For Gerard Way

For the one and only,
Gerard Arthur Way.
Dear Gerard,


Happy birthday! Sorry I haven’t been writing any letters lately. College is making me busy, and my band has a show in two weeks (I hope you’ll be there). I’m really tired and worn out right now, but I’m happy for you. I just miss you more.

Remember that Tuesday night four years ago? You were drinking, and I was sober, making sure you wouldn’t choke and die or anything. Well, I had a few drinks, but I was still functioning, unlike you.

You were on the floor of my bedroom, empty beer cans around you. I was sitting on my bed, watching you, worried. You were completely wasted, curled up in a ball, your arms hugging your knees. You were lying on your side, long dark hair covering your face. Your eyes were bloodshot, and the bags under them were the darkest they’d ever been. You looked like a hobo, and the fact you were sobbing didn’t help.

You were crying over that girl, Lindsey, who you were hopelessly in love with. You cried over how perfect she was, how she was way out of your league, how you could never be with her. I told you to man up and ask her out. I offered to help you, and you thanked me, but you believed she would reject you.

I had never felt sorrier for someone than what I had for you at that moment. It hurt to see you so broken over someone you loved. I didn’t understand why anyone would cry over someone they loved, and by the looks of it, I didn’t want to understand, either. Whilst watching you cry out, I swore to myself that I would never fall in love with someone that I would have absolutely no chance of being with.

You know that line from that Fall Out Boy song, Headfirst Slide Into Cooperstown On A Bad Bet? It went something like this: “But I will never end up like him; behind my back, I already am.” I was obsessed with that song, especially that line. I was never sure why, but I had a gut feeling that line was going to be my fate. And it did.

A few months after that night, my mom told me I had to move schools. I couldn’t be a school with you anymore, and I was devastated. I yelled at my mom, punched the walls, ran up to my room, and locked the door.

I wasn’t sure why I was so angry. I was digging my nails into my palm so hard, it bled. I wasn’t just angry, I was disappointed. I was disappointed at my mom, but mostly at myself. I kept asking myself, “Why did you do that?” I never yelled at Mom. I never punched the walls. I never locked my room. I never cried.

I understood why I couldn’t go back to our school – my family’s finances weren’t too good, and I wouldn’t have enough money for college if I stayed at our previous school. What I didn’t understand was why I was so sad about it. I was as shocked as Mom was when I threw my little fit.

I climbed out my window, jumped off, landed on my feet – which hurt like fuck, but wasn’t too bad; everyone’s got to try things – and ran to your house. And being the reckless being I was and am, I climbed a tree with my feet and hand injured and knocked on your window. I think I was crying.

You were lying on your bed, listening to music. You jerked upright and pulled out your headphones when you heard my knocking. You ran for the window, tripped a bit, and opened it for me to climb in. You stretched your arms out and let me jump into them. You wrapped your arms around me, and in your embrace, I felt warm and protected. I loved it. You asked me what was wrong, why I was crying. You wiped my tears and hugged me again, while I just stood there, frozen. “It’s okay,” you said. “It’s not going to last forever, I promise. You’ll get through it.”

Your words made me cry again, because it hit me that I was leaving you in a school filled with assholes with no one else to protect you. Your mental health and addiction weren’t getting better either, and it made me nervous beyond belief.

Later on, you asked me what happened. While stuttering awkwardly and choking back tears, I told you exactly what Mom told me. Once I finished, you were completely still, but when I looked down at your hands, they were curled up into fists so tight, they were shaking. I had never seen you so angry.

You took a deep breath and closed your eyes. You were shaking now, and it took you two minutes to calm down. Well, calm enough to form words.

“I’m going to kill your mom.”

I was shocked at what you said, and you had to repeat the fact that you weren’t actually going to do it to make me relax. I don’t remember what happened next, but we ended up lying on your bed, our hands brushing. It made my heart do leaps.

“Wait, your mom let you go here?” you suddenly asked.

“No. I sneaked out. I jumped out the window.”

“Frank.”

You forced me to let you check my feet, which was pretty bruised. It was already turning into a dark shade of purple. There were a few cuts, I think, but it wasn’t too bad. It wasn’t sprained or anything. I remember how you sighed, relieved it wasn’t worse. You ran downstairs and left me alone on your bed for a moment. My foot hurt, but I felt… happy. I was smiling by the time you returned with a towel wrapped around some ice. “Let’s get this shit iced,” you said. It still makes me smile.

