"Darling, darling
doesn't have a problem a problem
lying to herself, 'cause her liquor's top shelf
it's alarming, honestly, how charming she can be
fooling everyone, tellin' them she's having fun"
Ah, heroin. The drug that devours you as you devour it thought your blood stream; the drug that is your master, and not the other way around. He traded one addiction for another, but no one saw him falling apart at the seams. He thought it was funny how the first one had made him feel, and it was exchanged for the one that made him stop.
After months of an attempt in staying sober, I gave up and drowned my sadness and my success in alcohol. When we were actually together, we were a balance. If he was high, my desire for alcohol ceased immediately, and if I was drunk off my ass, he would care for me. Subtly. Did he really think that in my intoxicated state I did not take notice to how he would not yell at me carelessly or even leave me alone in the tiny motel room. Instead, he would stay with me, stroke my hair gently as I took a chug from a half way empty Jack Daniel's bottle. Deep inside, Gerard was this delicate flower. He did somewhat care for me, and as time passed he tried to hide it more, but it became more obvious. I knew there was this kind, gentle being within his outer layers of anger, hatred, and revenge. You just had to stick around long enough to discover it. Being of a peaceful nature and instinctively motherly in a way, he was more feminine than the ordinary male, although he put on a "macho man" act, which certainly did not go with him. He paid attention to the smallest of details and smiled warmly when he found his rare moments of genuine joy. When the drugs clouded his mind, he transformed into the monster he was most known for.
Here I was in my drunken state, discussing Gerard. Thought this drinking game would lead me to be a philosophical person and have smart people thoughts, but I guess not. He sat across from me, black hair hanging over his face, writing in some notebook he seemed to always have with him. He was a man of many words. Not that he spoke much, but he sure as hell did write a lot. I have no idea what he would spend hours writing about, never had I been curious enough.
I crawled over to the bed, placing my head on his lap. He wrote a few more words before placing the notebook, along with a cup of cheap coffee, and a pen on the nightstand. He shifted around and it ended up being that he sat, his back to the headboard, his arms around me, crawling me like the little child I really was. Caressing my hair and mumbling under his breath, I closed my eyes and snuggled closer to him. Warmth. This felt rather nice for a change. I felt different. His fingers lingered by my face. I think Gerard was mumbling away in Italian, his mother tongue. He spoke the language so soothingly. It put me to sleep.
I woke up sometime later to find myself alone in the shady motel room. Disentangling myself from the sheets, I tiptoed around the place, and was surprised to find Gerard's precious notebook lying in open sight on the coffee table. I wrapped my pale, naked body in a blanket and sat on the carpet, daring myself to grab the notebook and read it. Readying my mind for whatever I was to find written so very neatly in those pages, I stretched out my hand and slid the book from the table, hands trembling. I suppose this notebook of his was a place for him to organize his thoughts, vent out all he kept within. Taking a deep breath, I flipped open to the first entry.
"Sometimes you meet someone, and it's so clear that the two of you, on some level belong together. As lovers, or as friends, or as family, or as something entirely different. You just work, whether you understand one another or you're in love or you're partners in crime. You meet these people throughout your life, out of nowhere, under the strangest circumstances, and they help you feel alive. I don't know if that makes me believe in coincidence, or fate, or sheer blind luck, but it definitely makes me believe in something."
