I always thought you hated this thing—the journal, I mean. You always had a look of disgust or loathing whenever you dragged this thing out. Well, you did that when I was locked in your room, when, um, the dragon (was that what you called Dr. Miller?) first got you one. I didn't really know how difficult it was for you to express your feelings then, but I began to realize when you yelled at me when I told you it was going to be okay.
Ah, yes, good times.
You're probably wondering—well, if you can
wonder, I'm not sure—how I exactly knew you called Miller the dragon. I walked into the bedroom after our little dispute we had Christmas day—I'm sorry about that by the way—and I saw you sleeping with Boo by your head. And in your arms was this journal. I didn't even know you still wrote in this. I always thought you just locked me out of the bedroom for several minutes a night just to be an asshole, but I guess you were writing in this.
Your handwriting is really messy, too. I can still make out a few things, though. But I guess that adds a personal touch to it, eh?
I carefully slipped the journal out of your arms—you felt so warm—and walked over to the chair you had next to the desk. I sat there and started reading. I was sort of lost, because it didn't have any previous journal entries that you had written, like the ones you wrote when I was living at your house. Oh, look at me, saying I lived there. In a way I did, I suppose.
Before I read any more out of that journal, I searched for the previous ones. I found them in a box in the closet. They weren't in good condition, but as I read, I found out why. You had several emotional breakdowns and probably took it out on the poor journal.
The ones that affected me the most were the ones when you were sent to that institution. I didn't realize how much of an asshole I was back then.
Eventually, I got to the journal that you were holding in your arms. It tore me apart how you wrote how, basically, everything was perfect in the beginning. Our life was going smoothly, and we were enjoying ourselves. I didn't quite understand why you referred to me as Pumpkin, but I didn't really mind.
I hardly recognized the fact that you were slowly deteriorating, breaking down from the inside out, if I can put it like that. I thought everything was going fine—we had the occasional argument and fight now and then, but I didn't notice how it affected you that much.
The last few entries made me tear up a bit. You made it seem like I was a heartless bastard, but you forgot to mention that I wasn't the only one throwing hits—you were, too. I have the bruises and a black eye to prove it. Not to mention I have internal scarring from where you "punished me like the whore I was". Hm. I didn't know that getting the chance to talk to everybody at the party and not focusing all my attention on you qualified me to be a whore. Yes, I admit I drank a tad, but I was certainly not acting like a whore
I shouldn't be getting mad at you over all this. I know you weren't all right in the head. But I still stuck with you, didn't I?
I found myself crying whenever I got to the last entry—your suicide note. I thought it was all a joke, because as I reached over and touched your neck, you were still warm. Very warm. You breathed and swallowed occasionally. You even grinded your teeth.
But I was more wary, then.
I crawled into bed and curled up close to you—Boo was now by your feet—and held you and the journal close.
I thought you would wake up the next morning.
Your lips were blue, as well as your skin. Your fingers were wrapped around my wrist, and I figured you done that in your sleep—subconsciously, of course. You didn't want to lose me when you did eventually... go.
I sat up in bed and looked at you in horror. I tried to pry your fingers off of my wrist, but it was hard. Eventually I did, and I jumped off the bed, falling onto the ground. I didn't know if I should have called an ambulance then, so I didn't. Maybe you didn't really pass. Maybe you were just sleeping soundly, like what had happened to me a few weeks prior. Oh, dear, I really hoped and prayed that you would be okay.
But by the third day, I called an ambulance, because you still didn't wake up. Boo even noticed. It was heartbreaking to see her paw at your face, wanting you to wake up and embrace her. I kinda wanted you to do the same to me.
A few days later, after you were removed and shipped off, I had sat at the apartment by myself for New Years Eve. I drank—don't worry. I wouldn't want to pass up that little tradition. Boo sat beside me, and it seemed as if she were mourning, too.
We both were, and my heart only broke more with each drink I took, because it brought back memories of you.
Eventually, I walked into the bedroom and grabbed Let the Right One In
. I played it in the living room and laughed and giggled and cried at all the right parts, as if you weren't really gone. I could almost feel you sitting beside me, a secure hand on my waist, but I knew it was probably the beer I had been consuming.
Mikey, Brendon, and Ryan stopped by the place and gave me their condolences. I accepted nonetheless. It seemed like they felt they needed to see me—just to see if I was still alive.
I guess they figured I would follow you, but I would never do that.
I'm sorry if this upsets you, where ever you are (come to think of it, I don't even know why I'm writing in this—it feels like such an invasion of privacy), but I just want you to know that, yes
, I will continue living my life, even though you aren't here. I know this may offend you, again, where ever you are, but I feel as if I need to.
Someone needs to take care of the apartment and feed and tend to Boo. She can be quite a bothersome if you don't pay attention to her when she paws at your leg.
Maybe I'll even start working at the record store where you worked. Hobby Lobby is starting to get boring anyway.
But don't worry; I won't drug some attractive-looking guy if I see one. That was your thing, never mine.
I wouldn't want to make another guy have emotional problems, like I had developed. I wouldn't want him to become bipolar and slightly depressive and afraid of moving on.
I'm so scared. Nobody deserves to live in this state of fear.
But I'll be okay.
Because you'll be watching over me.
Shit, something touched my neck. Haha, I'm so funny... nothing was there.
I love you, Gerard. Even though I didn't show it at times.
You were the best thing that has happened to me, and I'm not saying that out of the Stockholm syndrome that I probably have.
These past few months were the best.
I wish I could live through them again and fix all the fuck ups I done—that we done.
But I can't.
And I'm sorry.
Your captive, forever and always,
~sfregiatoFrank now has a tumblr, so go keep him company. It gets a bit lonely without his captor. [link]