Fight Fire with Fire (Frerard)

16. This Ain't A Room Full Of Suicides

Sometimes I wonder, is there coffee in heaven? I love coffee...so damn much.

As I lay, staring at the midnight sky, I find myself questioning what I am doing with my life. Wondering if coffee is in heaven. Pathetic.

I decided to come out the backyard, partly to get my nicotine fix, and partly to get away from the mess in my head. Although, the latter seems near impossible.

The cigarette hang's loosely between my cracked and split lips. Breathing in the chemicals actually relaxes me. It's weird, I really enjoy having something that makes me feel somewhat free in this useless life of mine.

Honestly, what is the point of caring anymore? I am hated by everyone. Everyone but Frank, I guess. I don't know why he say's he loves me. I'm just plain, boring, faggot Gee. Nothing but a useless fuck. My parent's think I've become more focused since I 'don't spend as much time with Frank' but they don't get it. They don't understand that yes, I've become more focused, but I focus on the wrong stuff. I focus on when I can get another fix of nicotine, when the next beating will be, when my body will be fucking destroyed by the man everyone trusts and loves. They don't get that I am nothing in this world. The stars wouldn't miss me. I am nothing, absolutely nothing. I should just give up; set my tortured soul free.

"Gerard?"

Shit...

I bite my lip, looking up at Frank's worried face towering over me.

"Frank." Is all I could manage to come up with as his face shows pure concern.

He sighs, taking a seat next to me, looking at me as if I am glass, about to shatter into a million pieces. I roll my forever tired eyes, sitting up and taking a very much needed drag of my cigarette. As the smoke fills my lungs, I notice the dizzy feeling wash over me for a moment. Is it from the chemicals, or the fact that I am chain smoking on an empty stomach?

Frank pulls a cigarette out of his pack, lighting the end and letting it take him on a relieving trip down cancer lane.

Silently, I put out my used cigarette, before deciding my decaying body need's another. Why am I doing this to myself? Why am I slowly letting myself become undone; unraveled into a pile of flesh and bones.

It's like there's cancer in my blood, it's like there's water in my lungs, and I can't take another step; please tell me I am not undone.

It's like there's fire in my skin and I'm drowning from within. I can't take another fucking breath. Please tell me I am not fucking undone!

"Another one?" He almost whispers, watching me light another cigarette.

I nod. Nothing but a short, simple but in no way sweet, nod. I can't find any words that feel needed or simply wanted right now.

I like the silence.

"How um, how are you feeling?" I settle for a simple question, deciding I need to at least pretend like my mind isn't drowning me in a sea of deadly thoughts.

Frank sighs out smoke, glancing at me with furrowed eyebrows.

"You-You're asking...what the fuck are you asking me that for? I'm not the one with bruises around my fucking throat, Gerard." He sighs out as it is now my turn to furrow my unkempt eyebrows.

My hazel eyes don't leave the grass beneath me as I shrug, "I know I have bruises; you don't have to fucking remind me." I mumble in agitation.

He nods, "I know. I just..." he trails off, looking away.

I feel a cloud of sadness lurk over us as we sit in silence, smoking our pathetic lives away.

"I-I'm fine now," he begins, deciding to answer my question, "-but it really fucking scared me, you know. Seeing you look so...so...lifeless..."