Death Is Strange

THIRTEEN

Gerard picked open the scabs on his arms as soon as he was alone in his room that afternoon. He had told Frank he wouldn't cut. He never said he wouldn't pick at the damage he'd already done.

He'd been crying on and off all day, and his eyes were tired, his head throbbing. Everything felt surreal. Was it still Wednesday? Had it really only been two days since Denis died? Why was he angry, again?

He felt the insides of his sleeves dampening with spots of blood, and he stood by his dresser, staring at the notes scattered all over the top. More often than not, Bert had left notes in Gerard's room for him to find. And Gerard had felt a little thrill in his heart every time.

Gerard shifted the mix of yellow sticky notes and slips of paper to one side of the dresser's top, revealing a stack of notebook paper, with more of Bert's handwriting.

Gerard was well aware of his ugly sobbing when he shifted the stack and picked up the first one. He couldn't even read it through the tears, but he already knew what it said, what it was about. And he knew that Bert had written across the top: YOUR LOVE NEVER LEAVES ME ALONE.

When Frank let himself in an hour later, Gerard was asleep on the floor, dried tears on his face, a piece of paper in his hand.

You're a shitty boyfriend, he told himself. Gerard needed you. He fucking cried himself to sleep on the goddamn floor.

For a moment he stood still, a lump in his throat. Despite the peaceful look on Gerard's face as he slept, Frank knew that he was waging a war in his head.

As quietly as he could, Frank crossed the room and lay down beside Gerard, gently pushing back the locks glued to his face by tears.

Gerard opened his eyes. He didn't seem surprised Frank was there; if anything, he looked pleased. "I missed you," he whispered, his fingers brushing against Frank's jaw.

"Two fucking hours. Too long, right?" Frank smiled ruefully. "You holding up alright?"

Gerard nodded slowly. "I didn't think I'd fall asleep but I think I reset my head now. I feel calm."

Frank sighed. "Such are the ways of depression."

"Yeah." Gerard rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. "I've been triggering myself all day. I got back in here and read love letters Bert wrote me." He held up the paper. "This is the first thing he ever wrote for me." Gerard got up, setting it back on his dresser, and offering a hand to Frank, pulling him to his feet. "I've been thinking too much. Help me stop."

"I have an idea," Frank said slowly. "Have you ever gone back to the dump after the night with Bert?"

Gerard nodded. "Once. Why?"

Frank swallowed hard. "Did you ever notice a sign of a struggle?"

"No. It was like he vanished into thin air." Gerard stopped suddenly. "I know what to do for my photography project." He rummaged through the bottom drawer of his dresser, pulling out Bert's Converse sweatshirt. "Can you drive me to the dump?"

The whole area was eerily quiet apart from gravel crunching beneath Gerard's shoes as he hooked the hood of the sweatshirt on the door of the dilapidated shack, beside a smashed car and various rusty appliance parts. He stepped back, eyes narrowed, angling the camera several different ways before taking a picture he seemed pleased with. He turned to Frank, a strange look of peace relaxing his face. "It's not going to win," he said. "I don't wanna win. I did this for me. I'm going to edit it, and I want your thoughts."

Frank nodded. "I think it's cool."

Despite the humidity, Gerard pulled the sweatshirt on over his long sleeved black t-shirt, pulling the cuffs down over his hands, his camera on its strap around his neck. Frank found himself smiling.