This Is How I Disappear

I can’t sleep. I toss and turn all night long, thinking about Gerard. What did it mean? Did it mean anything?

Did what mean anything? my brain grouches, but I ignore it.

Well, did it? Was he going to kiss me?

That’s the one thought I can’t let go of, I can’t dismiss. Was he going to kiss me? Or was he gonna tell me something?

Damn it, Mikey, your timing is impeccable.

I must be over-thinking this. There’s no way someone like Gerard would like someone like me. He’s a gorgeous, demented, somewhat-sweet murderer, and I’m a pathetic, plain, depressed, sort-of-homesick kid still in high school. At best, he was trying to relate to me, and that’s it. Trying to cheer me up.

And why would he want to, if he’s a psychopath? my brain quizzes.

Hey, I protest, I didn’t list that.

No, but it’s probably true, my brain amends.

Probably! I exclaim, as if I just won the lottery. So not necessarily!

Do you really, my brain says doubtfully, want to get your hopes up just to have them crushed? Isn’t it better to not expect anything? Aren’t you lonely enough without wanting someone?

Sometimes I think my brain knows things I don’t. Like it isn’t wholly me that I’m talking to; like some other entity has lodged itself in my head and commentates my life. Is it wisdom? Is it bluster? Is it my subconscious trying to remind me of something I already know? A defense mechanism against boredom and isolation?

I’m lonely either way, I tell it sullenly. I might as well try to change that.

You think a solipsistic psychopath is in love with a myopic moron like you, my brain spells out seriously.

Um, what’s with the fancy words and alliteration? I stall. My brain doesn’t even bother to respond. Sighing, I correct, I think the solipsistic psychopath was going to kiss me. ‘In love’ is a bit far-fetched.

Or you’re being an idiot and he likes you as much as you like him, it suggests, and I feel worn out by its constant capriciousness.

I let out a long breath. So, what do I do?

My brain gives me the mental equivalent of a shrug. Go talk to him.

It’s—I look at the clock—two in the morning!

Less chance of Mikey interrupting again, my brain reasons thoughtfully.

Interrupting what? I mutter, but throw the blankets off. I can’t sleep anyway. Tiptoeing to the door, I try to navigate in the dark. I stub my toe, but not badly. The door creaks slightly as I open it, but no one seems to be stirring. Biting my lip, I make my way down the hall to the living room. Gerard sleeps on the couch. I feel like a creep.

You just came to talk to him, my brain denies.

At two in the morning, I add, when he’s asleep.

Is he? my brain replies slyly, and I frown, slinking forward. Gerard’s breaths are even and slow. I’m pretty sure he’s sl—

Gerard springs up and before I can even blink, he’s got a knife to my throat. My mouth falls open. “Damn it, Frank,” he whispers, relaxing and lowering his knife, “I thought you were a cop.”

“So you put a knife to my throat?” I shouldn’t be surprised.

“Can’t be too careful,” he says, flopping back onto the couch in a sitting position. “What are you doing out here?”

“I, um….” The words glue to the top of my mouth. What do I say anyway? ‘I want to know if you were going to kiss me earlier, or if I’m just imaging things because you’re hot.’ That will go over smoothly, I'm sure.

“You, um…?” Gerard prompts, leaning his head back.

“Were you sleeping?” I ask, because there seems to be a mental detour around the real question I came to ask.

Gerard yawns. “Nope.”

“That’s not good,” I say. “You need to sleep. When was the last time you slept?”

“I think I passed out a few times when we were walking…” Gerard muses.

“No, I mean a real night’s sleep?”

“The night before I met you,” he replies after a moment. “God, you’re like coffee. Keeping me up all night,” he whines, rubbing his eyes.

My heart sort of flip flops in my chest.

Like a fish, my brain comments, out of water.

“Do I keep you awake?” I wonder, feigning nonchalance.

Gerard yawns again and shakes his head. “It’s funny, but when I’m super tired, I can’t fall asleep. It’s like, I keep dozing off and jerking awake because I think I’m falling or something.”

I frown. “That’s not good.” Yeah, I thought he might have been kept up for the same reasons you were, my brain agrees. Now that would’ve been good.

Gerard smiles wanly. “Tell my brain that.”

“What?” I blurt a little too loudly.

He gives me a funny look. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” I snap. Are you a compulsive liar, or…? my brain inquires.

You have got to shut up when I’m in the middle of conversations.

“Are you sure?” Gerard checks.

I roll my eyes theatrically. “Positive.”

He shrugs, yawns, and repeats, “What are you doing out here?”

I shrug back. “I…couldn’t sleep,” I tell him. My brain sends me a wordless criticism. Well, it’s not a lie, I insist defensively.

“And so your plan was to wake me up and talk to me?” he grumbles.

Yeah, that was a bad idea, I admit. “Of course not,” I fib, shaking my head.

He raises his eyebrows. “So you were just gonna watch me sleep.”

“No!” I say quickly. “No, I just…I was gonna see if you were awake, and then talk to you if you were, and you were, and…we’re talking.” Your eloquence in the English language never ceases to amaze, my brain sniffs.

I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve been acquainted, Monsieur Know-It-All, I return.

Gerard doesn’t answer for a moment. Then he yawns. “Well, I am straight out of conversation starters, Frank.”

“Me too,” I respond awkwardly.

“And I’m gonna try to go to sleep now,” he hints.

“Okay.” I don’t leave. Hesitantly, I start, “You know, earlier? Were you gonna—”

“Good night, Frank,” Gerard emphasizes.

I bite my lip. “‘Night,” I mumble, turning to go. What, you came all the way out here and you’re not gonna ask? Don’t give him another reason to dislike you, my brain scoffs. So, with as much bravado as I can summon up, I spin around and march right up to the couch.

“What part of—” he starts to whine, but I put my hands on his cheeks and he falters to a stop.

“I like you,” I tell him, managing to keep the shakiness from encroaching on my voice. “And I know you were going to kiss me earlier.”

He is silent and still. I drop my hands and stand up straight. “But I’m not gonna do anything you don’t want me to do.” With that, I turn to leave, but his hand shoots out and catches mine. We stay like that, frozen, with our hands clasped. It’s simple human contact, putting one’s palm against another’s, and yet we crave that simplistic act. There is something ethereal about holding someone’s hand that can’t be put into words, though I’ll be damned if I don’t try. I don’t want to be cheesy and say magical, but that’s the only word I can think of. This beatific thing was born from the acts of two sinners.

We fall asleep like that, fingers entwined, lost in the power of touch.

Then holding hands and life was perfect, just like up on the screen….