I waited for awhile outside of the classroom for Gerard to exit. It seemed like it had been near forever by the time the teacher walked out. I sighed and checked my watch then walked in to usher Gerard on before we were late for lunch. Upon looking around, I found Gerard on the floor drenched in blood, scattered in bruises, and drowning in his own tears.

I dropped my backpack from my shoulder and dropped to my knees beside him. "Gerard," I whispered, not accustomed to louder volume.

"Mikes?" Gerard said hoarsely before coughing a little and groaning, "Mikes, it hurts."

"I know it does, Gee," I said quietly, pushing his hair away from his face. "How can I help?"

"Just get my papers. Put them in my backpack so I can piece them together again later." He looked up at me. "Please?"

"Yeah, of course," I answered. I began gathering his papers and stuffed them into his backpack for him while he was groaning and hissing behind me, trying to get on his feet. By the time I had finished, Gerard was barely sitting up and he was crying again. I sighed, "Gerard, let me call the nurse."

"What good will she be?"

"She can at least get you a wheelchair and get you out of here," I offered.

"No," he said quickly, "she'll call Mom. You know we can't afford a hospital bill right now." I sighed, knowing he was right. "Just help me up." I nodded and helped him up, cringing for him when his bones grinded under his skin.

"Come on," I said, "let's get to lunch." He nodded and I took both our bags out into the hall. We made our way walking at his pace. I looked around.

"I should get half-killed more often," he said suddenly, "if the halls are this empty by the time we get on our way." He laughed dryly.

"Not funny, Gerard," I scolded him.

"Lighten up, Mikes. I'm fine." He opened his locker and pulled out an old hat that used to be our dad's before he passed away. I swallowed and looked away as Gerard pulled the hat down so his face was covered in the shadow of the bill; the blood and bruises were hidden. "We'll be okay," he said gently to reassure me but it didn't work very well.

We made our slow way outside and to the back of the lunchline. I silently looked around, only half-hearing whatever Gerard was saying about never forgetting our lunches again. I watched the scene on The Square with careful consideration to each element.

It was a mostly normal environment: jocks schmoozing cheerleaders, preps flirting with anything that moved and breathed, geeks exchanging trading cards from some middle-school series, punks in their own corner doin whatever they felt and cursing up a storm. None of this is particular caught my eyes, but I was taken off-guard by one boy.

He was sitting on a bench with his hood pulled up. He was holding something in his palm by the looks of it. He would observe the item, breathe, shudder, look around quickly for any sign of recognition, repeat with little to no variation. It was too small to be a gun, and I caught a glint of sunlight off of it. So it was silver metal. I watched and gasped at the realization of what he was looking at. I nudged Gerard suddenly, causing him to gasp and groan in pain. He started to scold me, but I cut him off quickly, forcing him to look at the boy.

"Gerard," I whispered for his ears only, "he has a razor."