That night, we slept on your bed together. You were careful not to hurt my foot, but our torsos were attached like a twin joined together by the hip.

You fell asleep first. Your eyes were closed, covering your dark brown eyes, and your mouth was slightly parted. Your sharp nose occasionally twitched, and your dark brown hair framed your face, a few strands inside your mouth. You looked so peaceful and innocent; no one would have thought that you were actually an awkward turtle with anxiety and too much talent in art. No one would have thought you would be so sad. But I did. And I broke my oath, just like that line. I fell in love with you, without knowing for sure if you were sad or not, but knowing that I could never be with you.

What happened over the course of the next year confirmed that – I went to my new school; you went to our old school. I made new friends, you didn’t make new friends. I got more and more occupied, you had more and more time to be alone with your thoughts. And that is the biggest mistake I’ve made in my life.

We would hang out sometimes, but not as much as we used to. Your thoughts and anxiety began eating you alive, and you constantly became more and more depressed. A lot of times, you would drink yourself to oblivion and get high. You became a happier and more social person when you were drunk, but it wasn’t you. It was never you. You had changed, but I still loved you. And it made me so sad that you never spoke to me about your troubles. But then again, I didn’t notice, either.

I had thought you were perfectly fine. I didn’t know those jocks mocked you constantly. I didn’t know they called you gay. I didn’t know Lindsey got a boyfriend. I didn’t know your little brother, Mikey, and parents thought you were a ‘disappointment’.

I didn’t know you were broken.

And yet, I called myself your best friend.

However, I also said I am in love with you, and I still am. You were the first person I have ever fell in love with, and fuck, it hurt to love you.

But that night- the night you were drunk yet still aware of everything. You were sitting on the floor of my bedroom, with me next to you. You told me everything that happened. I was close to tears, but your eyes were dry and hollow. You looked dead. Suddenly, you asked, “You’ve kissed someone before, right?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

“Kiss me.”

I nearly spat out my beer, and my cheeks were flaming a glorious homosexual neon red. I looked at you incredulously. “What?”

“I said, kiss me. What? Am I not attractive enough?”

“No! I-I just- I didn’t expect that.”

“I just want to see if I’m bi. So shut up, and kiss me.”

Honestly, I was beyond happy, but also really nervous. I felt like I was using you, even though you just stated you were using me. I pulled you in closer, anyway. “A-are you sure?” I asked when our faces were almost touching.

With a single move, you had pushed our lips together, and I nearly moaned. Your lips were so soft, and you were so gentle, and I was just so happy, even though you were using me. I didn’t mind, as long as you were happy.

I’d always wanted to kiss you like this; I’d always wanted to taste your lips one day. And at that moment, my wishes came true. I just never thought our lips would taste of beer and chips.

But I was too enthusiastic. Our kiss got heated too fast, and we ended up on the bed, sweaty and naked. I knew I was going to kiss you one day, but I never thought I’d have sex with you at that same day. And to be completely honest, I regret it. Not as much as I enjoyed it, obviously, but I still regret it.

I never wanted one of our last meetings to be like that.

A week later, I was buying groceries, and I had bought us ice cream to eat together. When I knocked on your door, no one answered. I knew your family wouldn’t mind me barging in, so I did. I was confused for a moment why it was so empty, but then I heard your sobs.

I dropped my bags, ran to your bathroom, and banged on the door.

“Gerard! Open this door right now!”

I heard you gasp. “I’m so sorry Frank,” you said, your voice shaking. “I’m so, so, sorry, but I can’t, I can’t-”

I busted the door down, determined to save you. But when I saw you, I knew I was already too late.

There were empty bottles of alcohol around you – whiskey, vodka – and both your wrists had cuts everywhere. Your hair was wet and sticking to your skin, hanging past your shoulders. Your brown eyes were darting around everywhere, and when we made eye contact, you immediately broke it. You sat in a pool of your own blood, and your skin was losing its color.

I knelt beside you, your blood soaking through my jeans. I checked your body for any other cuts while shaking all over. I took off my shirt and applied pressure on your cuts, even though I knew it would be no use.

“Frank,” you whispered, your head resting on my shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” I said. “No, no, no. You’re going to stay with me, okay? Please,” I begged. “Please, Gerard. Stay with me.”

I called 911 frantically, your apologies filling the air. With every word you said, your voice got weaker and weaker. I knew you wouldn’t last until the ambulance came.

And you didn’t.

