He Likes Me

Gerard, like few other people his age, was a creative person. He would rather rough sketch that bird outside his window that never shuts up than check how many Facebook friends he had, and he would rather spend hours writing an original song than find some other boring crap to post on snapchat. At first, it bothered his parents that their son wasn't a mindless, zombie-child, hell bent on frying their brain due to an addiction to television. However, after Gerard wrote, published and sold millions of copies of his novel, 'The Black Parade', they weren't so concerned. He was rich, and that was good.

They loved their child. They always had and they always would and they would always support him in anything he did. They spent hundreds on art sets for him and they even bought him an original 1930s typewriter to quell his burning desire to become a successful novelist - as if having a typewriter as oppose to Microsoft Word would make his dream come true.

Alas, like most creative people, Gerard had a lot of time to dwell on life itself and this meant he had a lot of time to see just how shitty it could be sometimes. Depression wormed its way into Gerard's daily schedule like a snake, venomous and unstoppable until it threatened to bring down everything he had ever known. His family worried. His family cried. His family insisted he attended at least two sessions of extremely pricey therapy a week that they were unwilling to pay for - gee, thanks guys - and if Gerard didn't call them every day at eight pm on the dot, they would panic.

That's where Gerard was at that moment: sitting on the plush leather couch in his therapists office. Dr Hawthorne was nice, Gerard liked her, but her couches were mighty uncomfortable.

"Gerard." The older women spoke, startling Gerard out of his daze. "How've you been doing?"

Typical. Fuckin' typical, Gerard decided. You pay a trained, professional doctor to help you out, and all they do is ask you how your week has been? Fuckin' typical.

"Fine." Gerard replied, placing a hand on his knee in the hopes of stopping his leg from shaking so badly. Something about social interactions just brought out the trembles in Gerard, and he hated it.

"Define 'fine' for me, Gee?"

Stupid-ass therapist using a stupid nickname only Gerard's stupid brother was allowed to use. Didn't she know there was like, a social law against that or some shit? You just can't do that!

"Good. Nothing bad happened to me." He said simply, his eyes trained on the large, oak grandfather clock in the far left corner of the room, ticking away. Gerard heard that if you watched the clock, time took longer to pass, but what with being the extremely knowledgable and clever person that he was knew that wasn't true. Time still dragged on and on and on though; Gerard just wanted to go home.

"Have you met anyone new?" Dr Hawthorne asked.

God, she was so transparent. Didn't she realise how fake she sounded? Sure, she was nice, but she was about as deep as a shower and as see through as a window. What she really wanted to know was had he met anyone. Had he met anyone he wanted to fuck? Relationships were overrated.

"No. Too nervous to meet people." Gerard answered, chewing his bottom lip and not stopping when he felt a trickle of blood to run down his chin. He wiped it away self consciously, blushing when he realised Dr Hawthorne was probably writing about his 'unusual traits and habits' because of that.

"What is it that's making you nervous, Gerard?"

Gerard shrugged. "If I met someone, they wouldn't like me. They wouldn't get me. They wouldn't know me."

"What if they did?"

"They wouldn't." Gerard said simply, trying to keep his voice even and un-confrontational.

There was a long pause where the only sounds that could be heard were the steady breathing of the two occupants of the room, and the tick-tick-ticking of the grandfather clock. Then, Dr Hawthorne spoke quietly, as if she were speaking to a frightened animal that she didn't want to scare away.

"I think you should start writing again, Gerard. I want you to write something for me."
Why would he write for you? He didn't write for anyone anymore. He didn't write. He couldn't. He wouldn't. She was stupid, thinking he could write.

"What do you want me to write?" The doctor raised an eyebrow at his response like she had been expecting him to argue. Oh well, Gerard loved surprising people. Keep them on their toes, so to speak.

"I want you to write about somebody you feel you would be able to talk to without feeling anxious or uncomfortable. Create a person with likes and dislikes similar to you, so you have things to speak about. Describe them so you can picture this person, and practise talking with them. Can you do that for me Gerard?"

Why, so you can rub it in my face that no one likes me? That no one like that exists? That I'll never find anyone like that who exists?

Instead of voicing his thoughts, the patient said, "Do I have to show you?"

