You know, Gerard, maybe I need a drink sometimes too. I'm not you. I'm not, never was, and never will be an alcoholic.
One drink. That's all I was going to have. And before I could even finish half of the bottle, you stormed in through the door (it was only midnight, so I was surprised you were even home), took my bottle, and smashed it on the floor. "What the fuck are you doing?" you screamed angrily.
I didn't lie to you. "I - I was just having a drink."
Right then I realized that was the first time you talked to me in ten days. And boy, did I wish you had kept your mouth shut or said something else. Because when your boyfriend doesn't say a word to you for almost two weeks straight, you don't want him yelling at you when he finally decides to talk to you.
But then, Gerard, you said the shittiest thing you could possibly say. It hurt so bad, I'd rather be punched in the face. That would hurt far less.
"Go away, Frank. And don't ever touch my fucking bottles."
Do you even remember saying that or were you too hammered?
I can't believe I thought for a second that you were trying to protect me from the drinks. No, you were really protecting the drinks from me.
I lost it then, Gerard. I grabbed you by the shirt, and I spat, "Call me when you start giving a shit." And I let go of your shirt and pushed your shoulders back, and I guess you were too wasted to even catch yourself, because you stumbled backwards right into the beer and glass. You cut up your hands real bad. But you know what? I didn't walk out like I'd planned to. I helped you back to your feet and rinsed the blood off your filthy fucking hands, and I bandaged them, and I cleaned up the mess, mind you, your mess, while you carried on about how you didn't want to sleep with me, you wanted to sleep on the couch again.
If I really did walk out you know I'd come back an hour later. Because like I said so many times, I love you too much to leave. And what would happen if I left anyway? Would you fall apart again? Would you come looking for me? Would you drink yourself to death? Would you abandon the house? Would you even care?
I know I said I wanted to hear your voice, but not like this. And anyway, you haven't spoken to me since you were whining about sleeping on the couch.
I want to save you from the alcohol. I hate seeing you like this. I hate the amount you drink. I hate the words you say to me. When you were an alcoholic before we dated, I hated the way you acted in public. I hate how you're never home, and when you are, you're trashed. I hate how you seem to love your beer more than me.
And when you were an alcoholic, Gerard, I hated you.
