Gerard’s P.O.V.
“We’re here!” my dad cheers as he pulls into the driveeway of the rickety, abandoned-looking house.
Mikey grumbles something about the house being a dump as he gets out of the car, removing his headphones.
My mom glares at him. “No more snarky comments, Michael.”
I follow them into the house.It’s so old that the wood creaks with every step.
“It could use some work,” my dad suggests.
“It could use a bulldozer,” Mikey growls.
“Michael, you just lost your pick at first room!” my mom scolds. She lightly pushes me twoareds the stairs, encouraging, “Go ahead, Gerard.”
I start up the steps, each one groaning loudly under my weight. As I go up, it gets progressively, and noticeably, colder. My breath comes out in clouds by the time I reach the room I want.
Frank’s P.O.V.
The door opens, and in walks a shuddering teenaged boy. He looks about my age and is vampiricly pale. He has raven locks that hang through his eyes, which are… the exact same color as Geri’s.
He lets out a long sigh as he lies on the bed. A long shiver makes its way down his spine.
“Jesus it’s cold in here,” he mutters.
He leaves the room, rubbinghis hands up and down his arms for warmth. He then returns wearing a sweater and lays himself back onto the bed. He then does a really pecuiliar thing. He cries. He cries for some reason that I don’t know. As he sobs, he hugs his knees to his chest and rocks back and forth. He reaches into his jeans pocket, pulling out a razor blade.
I sit next to him and watch with utter fascination. He rolls up his sleeve and presses the blade against his wrist as another long tear falls down his face. He applies pressure, and then suddenly throws the weapon across the room. He weeps harder, and then slaps himself in the face.
“Get it together,” he whimpers to himself.
I stroke his hair, to find a strand actually lift with my touch.I must have become more powerful.
He jumps, and stops crying immediatley. He pats the top of his head where I had pet him. He then stands, wiping his eyes and searching for a mirror. Finding one in the attatched batrhoom, he fixes his hair. He dumps some water from the faucet into his hands and splashes it onto his face. He wipes himself off on his sleeve, and then starts down the steps.
I follow him outside onto the porch. He takes off his sweater, tossing it onto the porch swing. He sits heavily in the swing, and I park myself on the porch steps. I really want to talk to him. I want to help him.
I will myself to appear in front of him.
Gerard’s P.O.V.
I suddenly notice a boy sitting on my porch. He has dark hair, and looks pretty small. It’s hard to tell; he’s sitting down with his back to me.
“Hey,” I greet. The boy doesn’t reply.
“Hey, you,” I call. The boy looks around this time, still not meeting my gaze.
I head up towards him and shake his shoulder. “Hey.”
The boy looks at me surprised, and then says excitedly, “Hello.” He pauses thoughtfully, looks up at me, and asks, “Why are you so sad?”
I jump in shock, never being asked anything so delicate so bluntly. “I’m not sad.”
“Yes you are,” the boy responds. He runs his hand up my arm, grazing my faded scars. “What are those from?”
I yank my arm away. “Strangers can’t know.”
The boy stands, and I see that he is only about 5’3”. “My name’s Frank. We’re not strangers anymore.”
I look into his eyes, which are a trasnparent green. “I have to go.”
He outstretches his hand for me, but I hurry past. When I reach the door, I decide to tell him the truth. I turn, but he’s already gone.
Frank’s P.O.V.
I stay in the boy’s room until he returns. He yawns sleepily as he lays himself on the bed. I glance over at the alarm clock, realizing that it’s already 10:00 at night.
He slips out of his shirt, throwing it across the room. He kicks off his pants, leaving him inb his black boxer briefs. He then rolls over, pulling the covers up to his neck.
I prepare for another dull night when the boy suddenly flips onto his back. He trails a hand down his stoamch, removing the blanket down to his knees. He slides his hand inside of his underwear, and I see the fabric rise, descend, and rise repeatedly.
He moans softly and closes his eys, his long lashes nearly reaching his cheekbone.
I move over closer to him. I see his pace quicken through the thin cloth of his boxer briefs. He pants lightly, petting himself heavily. He titls his head back and lets out a low cry. He stands, waddling across the room to his dresser. I watch as he step sout of his udnerwear, using them to wipe off his crotch. He changes into a new pair of blue briefs, then returning to bed and curling up to sleep.
The boy rises in the morning. He zooms about the room, pulling on slacks, a dress shirt, and a red tie. So, I see that the local school still has the same uniform I wore when I attended there.
“It’s freezing,” he mumbles. He blows into his hands as he descends down the steps.
I follow him down, and I realize in the back of my mind that with me constantly following and studying him, this kid will never get any warmer in his own house.
He sits at the table, gulping down a glass of orange juice. He grabs a piece of taost and toussles another boy’s hair as he passes, a boy with brown hair and horn rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose.
“Don’t!” the boy with glasses protests, shoving the other, larger, boy.
“Michael, be nice to your brother!” their mother orders.
“Sorry,” Michael scolws.
I follow the boy until the sidewalk, the boudnary to how far I can walk from this house I am foreever chained to. As I follow, I notice something faintly written on his backpack. “Gerard”.
I wiat in Gerard’s room for him to come home. I go through his possessions, leaving them sprawled across the room. He really does have a lot of neat stuff. He has these little discs that are like tiny records, and they look like, by the cases they come in, that they pllay music. He’s even an artist; I pull out quite a bit of paintings, comic pages and sketches. I come across one, that is of a wrist stretched out. Across the wrist is red paint, and a paintbrush is being dragged across it.
Gerard needs help.
Gerard’s P.O.V.
When I get home, I go straight to my room to see all of my boxes unpacked. “What the… MIKEY!” I see my wrist painting on the floor, and I panic. Oh shit! What if he found out? What if he tells mom and dad?
I clump over to Mikey’s room, shoutuing, “MIKES! HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU, DON’T TOUCH MY SHIT!”
Mikey’s lying on his bed playing music off his laptop and reading a Victoria’s Secret catalouge. He sees me, blushes and sits on the adertisements. He adjusts his glasses nervously, saying, “I was never in your room.”
“Wh-what?” I ask.
“Gerard, I didn’t touch any of your shit!” Mikey insists. “Get out. And close my door on your way.”
I leave, closing the door behind me and returning to my room, sensing the temperature drop as I step in. Why is it always so damn cold in here? As I begin to put away my junk, I struggle to recall unpacking my stuff, but it’s a memory I can’t bring up.

Notes

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