Teenagers
Breakdown
“No. No, no, no, no. NO! Gerard! What the fuck are you doing?”
Gerard is slumped over himself in the far end corner of the dark, closed curtained living room.
I'm frozen in the doorway. My legs glued to the floor. My desperate attempts to throw myself forward are confounded by the mind-numbing confusion.
He’s rocking back and forth, gun in hand, pulled up to his mouth. Weeping and almost ready to pull the trigger. His whole body jumps when he hears me.
“I forgot to lock the door.” He whispers, ice cold and emotionless. “I FORGOT TO LOCK THE FUCKING DOOR?!” He’s shouting now, clear despair in his voice, arms flailing. He’s gone mad. Where’s the Gee I used to know.
“Gerard, put the fucking gun down.” A soft, supportive voice demands from behind me. Frank places his warm hand on my shoulder but I shrug it off. I don’t want him to touch me. I don’t want anyone to touch me. I want to go somewhere quiet and think things over, only coming back when I’ve figured this out. What the hell is going on?
“They won’t go away. The voices.” His voice is trembling. Cracking in desperation as he digs his hands into his unwashed hair and rocks more. “They won’t fucking leave.” He lifts the gun back to his mouth.
“No!” I whisper. I can’t really do anything. I can’t move, can’t think, can’t speak. I’ve gone blank, but not shut down just yet.
Frank comes to my rescue. “Gerard, stop.” He’s crying. “Please.”
Gerard’s sights jump to us. His eyes red and hostile. They soon soften as tears press on, and he ends up placing the gun on the floor next to him, but not letting go of it.
“I can’t. I… I have to do this. They won’t stop.”
“Who won’t stop?” I manage to press out. My emotions too strong to feel.
“The voices-“
“WHAT VOICES, GERARD!?” I guess I’m angry now.
“The voices. In my head.” He exhales, digging his face into his curled up knees.
Suddenly I’m sprinting. Running over to him and throwing my arms around him. Suddenly I’m feeling again. I’m sobbing, my heart aching.
He hugs back. Frantically. But he’s not himself. He reeks of sweat and booze. He’s been drinking heavily.
There’s a used syringe on the floor next to him and I’m pretty sure it hasn’t been used for medically needed medication.
My fingers run through his greasy strands of ebony hair as I press my forehead to his.
“Don’t do this, please?” This time it’s more of a question. I can’t control him; only beg for him to listen. “Just please. Stop. You don’t need to do this.”
His clothes stink and it seems like he hasn't moved in days.
Frank has come closer now and is leaning on the back of the grey couch, observing us, his hazel eyes intensely awake.
“It’s time to turn things around.”
I get up and reach out my hand, offering as much support as I can give on this long, lonely road up ahead.
He takes it and is soon standing on his shaky legs, but shortly after collapses onto my shoulder. Frank runs over and helps me drag him over to the couch, where we lay him down.
Frank checks his pulse as I run over and open the curtains.
The city is alive really alive at this point. It’s a Friday night and most kids my age are probably out partying whereas I just helped stopping my sky-high and drunk brother from committing suicide.
**********
Frank and I have had some time to talk things over and share every detail by the time Gerard wakes up. It’s still dark out and Gerard is still stoned off his fucking mind, but he’s able to talk in complete sentences, so that’s a plus.
“Things went wrong. People weren’t who they seemed and art wasn’t what I’d thought it’d be.” He explains, not waiting for us to even ask. “I was failing and teachers kept telling me I didn't have a chance.” He covers his face. “My best friend here, a guy named Bert, told me I wouldn't make it and I should just give up. He gave me my first dose of heroin and became my dealer. He told me it helped him. Artistically and personally. I was desperate.” He starts crying again. “I’ve been trying to quit the past couple of days because I got myself into some deep shit and ended up in the hospital. I can’t quit, and the voices telling me I’m not good enough won’t go away. The ones saying it’s not worth it.”
Frank kneels down next to the couch and hugs him. “You could’ve talked to us.” He cries as gerard embraces him.
“That’s the worst part. I know. I know I could’ve. And I should’ve, but I thought I could do it on my own, and when I couldn’t I thought I was weak. I thought you guys deserved better. I didn’t want to ruin your lives with the burden of mine.”
Once we’ve started talking all thoughts spill out into the open.
“How could you think you’d be ruining our lives?! We love you so fucking much! Without you neither Mikey nor I would probably even be here anymore.”
“You saved our lives.” I chime in.
Gerard just stares at the door.
“No I didn’t. You saved your own lives.”
He’s trembling, face scrunched up in pain and sweating. Withdrawal I’m guessing. Frank has experienced something similar with the pills and drugs he did, but not as intense.
He knows that we need to get Gee out of here. We need to get him out of his mind and out of these memories. We need to find something else to think about and, nonetheless, do.
“You are coming home with us. I live with Frank now, oh yeah, we’re a thing.” I rush; guiltily using the pain he’s feeling to outweigh the anger at us for not telling him sooner.
“Shit. Shii-I need it. I need it now. I can’t do this. I can’t fucking do THIS!” Gerard bursts, crying.
It’s so painful seeing him like this.
Frank knows what to do, he grabs Gee’s arms and leads him out of the apartment, towards the car as I pack some of his necessities forcing them into suitcases and not forgetting his sketchbook filled with detailed drawings of suffering.
