back, then add cooly, "If you want to kill yourself so badly then do it."

"FUCK YOU, GERARD! Fuck this! I'm going out! I'll text you later."

"Patrick!"

But he's already taken his phone and fedora from the bedroom and started walking to the door, "I love you, and I'll talk to you when I finally get a fucking break." He says, and without a second glance, he's outside, the door slamming shut behind him.

I don't go out with him. I don't know why but I guess I can't find the will. Instead, I go back to our-my-bedroom and fall into bed, pissed at the world and Patrick and... everything.