Emily, Come Home

Fourteen

"Em? Can you hear me?" My eyes fluttered open. Gerard was sitting in a chair next to me, leaned forward in concern. "Hey, there you are. How do you feel?" I sat up and rubbed the back of my head gingerly. My head was throbbing, and my throat felt dry.

"I need a drink," I coughed. He reached over and handed me a bottle from the nightstand. I took a big gulp, relieved to have the scratchy feeling subside. After I had fully come to, I looked around the room, realizing that I was no longer in my apartment. "Where am I? How did I get here?"

"Well, you hit your head really hard... I didn't do it. I didn't hurt you," he clarified quickly, anxiety in his voice.

"Hurt me? Why would-" The panic rose as the reality of the situation sank in. "What happened? Gerard, why am I here?"

"I just wanted to talk to you," he said, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. "You just freaked out, and I never meant for you to get hurt. I didn't know you were going to fall. If I did, I would have caught you. I didn't mean for you to get hurt, Em..."

"Why am I here?" I asked again. He leaned back uncomfortably.

"I just wanted to talk to you, but you wouldn't even hear me out. So, I brought you here so that we could talk things over."

"So, you kidnap me?"

"No! I didn't kidnap you. I just... I don't know. I just want to clarify that I didn't stalk you, and I didn't kidnap you..."

"Okay... Then, let me go." He shifted uncomfortably.

"I... I can't do that... Not yet. I need you to hear me out. At the very least, I need some closure," he insisted. I sighed and crossed my legs on the bed.

"Okay... Whatever gets me out of here the fastest," I muttered to myself. I watched as he tapped his fingers in a particular pattern repeatedly.

"So, how has life been?" He asked casually.

Wow. Okay.

"Well, you want the family-friendly version I give Mikey?" He tilted his head.

"You still talk to Mikes?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, they're the only family I got, man... I don't talk to them every day, but we've kept in touch."

"So, you know about Grandma." I nodded empathetically. "Did you go to her funeral?"

"I did."

"They wouldn't let me. They told me that it could be detrimental to the progress that I had made. I spent the last years of her life in a fucking psych ward," he muttered barely audibly. I wasn't sure which one of us he was talking to, but I figured he wanted a reply.

"I'm really sorry. I know she meant a lot to you." He nodded slightly.

"Well," he said as he cleared his throat. "I'm assuming what you've told Mikey isn't the whole truth, so I guess give me the real story."

"Shit's been bad," I stated honestly. "I was in and out of therapy and support groups. I was put on dozens of medications, but none of them helped. I've been riddled with paranoia, anxiety, depression... I don't sleep much, on account of the night terrors. I took up drinking, smoking, taking pills... None of it helped."

"Em..." he whispered softly. I looked over at him and sighed.

"But, aside from kidnapping me to talk, you seem to be doing better. You got help, probably got put on something that actually works, and have been doing well. Yet, here I am, six years later, and I'm a fucking wreck."