The Poets Screamed For Us

It has been one month since Gerard started therapy. He has began losing hair, and now refuses to leave the house. He has a hard time keeping food down, and he sleeps more than he ever thought possible.
But Frank couldn't be happier.
The time that the doctor guessed he would have died was over a month ago. Frank is just happy that he's still here.

"Gee, are you ready for your treatment?" Frank asked him.
Gerard looked up at him from his place on the bed.
"Do I have a choice?" He asked, in a dry cracky voice.
"Not really. If you want to get better, you have to do it."
Gerard opened his mouth to say something, but quickly reached over to his bedside table and grabbed the black bucket that was placed there.
He began vomiting up his stomach's contents which really was only a few bites of a sand which.
Frank rushed over to his side, and ran his hands up and down his back.
Once Gerard was done, he got up and brushed his teeth, then slipped his black beanie onto his head. He frowned at his relfection in the mirror. His face was really thin, and very pale. He had dark bags under his eyes, and hardly any hair on his head.
Frank came up behind him and snaked his arms around his waist, then kissed his neck before resting his head on his shoulder.
"Frank, can I ask you something?"
"Of course, baby."
"What's going to happen when I die?" He asked quietly. He knew Frank hated talking about it.
"That's a stupid question, Gerard. You're not going to die. Now finish getting ready." He said harshly, before leaving Gerard alone.
Gerard regretted asking him.
Frank had hardly talked to him the whole ride to the hospital.
Gerard just didn't understand why Frank was trying to avoid the inevitable.

Notes

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