Gerard’s POV

I hate myself. I hate what I am. I hate that I can’t control it. I hate that I’m the reason the person I love more than anything is in a hospital bed. I hate how cheery the nurses are when the memory of it all is putting me through hell. I hate these stupid fucking uncomfortable chairs at the hospital. I hate everything. Except Frank. Frank is the only good thing left in my life and I put him within an inch of his.

“Mr Way?” One of the overly cheery nurses called.

“Yes?” I shot out of my seat, praying to any God that would listen that he was alive.

“I’m sorry, but he lost too much blood. The doctors were unable to save him… and it’s your fault. If you could have controlled yourself, he wouldn’t be dead. You're a monster!”


I shot out of bed, dripping in sweat, feeling a wave of relief washing over me as I realized it was just a dream. Except for the part about me putting Frank in the hospital, that part was still very real.

I stumbled to the bathroom to brush my teeth when I looked in the mirror and realized I’d been crying in my sleep. I grabbed a washcloth and washed my face, leaving no trace of the tears.

I called Mikey, who was still at the hospital. I would have been too if he didn't force me to come home and rest.

"He's not doing too well, but the nurses say he'll live. He has to stay here a few more days, though," Mikey said.

"It's all my fault," tears stung my eyes as I said the words. Mikey denied them, but I knew they were true. I hung up the phone and ran to the bathroom, searching every hiding place I remembered for my razors. Old habits die hard, I suppose. I finally found one taped to the inside of my dresser and ran the blade over the smooth skin on my wrist, gasping at the pain. I didn't remember it feeling this bad all those years ago.

The cuts would heal themselves anyway--one of the perks of being a vampire--so I kept doing it. I lost track of how many cuts I actually made, but it didn't matter. I deserved it, and they would be gone within minutes. I set the razor down on the side of the bathroom sink, my hands covered in my own blood. I washed my arms off and just as I expected, they looked as though I never touched them.

Tears spilled over my cheeks and I grabbed my keys. I needed to see Frank. I needed to see him before I continued my self-destruction. I opened the front door and almost crashed into Mikey.

"Hey," he greeted me. "I was worried about you after you hung up, are you okay?" I nodded. I'm not okay, I'm anything but okay, but I didn't want to tell Mikey about my relapse.

"Gerard, seriously, are you alright?" He asked again when I didn't look at him.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Okay, well, I've got to go pee, so wait for me and then we can head back to the hospital together," he said, closing the bathroom door. Suddenly I remembered the razor, covered in blood, still sitting on the sink.

"GERARD!" He yelled. Fuck.

He stormed out of the bathroom, holding the razor. "I'm keeping this," when I tried to protest he started yelling. "What if it wasn't me that found this? What if it was Frank? Would you really be able to hurt him like that?!"

"I already have," I muttered. I didn't bother looking up to see his expression, but if I did it probably would have been a 'fuck I said the wrong thing' look.

"I'm keeping this," he repeated. "And next time you want to do this, imagine it being Frank. Not me, but Frank finding a fucking bloody razor on the bathroom sink," his voice cracked on the last few words.

"I'm sorry, Mikey. I won't do it again. I promise."

"Let's go," he said calmly, gesturing toward the door. Before we left, he opened the window and threw the razor out of it. I instantly felt relieved, just having it not within my reach anymore.

Notes

I told my mom that a thing I wrote had 700 views on the internet and she asked to read it... how about nope.