"Frank," I sobbed into the phone, "please pick up."
I don't blame him for not answering. I lost my temper and screamed in his face. It's also nearing midnight, so that could be a reason, but he told me he doesn't go to sleep until 1 AM usually. Mikey came home an hour ago, but I only know that from hearing his voice as he walked past my room. Mom and Dad are on business trips, so I know if Mikey is asleep I could go out to Frank's house. No, I don't want to confront him in the middle of the night. How do I even know he's at his house? No, he told me he doesn't have any friends. I sighed and tapped the red button on my phone before setting it down next to me. I let out a quiet sob again and put my face in my hands. Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid. He'll never talk to you now, a voice in the back of my head nagged. I just pinched my hand to get rid of the damn voice. I sighed again and forced myself to stand up. The shards of broken glass and terracotta still covered the floor, but I didn't feel up to cleaning right now. I tucked my phone into my back pocket and slowly opened my door. I peeked my head out at first, assessing how many people there were around (answer: none), before stepping out and softly shutting my door. I could hear Mikey laughing at something a few doors down. I tiptoed over to his door and pressed my ear to it.
"Well, why'd Gee run over to the bathroom?" I heard Mikey ask.
Whoever he was talking to hesitated at first. "He didn't feel well." Patrick.
"That doesn't explain him not wanting Frank to see him," another voice, which I recognized at Pete, piped up.
"He looked, like, deathly pale. Like he had caught some sort of plague," Patrick lied. "He didn't want to present himself like that."
"Thanks," I said under my breath as I walked away from his door and down the stairs. I took one last look at the dark living room before stepping out in the humid late summer air.

I wasn't going to Frank's house, I just needed to get out of there.

I found myself walking to the local park and sitting on a bench next to a lamppost. I looked up at the starless New Jersey sky. It was nearly October now, just about a month until Frank's birthday. Okay, no, stop thinking about him. It's nearly fall, and soon the air will become crisp, as opposed to the humid summer air, and wherever you go dead leaves will crunch beneath your feet. Then comes winter, with its white snow blanketing the whole town and cold air that nips your nose.

And before the winter season will even end, I'll be six feet under.

I sighed. I felt around my pockets before pulling out my cigarettes. I slipped one in between my teeth and cupped my hand around the butt as I lit it. I took a long drag and watched the smoke billow out of my mouth, floating up into the sky. "You need to stop smoking," Lindsey told me yesterday at my weekly evaluation when I pulled out a pack, "you're hurting your body more than you must."
"I'm already dying, what's the harm?" She sighed in defeat and continued the eval.
I was right, that I know. I'm already decaying from the inside out, what's the worst that a cigarette or twenty can do? Give me cancer? Ha. I flicked the end to drop some ashes. I knew I would probably get arrested for being out this late. Maybe kidnapped and murdered? That sounded perfect right now. I crossed my legs and rested my head in my freehand, sighing. I really fucked up, didn't I?

My phone went off in my pocket, startling me. The ringtone was such a drastic change from the chirping of crickets and ringing in my ears from near-silence. I slipped it out of my pocket to find an unknown number glowing from the screen. I figured it was one of these options: (A) murderer that's actually right behind me calling to tell me that I'm about to meet my maker; (B) telemarketer; (C) prank call; (D) wrong number. I just put my phone on silent and set it next to me, ignoring the caller.

However, almost immediately after my phone went to voicemail, they called again. That left out the idea of a telemarketer or a prank call. I let that call go to voicemail once more.

Then, they called for the third time. I groaned in response. I hadn't properly spoken in a few hours, and add that with all my crying, my voice was probably wrecked. Not the attractive, mid-sex wrecked, obviously. No, the "I'm a 15 year old girl who's been crying for the past 24 hours about her first boyfriend breaking up with her and taking all my nail polish with him" kind of wrecked voice. I hesitantly grabbed my phone, but didn't answer. I looked at the number once more. It actually looked kind of familiar now. I think I saw it on Frank's phone once, when it went off in the middle of the night and I had to answer it for him. I couldn't put a name, nor face, to the voice I remember on the other line.

Jamia.

I realized who it was, and immediately answered. There is never a good reason for your boyfriend/fiance's sister to call you at 12:16 at night. "H-Hello?" I stuttered.
There was heavy breathing on the other line, then a quiet and emotional voice spoke, "is this Gerard?"
"Um, yeah. Is this Jamia?"
"Yes. Oh my god." I heard some banging and a voice yell something, but it was muffled. "Shit. Oh my fucking god."
"Jamia, are you okay?"
Heavy breathing on the other line.
"Are you--"
"I heard you." She sighed. It wasn't an "I've given up on everything" sigh, no. It was a "I'm trying my hardest and it isn't doing a goddamn thing" sigh. "It's Frank," she said, her voice breaking.
My breath hitched and my heart raced. "What a-about him?"
She squeaked, as if she was about to cry. "He locked himself in his bathroom. I know that's not a major thing, but... but I'm worried about him. When he got home, he looked like he had been crying. He didn't want to talk about it." She sighed again. "When I came up here, his closet door was wide open. On the floor was a-a jacket. I looked at it and there was a pocket hidden on the inside. I looked through a few more and the other ones had razors in it."
I gasped quietly and covered my mouth.
"Gerard, I didn't get all those razors."
"Is he--"
"He's been locked in his damn bathroom for the past half hour." She stopped and I heard more knocking. More like banging. "Frank, please come out!" she yelled. "The shower is running."
"Doesn't your mom have a skeleton key or something?" I asked her.
She gulped. "No. But even-- even if she did, it wouldn't matter. She had a date tonight. She hasn't come home." She squeaked again. "Please, come over. Maybe you can convince him."
"Jamia, I don't think that would be a good idea right now. We got in a f--" I was cut off by even more banging.
"Oh my god. Please hurry."
And then she hung up. I sighed. I had to go, even if he was unbelievably pissed at me. I stood up, slipped my phone back into my pocket, and put out the cigarette in the cobblestone pavement.