The doctor shook her head just as the grandfather clock stuck two, the loud chiming vibrating through the floorboards and causing Gerard to shudder in his seat. Two marked the end of his session with Dr Hawthorne and as much as he had been looking forward to the end of his session before, Gerard suddenly wished he could stay here for another hour or two. Anything to protect him from the dreaded subway and the half hour journey back to his house. The subway station was far scarier than Dr Hawthorne's tiny, cosy, comfortable therapy room and her large, uncomfortable sofa.

Reluctantly, Gerard got up and said his goodbyes to his doctor and her secretary on his way out, a young girl with long blonde hair called Shannon. It took half an hour to get back to his house if there was no hold ups or problems. If he ran it might take twenty eight minutes, and he could be back at his house sooner, but then ... what was he going back to? His brother was at university and his parents lived elsewhere. He would be all alone in that big, big house of his, thinking up characteristics of his 'ideal partner' that he knew he would never find in a million
years. He was such a loser. Hawthorne was so cruel for forcing him into this situation.

***

When Gerard got home, he went straight to the kitchen and turned on all the lights. He hated being alone in the dark; it made him feel like he was in a small room being choked. He could almost feel himself suffocating until every last crevice was soaked in bright white light from the overhead strip light on the ceiling.

Going to his fridge, he selected a frozen meal for one at random and shoved it into the microwave, eager to eat. There had been a hold up on the line and it had taken him longer than expected to get home. Gerard had skipped lunch before he came out and now he was hungry.
He would eat his meal now and then not have anything for dinner.

While the timer counted down from three minutes, Gerard thought about what Hawthorne had said. It couldn't hurt to do what she asked, and she had only ever helped him in the past. She had no reason to try and hurt him by setting this assignment, and if she said it would help Gerard, Gerard would do it. He didn't want to seem like the ungrateful, un co-operating patient he used to be.

Then Gerard did something he hadn't done in at least three years: he went upstairs to his bedroom, pulled out his tatty suitcase from under his bed and lifted up the typewriter his parents had given him a long time ago. It was dusty and stiff. But Gerard prayed it would still work. It was a good typewriter and not only that, but it also held sentimental value for Gerard. It was the first gift his parents had given him after realising he wasn't going to wake up someday and give up writing and drawing. It meant a lot to him, and he knew it would mean a lot to his parents that he still had it and still used it.

He carried it downstairs, being careful not to drop it when he started running to get to the kitchen so his microwave wouldn't explode. After dishing up his food onto a pristinely clean plate with no scratches or chips in the pottery - and burning himself a good many times - he managed to sit down and think about his false partner. His partner that didn't exist. His character.

The more Gerard thought about it, the more certain he was that he didn't want someone like himself to love him. He wanted the exact opposite to him. He wanted someone loud and messy. He wanted someone who would take risks and who would love Gerard for exactly who he was. He wanted someone to take care of, and who wouldn't be scared away by all the weird things Gerard did, or was into.

Gerard had always had a maternal streak. It came out especially when he was around his little brother Mikey - he would baby him and make sure he was okay, and if anyone was hurting him he would comfort his brother as best the could - because he couldn't do anything to stand up to the bullies, he was too nervous. He would still be nervous now, at 22, but he would still baby his brother like he used to. He remembered when they were both young and Mikey was afraid of storms. He would come running to Gerard's room and climb under the covers with his older brother, seeking comfort in the messy bed. Gerard remembered how loved, how needed he had felt when that had happened. Yeah. That's what he wanted.

Slowly, slowly, Gerard started building a character.

Frank Iero. 18 years old. Short: 5'4 maybe? Punk. Loud. Happy. Energetic. Stands up for people he cares about. Picks fights with assholes. Plays guitar. Sings. Sensitive, insecure sometimes. Loves Gerard. Studies music and art. Vegetarian. Stands up for animal rights, because he's a loving person. Has a soft streak for kids. Loves cats and dogs. Hates spiders and small spaces. Loves Gerard. Loves Gerard more than anything.

Gerard ripped the paper from the typewriter and folded it up neatly, laying it on his table. He would have ripped it up, but that would have made a mess and Gerard hated mess. This was all stupid. All of it was just making Gerard see what he was missing, and that was hurtful. And what was with the 'loves Gerard' business over and over again? Was it just to make sure that Frank knew who he loved, or was it down to Gerard's insecurity? Inside everybody, there's a strong desire to be loved, to be cared for, but for Gerard it cut deeper than that. He had to be loved or there was no purpose for his life.

