Fantastic Bastards in Monroeville (Frerard)

“Goodbye, Gerard,”
Those were the last words she ever uttered to me, sending them to me on my cell phone that’s now trashed, as well as my whole room. That’s it. She’s gone. Lindsey left me forever. She’s shattered all my dreams like the broken glass mirror I’m standing in front of right now, looking at a distorted version of my ugly, despicable, and fat face that’s stained with tears. I begged her to come back. I did everything in my power to tell her that I’d try harder. I promised her I wouldn't take those fucking pills my parents make me take, and that I’d eat healthier for her, but none of that changed her mind. She’s given up on me. In the past, she’s pleaded with me to not take those “antidepressants that make make you fat”, and to not eat anything so I wouldn’t end up getting chubbier, but I just couldn’t obey her. I had to take those pills, not only because of all the pressure I was given from my parents, brother, and psychiatrist, but also because it’s occurred to me that if I don’t take them, I feel like complete shit. I need those fatty pills. I need those pills to help motivate me to take on the day and to make the feelings of self-loathing and inner agony go away, and Lindsey fucking hated them. She hated them because one of the side effects is that it causes weight gain, and they also...supposedly “changed” me, according to her. It’s hard to explain how. But what’s the point of all that now? It’s all over. She’s gone, and I’m left all alone with my worthless self.
I screamed at the top of my lungs, banging my hand into the shattered mirror. I winced in pain a bit, feeling the pain of the broken shards lodged into my skin, blood seeping from the wounds and running down my hand. I watched as it splattered the bathroom sink, the red crimson colliding against white marble. I smiled sadly a bit, knowing that if Lindsey were still here, she’d be happy to see this. She always loved the sight of my blood. She fucking craved it. She always told me to cut for her if I really loved her, and of course, I did, and she did the same. We shared each other’s blood, indulging in it. I never knew what it was about my blood that exactly pleased her. The way it tasted? The way it looked? I guess I’ll never know. It doesn’t really matter, though. She’s gone, so what’s the point?
Not bothering to clean up the blood running down my arm and staining my shirt, I fell to the floor, covering my dumb and weeping face with my hands, getting more fucking blood all over myself. I’ve never been one to cry all that much, but for the life of me, I just can’t stop. I don’t think I’ve ever cried like this in my entire life. Not once have I bawled and sobbed this fucking hard. I never cried a single tear when my parents divorced, or when my grandma died. I was numb to it all. Not this, though. I’m far from numb. I’m fucking hurting, and I hate it. I just want it to all stop. I want it to all go away…
I wanna fucking die.
Lindsey was everything to me. She was the light in my darkness, as cheesy and emo as it sounds. She was the only thing I was happy to wake up seeing, and now it’s all gone. I fucking loved her, to put it lightly. I tried to be perfect for her. I tried to stay skinny for her, despite everyone telling me I’m already as thin as a twig. I bled for her, despite all the scars on my arms and legs that hurt like a son of a bitch, as well as the scrutiny I faced for my wounds. None of that was good enough for her, though. She left me forever. I am not good enough; I never will be for anyone.
Nobody’s home. Mikey’s at a friend’s house, and my parents...well, I don’t know. They’re rarely ever home. It doesn't matter where they’re at. None of it will matter when I’m finally fucking dead. Wouldn’t that be a surprise for them to come home to, to see their pathetic son dead in his trashed basement, his corpse lying among the debris all over the fucking place? I’m sure it will be. Maybe that’ll help them finally realize that they shouldn’t have had me at all, and that they raised a fucking failure. I know they’ll miss me, as well as my little brother Mikey. I know they’ll all hate me for ending my own life, but it won’t matter to me. I’ll be dead!
Getting my fat ass up off the floor, I reached up into the medicine cabinet and pulled out an orange bottle full of my fatty happy pills, otherwise known as Prozac, with 20 milligrams per dose. The bottle is full of them, the pills rattling in my now shaking hands. I’ve never been fond of swallowing pills since they make me gag like a motherfucker, but what does it matter? I’ll be dead soon. I don’t know how to tie a noose, so I can’t hang myself. Mikey borrowed my car to go to his friend’s house, leaving carbon monoxide poisoning in the car garage out of the question. I don’t have any razors to slit my wrists in the tub, and there’s no railroad tracks near my house to get hit by a freight train and splatter my guts all over the place. This is the only way out. I just hope it’ll be fast. I can’t stand to live another minute without her, and I wanna die now.
I opened up the pill bottle and got myself a glass of water, pouring all the small white pills into the palm of my hand. This is it. Death is right in front of me...and I can’t stop shaking. My whole life is soon to end, and it’s so close that I can already taste the bitter pills in my mouth. I shut my eyes, opening up my mouth wide and pouring the pills inside of me, already starting to gag from the unpleasant taste. I immediately gulped down some water with it, feeling the medication run down my esophagus and to my stomach. I gagged some more, feeling bile build up inside me, my body rejecting what the hell I just fed it. Holding it in, I drank more water to keep it all down. I want this to work, and I don’t care how it makes me feel. It doesn’t matter how I feel when I’m dying, anyway…
I suddenly fell back down to the floor, my head spinning as I heaved up some of the medication I force-fed myself. I all of a sudden can’t move. I can’t get up off the floor. My heart in my chest is pounding, trying it’s damndest to keep me alive. I can’t breathe, either. I am gasping for air as I laid there, feeling the effects of the drug-induced suicide that’s soon to end me. I guess it really worked. I am slipping away on this bathroom floor. It really is working...and I’m smiling, despite the puke that’s running from my mouth and staining my shirt and red hair. I shut my eyes, welcoming my imminent death with open arms. I’ll no longer be alone. I’ll no longer walk this earth with my sad excuse of an existence. I’ll no longer wake up alone without her. It’s now time to say goodbye.
Goodbye, mom and dad.
Goodbye, Mikey.
Goodbye, Lindsey….

Notes