---

I gulped as Frank's house came into view. His window was lit, though none of the other ones were. The door was unlocked, so I let myself in and softly shut it. "Jamia, I'm here!" I yelled to make sure she didn't think I was a burglar. I could hear the sound of the shower running coming from upstairs. I went up to Frank's room to find a crying Jamia sitting in front of it, her phone clutched in her hand. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve when she saw me and stood up.
"I don't want to call the police. What if he's perfectly fine?"
I sighed. "You probably should. Even if he ends up fine, which considering what happened tonight I'd assume he isn't, it's better safe than sorry."
"'What happened tonight'...?"
I bit my lip. "We got in a fight. I lost my temper and yelled at him." I looked away, at the floor. Instead of replying, she pushed me towards the door. I put my ear up to the wood to see if I could hear anything through it.

Nothing.

I took a step back. "Jamia, please take a few steps back." I heard her footsteps go towards the bed, a few feet away from me. I'd never done this before, only seen it in movies. Let's pray I'm strong enough. I balanced on one leg and forcefully kicked near the doorknob with the other foot. To my surprise, it came open. She gasped. "Stay there," I ordered her, and she nodded. Slowly, I approached the door, pushing it open slightly.

I was not prepared for what I would see in there.

Frank was sitting on the floor, back to the cabinets under his sink. Next to him was a large blood of blood and a bloody razor. My eyes trailed up from the puddle to Frank himself. His eyes were closed, his skin extremely pale. He was breathing rapidly and sweating. I rushed over to him and kneeled at his side. I'd learned about this from some of the nurses at the hospital; they told me they want more people to learn about stages of medical conditions in case of emergencies. I grabbed his arm that wasn't covered in blood and held my thumb to his pulse point. As I expected, his pulse was weak, and his skin cold. "Frank," I said firmly as I grabbed his chin and turned his face to mine. He didn't reply, his eyelids just fired.

"Stage four symptoms of hypovolemia: weak pulse despite increased heart rate, increased respiration, unconsciousness or unresponsiveness, sweaty, cold, and pale skin, no capillary refill." The nurse's words echoed in my head.

I squeezed the tip of one of his fingers and saw that the color didn't return to the nail bed. He really has bled out. Assuming it's stage four, that means more than 40% of his blood has been lost. If he's been here for more than a few minutes, it's a miracle he's still alive. I heard Jamia's foot steps behind me and a soft sob. "Jamia," I muttered, my voice unsteady and breaking, "please tell me you've called the police." She made a squeak that I assumed was a sound of agreement.

And then I let out everything that I was feeling right then.

The tears streaming from my eyes rolled down my cheeks and down my chin, probably staining my face with grey streaks once more. I squeezed his pale and cold hand. "Why, Frankie?" I asked, though I knew perfectly well there wouldn't be a reply. I leaned over and touched our foreheads together. "Fuck, I'm so sorry," I choked, then broke out into a sob.

This my fault, all my fault. If I hadn't yelled at him, this wouldn't have happened. You really are a burden, a voice told me. I gritted my teeth. I know I am, can't I know that subconsciously without voices in my head reminding me every time I make a mistake? I know I'm a fucking burden. I'm just the gay emo kid no one will ever remember. It should be me lying on the floor bleeding out. Not Frank. He has so much to live for, so many people who adore him. If only he knew. It's all my fault he's going to die now. I kissed his cheek and stared at him. "Where is the damn ambulance?" I hissed, not expecting an answer from the sobbing Jamia a few feet away. My gaze went from his face to the chain around his neck, a dog tag attached. I looked at the side that was facing me, the one with the engraving. "Gerard Way", it read. I didn't realize it, but I ended up clasping my own necklace, reading his name, with one of my hands as I looked at his.

Suddenly, people rushed through the door, donning black paramedic uniforms. One had a red bag strung over her shoulder. They pushed me, literally pushed me, out of the way, chattering about dealing with blood loss. "S-Stage four h-hypovolemia," I said loud enough for them to hear. None of them paid attention, though. One of them picked up Frank bridal style and started carrying him out of the room. I followed them all the way outside, to the ambulance parked out front. When I tried to climb in the ambulance, I was pushed over by a nurse.
"No one allowed," he hissed.
I got up quickly, dusting the dirt off my jeans. "Please, I'm... I'm his fiance," I pleaded.
"No one allowed," he repeated.
"Please, let me ride on."
He just glared at me.
I suddenly felt the same emptiness as earlier. "My fiance just tried to fucking KILL HIMSELF and you're really not going to let me on?!" I yelled, waving my hand around as I spoke. "Please, let me on!"
I realized my mistake of getting emotional when two police officers came up from behind me and grabbed my arms, pulling me away from the ambulance. "No!" I yelled and tried to shake their grip, which only made them squeeze my arms tighter. "Please!" I could feel tears stinging my eyes.

This is not happening. Frank is not being loaded onto a gurney and put onto an ambulance because he's bleeding out. He is not going to go into an inevitable coma.

I did not drive my boyfriend-fiance-soul mate to suicide.

Notes

is it even possible to bleed out that much from cutting a major vein?
let's assume it is

IS THIS HEARTBREAKING ENOUGH
I FEEL LIKE GIVING @FANGORIA MORE FEELS
SERIOUSLY, WHO THREATENS TO SET PEOPLE'S SHOES ON FIRE?
I'VE HAD PEOPLE THREATEN TO PISS IN MY SHOES, BUT NEVER TO SET THEM ON FIRE

xo