The Man I Know I'm Not [Frerard] (Sequel To Tell Me I'm A Bad Man)

Seventeen - I Know I'm Not Easy To Deal With Sometimes

When you lose someone close to you, someone you love, it hits you hard. "I'm sorry. They didn't make it." They say, and sometimes you burst into tears and sometimes you stand there, numb, trying to process it.

You wake up the following morning, expecting them to be there, or on the other end of the phone, and then it hits you the minute you open your eyes. They're not going to be there. Maybe you think it's some kind of dream, or that you just won't be seeing them for a while for whatever reason. Anything is better than the truth.

For example, when they told me my father was dead, I lost it. I screamed, I cried, I punched the walls and broke my hand. I couldn't believe it. It was like a hole had been drilled into my chest and I couldn't breathe. My mom, on the other hand, just looked numb. In the fleeting minute I saw her before I rushed upstairs to empty my emotions on my room, she had the expression of someone who'd had the very air taken from their lungs. It was as if she didn't know what to do.

When you lose someone, it doesn't go away. Three days, three weeks, three years. You get over it, but it's still there, in the back of your mind. You may think something about them one day and then that starts a whole flood of memories cascading upon you. When you're at your worst, you want them with you, and when you realise that that's impossible, it kind of destroys you a little.

They say that there are five stages of grief. I never really paid attention to it, but I know that I haven't accepted the fact that my father's dead, not quite yet.

So when Gerard found me sat on the bathroom floor a week after Ryan's death, my back against the bathtub and my knees against my chest, I didn't think he was at all surprised. It was our bathroom floor, because even though we were staying at Mikey's, we needed clothes and stuff. A week ago I wasn't thinking about what I was wearing. Now, however, I didn't really want to be borrowing Ray's clothes. I didn't think Ray wanted me to be borrowing his clothes, but he never said so. Besides, they were much too big for me.

Gerard sat down beside me, crossing his long legs. I could feel his eyes on the side of my head, but I stayed staring ahead, at the wall. I had questions for him, and I wanted them answered. I knew that we had to get back to Jersey, because Brendon had locked himself in his room and his mom still couldn't get him out. But...

I took a deep breath. "Who trashed the house?"

"What?" He replied, sounding almost shocked that I'd asked the question.

"I asked you who trashed the house."

He sighed, and when I looked at him, his eyes were on his knees and he was running a hand through his hair. "I don't think you're ready for this conversation yet, Frankie."

"What do you mean, I'm not ready for this conversation? This isn't going to be 'mom, I'm pregnant', or 'sweetie, we're getting divorced' - I asked you a question -"

"And I can't give you an answer."

Our eyes met, and even though his were soft and pleading, my glare was unrelenting. "Why not?" I demanded, after several seconds' silence.

"Frank - just - listen to me, okay? Listen to me. I can't - we can't have this conversation yet."

"Why not? All I asked was who trashed the house, and you won't give me a straight answer. That's one of the easiest questions in the universe, because if it wasn't Bert, it was you, and -" I cut myself off, staring at him in disbelief. "It was you, wasn't it." It was a statement, because deep down in my gut I knew that it had been him, and I didn't want to admit that I knew why, as well.