Gerard is slumped over himself in the far end corner of the dark, closed curtained living room.
I'm frozen in the doorway. My legs glued to the floor. My desperate attempts to throw myself forward are confounded by the mind-numbing confusion.
He’s rocking back and forth, gun in hand, pulled up to his mouth. Weeping and almost ready to pull the trigger. His whole body jumps when he hears me.
“I forgot to lock the door.” He whispers, ice cold and emotionless. “I FORGOT TO LOCK THE FUCKING DOOR?!” He’s shouting now, clear despair in his voice, arms flailing. He’s gone mad. Where’s the Gee I used to know.
“Gerard, put the fucking gun down.” A soft, supportive voice demands from behind me. Frank places his warm hand on my shoulder but I shrug it off. I don’t want him to touch me. I don’t want anyone to touch me. I want to go somewhere quiet and think things over, only coming back when I’ve figured this out. What the hell is going on?
“They won’t go away. The voices.” His voice is trembling. Cracking in desperation as he digs his hands into his unwashed hair and rocks more. “They won’t fucking leave.” He lifts the gun back to his mouth.
“No!” I whisper. I can’t really do anything. I can’t move, can’t think, can’t speak. I’ve gone blank, but not shut down just yet.
Frank comes to my rescue. “Gerard, stop.” He’s crying. “Please.”
Gerard’s sights jump to us. His eyes red and hostile. They soon soften as tears press on, and he ends up placing the gun on the floor next to him, but not letting go of it.
“I can’t. I… I have to do this. They won’t stop.”
“Who won’t stop?” I manage to press out. My emotions too strong to feel.
“The voices-“
“WHAT VOICES, GERARD!?” I guess I’m angry now.
“The voices. In my head.” He exhales, digging his face into his curled up knees.
Suddenly I’m sprinting. Running over to him and throwing my arms around him. Suddenly I’m feeling again. I’m sobbing, my heart aching.
He hugs back. Frantically. But he’s not himself. He reeks of sweat and booze. He’s been drinking heavily.
There’s a used syringe on the floor next to him and I’m pretty sure it hasn’t been used for medically needed medication.
My fingers run through his greasy strands of ebony hair as I press my forehead to his.
“Don’t do this, please?” This time it’s more of a question. I can’t control him; only beg for him to listen. “Just please. Stop. You don’t need to do this.”
His clothes stink and it seems like he hasn't moved in days.
Frank has come closer now and is leaning on the back of the grey couch, observing us, his hazel eyes intensely awake.
“It’s time to turn things around.”
I get up and reach out my hand, offering as much support as I can give on this long, lonely road up ahead.
He takes it and is soon standing on his shaky legs, but shortly after collapses onto my shoulder. Frank runs over and helps me drag him over to the couch, where we lay him down.
Frank checks his pulse as I run over and open the curtains.
The city is alive really alive at this point. It’s a Friday night and most kids my age are probably out partying whereas I just helped stopping my sky-high and drunk brother from committing suicide.
**********
Frank and I have had some time to talk things over and share every detail by the time Gerard wakes up. It’s still dark out and Gerard is still stoned off his fucking mind, but he’s able to talk in complete sentences, so that’s a plus.
“Things went wrong. People weren’t who they seemed and art wasn’t what I’d thought it’d be.” He explains, not waiting for us to even ask. “I was failing and teachers kept telling me I didn't have a chance.” He covers his face. “My best friend here, a guy named Bert, told me I wouldn't make it and I should just give up. He gave me my first dose of heroin and became my dealer. He told me it helped him. Artistically and personally. I was desperate.” He starts crying again. “I’ve been trying to quit the past couple of days because I got myself into some deep shit and ended up in the hospital. I can’t quit, and the voices telling me I’m not good enough won’t go away. The ones saying it’s not worth it.”
Frank kneels down next to the couch and hugs him. “You could’ve talked to us.” He cries as gerard embraces him.
“That’s the worst part. I know. I know I could’ve. And I should’ve, but I thought I could do it on my own, and when I couldn’t I thought I was weak. I thought you guys deserved better. I didn’t want to ruin your lives with the burden of mine.”
Once we’ve started talking all thoughts spill out into the open.
“How could you think you’d be ruining our lives?! We love you so fucking much! Without you neither Mikey nor I would probably even be here anymore.”
“You saved our lives.” I chime in.
Gerard just stares at the door.
“No I didn’t. You saved your own lives.”
He’s trembling, face scrunched up in pain and sweating. Withdrawal I’m guessing. Frank has experienced something similar with the pills and drugs he did, but not as intense.
He knows that we need to get Gee out of here. We need to get him out of his mind and out of these memories. We need to find something else to think about and, nonetheless, do.
“You are coming home with us. I live with Frank now, oh yeah, we’re a thing.” I rush; guiltily using the pain he’s feeling to outweigh the anger at us for not telling him sooner.
“Shit. Shii-I need it. I need it now. I can’t do this. I can’t fucking do THIS!” Gerard bursts, crying.
It’s so painful seeing him like this.
Frank knows what to do, he grabs Gee’s arms and leads him out of the apartment, towards the car as I pack some of his necessities forcing them into suitcases and not forgetting his sketchbook filled with detailed drawings of suffering.
11/2/13