Just Look at All That Pain

Gerard could tell by Mikey's face that he had heard everything about his night out with Bert. He swung his arm around Gerard's should, pushing him off balance slightly.
Before he could say anything, Gerard spat, "Mike can we do this later."
"No. We're fucking doing this now. Maybe not here but right now," Mikey growled back, pushing Gerard toward the front of the shop and completely ignoring Bert. Gerard gave Bert a small smile before being shoved down the aisle.
Mikey shoved him through the apartment's front door and yelled, "what the fuck are you thinking? Your boyfriend fucking disappears and you decide to run off with your ex and do fucking drugs?"
He slammed the door while Gerard stood just stood there with a blank expression, hoping Mikey wouldn't notice the huge mess of bottles behind him.
"And what the fuck were you buying alcohol for anyway? You just got fucking clea- What the fuck." Mikey pushed past Gerard and stepped into the living room. "Gee, when the fuck was the last time you left the fucking living room? Or cleaned up? Or consumed something that didn't get you high or pissed?" He brushed his hair back with one hand and put the other on his waist.
" I'm going to call Ray and we are going to get this cleaned up," Mikey said much quieter. The problems his brother had been hiding were obviously a lot worse than he expected. He stepped out the front door and closed it behind him, leaving Gerard alone. He stared at the mess for a while then he nudged a whiskey bottle with the side of his foot. It gently rolled across the floor and bounced off the coffee table. Gerard sighed as he staggered over to the couch. He wanted nothing more than a drink and a nap but he knew that wasn't going to happen anytime soon.
He picked up the pile of mail on the edge, remembering the envelope he hadn't opened earlier. When he found it, all it contained was a plain white sheet of paper with a single sentence written on it in messy, childish handwriting:
He's not dead.
'What kind of sick fucking joke was this,' he thought to himself, 'of course he's fucking dead.' He tore it up and scattered it across the couch next to him. He continued flipping through the pile, until he came to a Polaroid picture. It was mainly centered on a dirty concrete floor but in the top left corner, Gerard could make out a hand and part of a fore arm. Tattooed across the knuckles was 'ween'.
Gerard flipped it over and written in the same writing as the letter was: He's not ready."
Who the fuck was sending him this stuff and could Frank still be alive?

Notes

Hi
So I uploaded from my phone and I have a bad feeling its going to be really fucked up. I'll check tomorrow but right now I really need sleep. Let me know what u think. Thanks xxx