So yeah. Frankie would love him. Frankie would need him. Frankie would belong to him.
Gerard dumped his half uneaten meal in the bin, making sure to slot his dish in the dishwasher and wipe the surfaces down. Mess was not allowed in his house. He wondered briefly if it had been wise of him to invent a character who loved being messy, and loud and energetic, but then he shrugged it off. It wasn't like the guy was real, and he certainly wasn't going to step out of the page and screw up Gerard's clean house for him.

He checked the clock and saw it was early - too early to go to bed. God, he needed a life. Besides, he couldn't fall asleep or he wouldn't be able to call his parents at eight on the dot, and then they would panic and he would suffer and it would be a sorry affair that would cause a lot of strife that Gerard just didn't need. No. It was easier to keep himself awake for a few more hours and avoid all the heartbreak that would come with missing a phone call home.

Gerard sighed and decided to crash on the couch. Or sit on it rather, making sure the cover was impeccably neat and un-wrinkled. It had been ages since he'd last sat down and watched a good horror movie. He could watch one now; give himself an opportunity to break into his Sam Raimi collection. Yeah, that would be fun, and it would kill time until he could satisfy his parents and cry himself to sleep on his pristinely ironed pillowcase.

Why not just call his parents earlier you ask? Change. Change was bad, and change was out of the question.

Gerard took a tissue and wrapped it around his fingers so as not to get sticky fingerprints on the DVD case and selected a film at random. Pushing it into the player without actually checking to see what he was about to watch, he settled himself on the sofa, on the right side. His side.

***

Gerard's phone call was, as always, arduous, boring and repetitive and, to Gerard, completely enjoyable. His daily phone call home was usually the only social interaction he got - aside from his therapy sessions, and that didn't really count because Dr Hawthorne, as nice as she was with her suggestions and assignments and kind, patient nodding, was paid to listen - and he didn't feel nervous talking to his family like he did talking to strangers.

His mother picked up on the second ring, almost like she was sitting next to the phone waiting for him to call. Gerard hoped that wasn't the case; he didn't want his mother's life to have become that sad and pathetic just like his. He knew if it had, it was probably his fault. He had been an awkward child, never wanting to go out and making screaming fits if his mother tried to invite guests over to the house. Eventually his parents had stopped inviting people over because they knew it would cause more trouble than it was worth when Gerard found out, and even Mikey couldn't have friends over because of his sulky, unsociable older brother. By the time Gerard had grown up and left home - four years ago to be exact, just after he had published his first novel and become little short of a millionaire - Donna and Donald had lost almost all the friends they had had before Gerard came along. Gerard couldn't help but feel a little guilty for his unforgivable behaviour as he listened to his mother's excited, 'hello?'.

"Hi mom." He said, attempting a happy tune but sounding more like he was being strangled.
"How've you been?" (since yesterday), Gerard didn't add.

"Just fine honey! And yourself?" Lovely, thoughtful, familiar mom, asking how I am like she hasn't had to ask the same question over a thousand times in the last four years.

"Great. I had a session with Dr Hawthorne today. She gave me an assignment." He didn't really want to talk about his therapy; he just wanted to say something to stop his mother's torrent of questions that he knew would follow the amiable greeting. It happened every day.

"Yeah? Honey that's great! What was it?" She asked excitedly, glad that Gerard was talking about it. He usually kept stubbornly silent about his sessions with the doctor.

The more that Gerard thought about it, the more Gerard regretted saying it. He didn't want to tell his mother that he was so incompatible with everybody else that he had to invent his perfect man. His mother would tell his father, who would tell Mikey, who would tell his friends, who would laugh at Mikey's weird, rich older brother. Just like the kids at school had done and God, Gerard was so done with that; he was so done with school.

"How's Mikey?" Gerard asked, completely ignoring his mother's question. Donna, used to Gerard's weirdness by now didn't complain or push the matter. She accepted the change in subject matter happily, eager to talk about her 'darling son' who wasn't OCD or obsessively odd.

"Oh, he's just great, honey! He's coming home tomorrow, actually! Maybe you could come home and visit?"

Ever hopeful. Always naive. So blissfully unaware.

"Maybe," Gerard said, remaining uncommitted. "I might have plans."

