Alternative Treatment?

A couple hours ago, Gerard had booked a hotel with my credit cards and his very-obvious fake ID. I wondered how the reception lady didn't notice. I mean, she asked for his liscence and he gave her one with a photo of him with a name called "Party Poison". When she asked for mine, he gave her one with my picture and "Fun Ghoul".

We walked inside, and he acted as if he owned the whole place. Or, better put, as if he was paid to destroy everything. Gerard knocked over pillows, plastic cases, his luggage, and even the small TV at the front of the room. He handed me my fake ID and relaxed at the side of the queen bed. "Frank, come here."

I had the bag of supplies for his treatment slung on my shoulder. "What do you want, Gerard?"

"You, duh," I sighed and decided it wouldn't kill me to lay next to him so I did. Gerard smiled when I did so and wrapped his arms around my neck. "Frankie, whatcha got in that little tiny baggie of yours?"

He was over exaggerating. The bag was the largest bag I had, filled with the most stuff. All the medication, treatment, and handbook material weighed a lot.

"Some stuff to make you feel better," I said back. I guess Gerard was still his old sassy self.

"Bullshit!" he laughed and kicked the bag off the bed. "You're my meds, Frank."

"It's not my job to fix you, it's my job to make sure you fix yourself."

"Oh yeah, Frank?" he smiled creepily. "How come I'm not 'fixed' already?"

"Because you're refusing to treatment, that's why!" I yell back. He started reaching through his bag and pulled out a pistol.

"I don't believe that's the case..." Gerard trailed on.

Notes