Cotton Gloves (Frerard)

5

I woke up to myself, flopped down on the couch, guitar laying on the floor nearby.

I notice that the sun is already low in the sky. I've lost sense of time. I can't remember how or when I fell asleep last night.

My health is degrading, leaving undefined matter, better known as grief for no reason.

I grieve the life I once had. I have near to no life now. I'm more dead than alive.

I want to-

Nevermind.

I'm rambling. Ignore it.

I get dressed and head to the cemetery. Feels like my soul belongs there right now. I moved into this town not too long ago, so I don't think I'll recognize anyone.

There's something numbingly calm, numbingly peaceful about cemeteries. There's more there than rotting corpses under the ground. There's more to there than rocks placed there to remember  disintegrating bodies, to whoever they belong.

Oh look, it's Her again.

- Hello, old girl,- I say to the grave.

Guess I'll stay here, near the only tombstone that reminds me of something. The sky is near black now.

It felt like a relief to learn that the stars we see are already dead.

Footsteps.

Boots on a gravel path.

He's here. He's behind me.

He walks past me and stops.

He's beside me now, looking at Her grave.

- You loved Her, right? - he asks.

My head's too foggy to form words, so I barely nod.

- Then why is she dead?

I look at him.

He still looks like a black and white picture: black hoodie, black pants, black boots, pasty white skin, platinum hair and wow, black lipstick. It suits him, accenting his narrow lips. There are no exceptions this time, though.

His eyes are black. Jet black.

- Uh... Gee? Isn't it getting late now? 

It's barely sunset, and I'm an adult. Why does my shaky kid voice decide shit for me. I slowly turn around to leave the cemetery, hoping that he's anchored to this place. Oh god I hope he can't actually see me.

Gerard doesn't react at first, then I hear him following me from a distance. I cross the street, not bothering to look around, because who cares? I certainly don't.

Blinding white light.

I freeze. I hate lights.

- RUN, FRANK! - I hear a voice shout.

I run, avoiding whatever that was. Maybe it was a truck. Let's just say it was a truck. I stumble over my own feet and fall on the pavement. I can't get up. I'm not dead I'm just really tired. I don't want to get up.

Footsteps.

Boots on asphalt.

Worried hazel eyes and gloved hands examine me.

Arms pick me up. I'm a dead weight. Too dizzy to argue. He takes me home.  

- Why do you wear these gloves?

Now is the absolute perfect moment to ask that question.

- I have blood on my hands, Frank. I always will. 

I... will not question that.

- What? - I ask.

I'm so good at betraying myself.

- Dead! - he whispers into my ear. 

I don't reply, he knows me better than anyone. I don't bother to think too deep, hopefully the blood is old. It's hard to get old blood off a shirt. 

Suddenly I'm not against getting a life.

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