When the ambulance finally came, you were completely still, your body leaning against me. Your last words were etched onto my mind; “I’m so sorry, Frank. I love you.”

The paramedics knocked on your door. I couldn’t bring myself to let go of you, so I yelled at them where we were. My voice cracked a couple of times.

I felt your skin get colder and colder, watched it get paler and paler. When they pulled you away from me, I saw your eyes. They were the same shade as it usually was, but the light behind them was gone.

I remember puking on the side of the road. I remember sitting in the ambulance, watching the nurse take your pulse. I remember her watching me, her eyes screaming, “I’m sorry.”

I hated you for it. But I hated myself for not even thinking of the possibility your life turned to shit.
I managed to attend your funeral. I definitely wasn’t in the best condition, and your family wasn’t, either.

A lot of people were there, mostly from school. Silently, I cursed at them for even daring to attend. They never gave a shit about you when you were alive; why did they give a shit now, when you’re dead? Some of them were even crying. They didn’t deserve to cry over you. You didn’t deserve fake tears during your funeral.

After your casket was lowered, it rained like the sky itself was mourning over you. The thunder was howling, and the wind sounded like cries. Earth missed you.

Everyone went back to their cars, except your family and me. I spoke my condolences to them, and your parents nodded sadly, while Mikey hugged me. We stood there, looking down at the soil separating you from us; the barrier between the living and the dead.

After your family cried some more, hugging your tombstone, I asked to have a private moment with you. They granted my wish, and I just sat on the ground in front of your grave.

I kept on repeating the words etched onto the stone over and over in my head; Here lies Gerard Arthur Way, April 9, 1977 – November 17, 1995. He was a great son, brother, friend, and most importantly, a great person. Your memory will carry on. Your last words echoed in reply. “I’m so sorry, Frank. I love you.”

“I love you too,” I whispered.

After that, I skipped school for a few months, spending the time locked up in my room, letting the fact you were dead really sink in. I kept on reading the suicide note you left for me. The last part always makes my heart break. “I feel a bit more content with my life, knowing I’ve already kissed a person. You were my first and last kiss, Frank, and I don’t regret it. The rest of the night was a rollercoaster. Thank you. I think I’ve come to a conclusion – I’m gay. I’ve never loved Lindsey, it was just admiration and respect. I’ve never loved anyone else the way I loved you. I’m sorry for using you like that. I don’t deserve to live. Who uses their best friend – who happens to be the person they’re in love with – in such a dirty way? Only the lowest scum of the Earth would. I should just die. I’m sorry, Frank. I love you. Goodbye.”

I couldn’t sleep; I ended up with insomnia, and during the rare times I managed to get some rest, the images revolving your death haunted me. After I woke up, I would run to my bathroom and puke, remembering the sharp scent of iron coming from your blood. For almost every second of those months, I wanted to kill myself, just so I could meet you again.

Remember that time I nearly did? I had a gun, and I was shaking and sobbing. I was sitting on my bed, watching the gun. I was about to lift it to my head, when I saw a faint hand over my own, pushing mine back to my lap.

“No. Don’t. Please. It’s okay. It won’t last forever, I promise. You’ll get through it.”

I recognized the words. When I looked up, I saw you smiling sadly before disappearing. It rained soon after.

And here I am, a year later. Today is the day you would have been 19 years old, if you were still alive. I wish I could spend it with you, but I can’t. And I can’t give you a present, either. This is the least I can do.

A few questions- what’s Heaven like? Is it on top of a bunch of clouds? Can you talk or see God? How about archangels? I’m not sure how you can answer those. Maybe you’ll give me a weird sign I won’t pick up. Maybe you’ll visit me again.

I hope you’re having a fantastic birthday. I think Heaven’s a rad place to celebrate your birthday. Did God congratulate you? He better. He was the one who created you, He should appreciate you.

But just in case He didn’t, I’ll say it one more time.

From your best friend, that dude you knew who liked to tease you, your first and last kiss, the one who was willing to not drink to make sure you were safe, the one who you gave an ice pack, the one whose heart belonged to you first and will forever be yours-

Happy Birthday. I love you too.

xofrnk.
P.S: I’m leaving this on your grave. I’m sure you’ll find it there. Also, I still think you deserve a much better word than ‘great’ on your tombstone. Happy birthday again.

Notes

I do realize this doesn't make sense but hey I won 3rd place (out of 6 entries, but whatever) in a contest with this.

Enjoy!