Take Care

22 Cemetery Drive

The phone rang and rang. Just as I thought I'd have to leave yet another voice mail, he picked up. "Frank, I'm sorry!" He proclaimed before greetings could be exchanged. A sigh of relief escaped my mouth. "Where are you? Its three in the god damned morning!" I pointed out. "I'm so so sorry." He said again quietly. "What's wrong?" I realized he wasn't apologizing for not coming home. Something else had happened. "Where are you? I'll pick you up." I said and it was less of an offer than a demand. After a moment of no Answer, he groaned and unwillingly gave me the address. "22 Cemetery Drive." As I wrote down his location, I remained silent, not quite sure what to say. "Frank?" He asked. "I'm still here." I said. "I love you." "I know. I love you too." And without another word, the call was ended by his end.

I was familiar with the street and knew it wasn't a long drive to get there. I was certain that Bandit wouldnt wake uo before we got home but i still locked all the doors and windows before leaving. Even though the drive to the address was short it seemed to take hours. The roads were empty and an eerie fog was beginning to form over a lake.

Why the fuck would he be here? I wondered, pulling up to the grungy building. One window was cracked and a neon sign hung above the door. I felt a sudden wave of nausea, Realizing it was a run down bar. Quickly, I let myself in. I noticed him almost immediately, slumped over on a barstool under on of the few working lights. I suddenly had a flashback to the early 2000's and my nauseous stomach churned.

"Baby," I sighed, weaving my way through rotting empty tables. He looked up and he smiled. I stopped dead in my tracks and I actually almost threw up. My stomach wouldn't be able to handle much more of this. He smiled but it was not happy. His eyes were sunken and showed the start of dark circles. I noticed a purpley spot on his temple and figured it was a bruise from collapsing and hitting one of the unstable tables. The most terrifying though, was the nearly empty beer bottle he was clutching onto for dear life. The irony itself finally forced up my nervous vomit. Gerard giggled unconsciously. I knew he wouldn't rush to my side to help me, to see of I was alright, and to apologize. Instead I once again had to be the hero. I helped him off the stool and threw his arm over my shoulders to help him balance. He smelled of the absense of hope and a sad drunk man.

After the struggle of getting in the car and all the way home was over, I thought the rest would be easy. Unfortunately, I was wrong.

"Okay lets go." I said standing with his door open in the early hours of the morning. He remained seated and bubbled with uncontrollable laughter. "Jesus Christ." I muttered in frustration. He refused to get out of the car himself, or maybe he had forgotten how. Either way, I unbuckled him and gently swung his legs out. Wrapping my arms around His torso, I got him standing.

"Can you close the door?" I asked him, using my body as a prop for his. Instead of doing as he was asked, his laughing became louder. "What's so funny?!" I asked, raising my voice. "I'm so fucking drunk!" He exclaimed in barely comprehensive words. I rolled my eyes and kicked the door shut myself. "It's not going to be so funny in the morning." I muttered and wasn't quite sure if I meant his hangover or the interrogation and guilt trip he'll get from me.

He used me as his crutch all the way up the driveway and into the house. "I don't want to go to bed." He protested as I lead him up the stairs. "Gerard, the sun is rising in a few hours and you've gone and stayed up all night." I explained and tugged his arm for him to follow. "Might as well just stay up Then." He pouted and shook free of my grip. Before I could further my explanation he was in the kitchen.

Groaning, I followed him. He had his face in the freezer, using one hand to push some things around. When he didn't find whatever he was looking for, he moved on to the pantry. In there he moved around cereal boxes and knocked over a jar of peanut butter. I don't think he noticed though. "What are you looking for?" I wondered with a hint of annoyance that I knew he was too drunk to recognize. He shook his head aggressively and went for the dishwasher. I steeped in front of him, not wanting to end up with broken plates. "You're hiding it!" He accused and stomped his foot. He was such a childish drunk. "What am I hiding?" I sighed, deciding to humor him. "You know," he rolled his eyes and spent far too much time exaggerating his vowels.

I stared at him, imitating his stance. After less than a minute he got bored of our staring contest.

"Where are you hiding the beer?" He asked.

"We don't have any." I said bluntly.

"Wine?"

"No."

"Vodka?"

"Of course not!"

"Why not?" He wined. At this I was finally fed up. I didn't care if he wasn't in the right mind set or not.

"Because you're a drunk, Gerard! A fucking alcoholic! You've been sober for almost five years and you just got up ruined that!" I shouted. I opened my mouth to continue my rant. I stopped myself when I saw his scrunched up face. His eyes were no longer focused on mine and now they faced the tile floor. "I have ruined everything haven't I?" He said quietly.

Without another word, I left him alone in the kitchen.