Lies. Lieslieslies. Gerard hated lies. They were so ugly and unclean; so dirty and horrible and they left so many loose ends that Gerard wanted to trim off with a pair of shiny scissors.
There was a short pause whilst Donna tried not to sound too incredulous before the answered.

"Plans?"

"Yeah. I've ... met someone."

This time, Linda couldn't hide the undertones of shock, but her enthusiasm made up for it.

"Really sweetheart? Who are they? What's their name? Can I meet them? How old are they? Are they treating you right? You know you can come to me anytime with anything, right?"

And whoa, Gerard was regretting spinning this story now. It's true what they said about lying: it's a spider's web of falsity that you will just get more and more tangled up in. It starts with one little white lie, it ends with a whole damn tragic disaster. Hell yes Gerard knew how it worked. He knew from experience.

"Mom! Calm down! I've just met him and ... and I don't know if it will go anywhere."

"Well, at least tell me his name, sweetie?" his mother's wheedling voice came out and Gerard knew that voice. That was the voice his mom used when she was going to do anything to get information out of him, and he knew better to fight against her will.

But what was his name? There was no 'name', no 'him' and no 'plans'.

Unsurprisingly, Gerard found his thoughts flitting to his character, his 'Frank Iero' and before he could stop himself he was blurting out the name to his mother, hoping against hope that it would satisfy her.

She repeated the name twice before asking, "Is he nice?" and when Gerard heard the smile in her voice he felt bad. She was happy for him. She was pleased he was making progress in his relationships, and here he was lying his ass off just to get out of visiting her and his father and Mikey. He was such a terrible person.

But then Gerard began thinking about his Frankie again - because Gerard created him, so he was technically his - and he thought about how, if he were real, he would be the exact sort of person his mom would love. He could take Frankie round for Christmas and Thanksgiving dinner and Frankie would be polite and courteous. He would offer to do the washing up, and when Donna declined - which she surely would - his Frankie would insist. He would kiss Gerard when he thought nobody was looking and he would hold his hand under the table and at night he would sneak into Gerard's room because he just needed Gerard to hold him, and his family and all those judgemental assholes from high school would say, 'huh, I guess Gerard was the lucky one after all'. His father would stop thinking he was pathetic and his mother would stop thinking he was too weird to get a boyfriend and his brother would stop pitying Gerard for being alone.

"He's very nice." Gerard whispered, realising he had been quiet for too long and his mother probably thought he had hung up.

"Is he there with you now?" She asked deviously and Gerard blushed. He was about to say no when he cast his eyes around the kitchen and saw the piece of paper folded in half, sitting right there on the table and he decided that yes, Frank was, in a way, there.

He made an affirmative noise and cringed when his mom giggled - giggled! - like a teenager.

"I won't keep you any longer then. Just be careful dear."

"Always, mom." Gerard promised, although he didn't see any chance of being in danger, seeing as the guy wasn't real. "Speak to you tomorrow."

"Eight o' clock. Don't be late!" She joked, and then there was a clicking noise and a dull buzz, signifying she had hung up.

***

Gerard found himself in bed at nine, because his life was so boring and empty that there was nothing else to do. He fell into a fitful sleep around ten and was awoken at midnight from disturbing dreams of his brother Mikey in a French restaurant ordering snails. Gerard was weird, but his subconscious mind was weirder.

Despite the dream, Gerard was almost certain there was another reason he was awake. There was something niggling in the back of his mind - something he desperately wanted to add to his 'Frankie' paper, but was dreadfully embarrassed. After nearly half an hour of silently debating with himself, he decided he may as well add it. After all, no one would see it but him. Dr Hawthorne had said he didn't have to show her and there was no one else he would show his assignment to. And if that wasn't enough to persuade him, the knowledge that the man just wasn't real and it wouldn't matter what Gerard made him out to be, pushed him over the edge.

Shoving his feet into his carefully positioned slippers, he snuck out of bed and turned on every single light he passed as he made his way from his bedroom to the kitchen. Picking up a pen from the pen pot on the windowsill, on the right hand of the telephone next to a pad of paper for taking notes, he unfolded the 'Frankie' paper and wrote one more word down at the end of the list - the word he had been fighting over putting down almost all night.

Submissive.

Okay, so Frankie wasn't real. Dream men rarely did exist, so why not take advantage of it? Frankie could be whatever Gerard wanted him to be because at the end of the day, he was just another well crafted character.

Notes