You Know What They Do To Guys Like Us In Prison

I've cried more in here than I've cried anywhere else in my life, and days after Gerard left, I decided what the plan is. I sit with my back leaning against the wall on the sterile linoleum floor. I'm going to separate the truth from the lies.
My name is Frank Anthony Iero Jr.
I am twenty-five years old.
I killed my mother.
I killed my father.
My friend Missy was kissed by another boy.
I killed her dog, Jack, and others like him.
My girl was killed by a man, named Cain.
The name sounds evil and twisted. He saved me, or killed the girl who gave me a sense of liberty which I haven't felt in a while? The girl who showed me, who taught me, that I could stretch my wings in the crowded city and fly if I so chose.
Why couldn't he have done both?
The man named Cain let me live.
The man named Cain let me die, too.
I am satisfied I know myself now. Just one imbalance remained: Gerard. Why did he treat me so impersonally? Like I was anyone. I knew from the kiss a month and a bit ago that I wasn't just anyone to him. I do matter, I think. And the worst thing? It hurts. Like a physical stab in the stomach, I can feel the loss digging into me, consuming me, taking over me. The sadness is eating me away; a horrible, empty sadness that is like a thousand hot needles pricking and stabbing. The guilt is screaming 'IT'S YOUR FAULT' inside my head, the obnoxious parade banging against the inside of my skull, not lessened by screaming or crying or dying, little voices telling it was me, all me, and my fucking lack of control caused me to lose him; either he was too scared to come near me, or thought I was too broken to fix. I'd not eaten, or slept, and I look more like the man I used to look like, only without the cocky recklessness, only grief hurting my heart. I am curled up into a ball, and when the door swings open and someone sits next to me and puts their arm around me, I weep into their chest, my own heaving with loss. The person holds me tight, and it takes long minutes for me to look up at the person who was rubbing my back, making little shushing sounds.
It's Gerard and I feel little tears of relief leaking out of the corners of my eyes as my heart somersaults and I sink back into his arms.
"I- I thought you'd gone.." My voice is choked and broken and tiny. He rubs my back in slow clockwise circles, and cups one of my tear soaked cheeks with his palm.
"I'd never leave, Frankie" he whispers. "Come on now, shshsh. Hey. I'm here. It's okay." He takes me into his arms again, and we lean up against the wall, feeling peace settle upon our being as one as my tears slow and my choppy breathing steadies. I look at the opposite wall.
"Why did you do that? Why did you leave?"
"That's how it feels, when someone you love, someone you truly love, goes away, fades away, indefinitely. That's how the families of the murdered feel."
And I understand that I never loved Lucy Jones. My stomach churns with guilt. He kisses my temple softly and holds me close.
"Nothing bad's gonna happen, Frank. I promise."

Notes

I understand my last chapter might have caused some confusion, so I just carried on so you won't get bored and move away from this.
As I said in my last note, things haven't been great. I don't want to rush or ruin this, which is a little too late I think, but time is pressing on. And I love it, but I don't want it to turn into a shitty frerard smutty fic, you know?
Thanks for the continued love and support, for the comments, the random messages saying they love what I write, the subscriptions, the votes, the readers, the lovers, the haters. I'll never be able to comprehend what a response I've gathered, and I'm so pleased you enjoy it if you do.
And a special thanks to Stitches, without which I'd never have succeeded in getting so far with this.
Love you all from the bottom of my little black heart,
Emma xo