Chapter Seven From Broken To Shattered

The key that Gerard placed in my grasp seemed to unlock everything. The little brass object weighed nothing in the palm of my hand, but in reality, I felt like I held the world on my keychain. Previously, my key ring had been a sad, sorry excuse for anything. All I had was a barren house key on it and nothing else, while most kids my age had at least two or three items on there. To state the obvious, I wasn’t like most kids. My parents were still in the restricting confines of marriage and therefore I didn’t need two sets of house keys to alternate with every other weekend and on holidays. I also hadn’t gotten off my lazy ass and gotten my driver’s license, and it didn’t look like I would anytime in the near future. I just couldn’t be bothered learning something else, jamming it into my mind along with the cobwebs. It wasn’t so much the act of learning that irked me because, after all, that’s why I was going to Gerard’s in the first place. I was going to learn from the guy now, especially after we struck our deal. It was the act of regurgitating everything that I had supposedly learned for a test, theoretically proving my intelligence that I did not like. Hated, actually. I fucking hated tests. I always blanked out or bombed them or I would skip them in general. I’d rather purposely fail then have to face the fact that my intelligence failed me. I liked to think that I was a pretty smart kid, no genius or anything but I could get by. I was pulling a sixty average though, because of my detest of tests. I assumed that learning to paint at Gerard’s, however, would involve no final examination. But with Gerard nothing was ever carved in stone, unless it was a work of art he had done. Even then, it was susceptible to time.

This key however, somehow held the answer to that test, if it was ever coming, and I felt so important and honored just to have it in my presence. It meant I could come and go anytime I wanted to; it suddenly made me realize that I didn’t have to stick to the harsh confines of the three to five window I was always given. I could come anytime I wanted to, not that I did right then. But I had a feeling, that once we started our painting lessons, Gerard wouldn’t be able to get me out of his house. It would become another home for me and hopefully, soon enough, I could bring my guitar and play the notes I usually kept on mute. But that was going to take a long time, considering that even after I was given the key to unlock all doors, everyone seemed to change the damn locks.

I had come by Gerard’s house the next day with so much excitement. I had a key to a house that I could call my own, if not totally then, at least, I could for the few hours that I would spend there. I had even gotten to his place a little early, my limber feet practically floating all the way there. But when I turned the key in the door and stepped inside, I was met with a napping Gerard on the couch, empty wine bottle tossed down at his side. I sighed heavily, disappointed that most likely nothing would happen that day, even if he did get up. By the time consciousness finally hit him, it would be too late to start any kind of learning. So I just picked up the brushes and cleaned the bird cage, talking to Van Gogh softly as I did my chores.

It was only that day that they truly felt like chores. I had wanted to do something else, something creative so badly, but he had fallen asleep on me. He had done that many times before, but that was when I didn’t have something else built up in the back of my mind. And usually when I came and he was sleeping, he’d wake up. He used to have to wake up to let me in, but now he could sleep through everything. And God, Gerard was a heavy sleeper. Even as I dropped a mug, it cracking and shattering into big chunks, he refused to stir at all. His faint snoring echoed into the room, only matched by the small dove’s incessant coos. I left early that day, all my jobs done, bored out of my mind and disappointed beyond anything I could imagine. And as I closed the door behind me, Gerard was still asleep.

The same thing happened, more or less for the next three days. Gerard would either be asleep when I got there and not wake up until a half an hour before I had to leave or he would greet me at the door, complain of tiredness and lay down again, only to drift off within minutes. It seemed like he was totally forgetting the deal we had made. And it was making me angry. I started to slam things unconsciously as I was working, breaking even more mugs. Gerard was awake one time I broke a mug, sitting on the couch, smoking, just waking up from his nap. The thick dense cloud of smoke surrounded him, giving him a dull aura about his presence. Gerard had a presence to himself in general. It was a mysterious aura, indescribable for the most part because he had too many character traits smashed into one vessel. But however you wanted to describe Gerard - vain, baffling, attractive, genius - the smoking always seemed another layer to his shell.

In my own eyes, I saw Gerard as an open, friendly guy with a smudge of arrogance and annoyance buried under the surface. I could see all of that when I first met him; anyone could. He was an open book in that regard, refusing to hide who he really was. But when he smoked, I saw something else that wasn’t always at the surface. As he sucked in the black tar from the slim stick, pulling his cheeks taut against his face, and revealing his high cheekbones, he looked mystifying. For once it looked like he was hiding something and couldn’t tell what he was thinking. And when he exhaled, his chest caving in and the gray fumes collecting around his head like a juxtaposing halo, he looked dangerous. It was the first time that the forty-year-old man I was helping looked like something to be feared. It was such a contrast from his normal self, the one that wouldn’t hurt a fly and yet it suited him. The whole idea of Gerard was dangerous. He was the strange fag artist who lived alone and got a teenage boy to help out with his art, tending to his supplies while he taught him how to paint in return. It was that ideal that fit Gerard when smoking his cigarettes. And it was probably why it fascinated me so much.

When he smoked, just like when he did his art, I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. It was like he was creating art then as well, the cancer stick poised between his delicate fingers. His hands always seemed so bizarre to me; they were so smooth and white, except for the tips of his two fingers which he held the smoke in. They were the only parts tainted with something else other than the silky skin. Gerard was old, I knew that, but his hands made him seem ten years younger.

When he smoked, he would sometimes purse his lips together, form an O with his mouth and try to blow smoke rings. Gerard could never just let the smoke be and waft away. He had to make something with it. He had to make art with it, and the way his face and body and hands danced with the white stick – it fucking was art. There was always a pattern; the way he dipped into his shirt pocket to find his lighter, and then extracted a cigarette from the half-flat pack, poising it in his fingers and mouth, cupping his hands around the end and igniting the spark that started it all. It was there that the pattern would end, ceasing to become solid art and moving into abstract smoke swirls.

In all the time I watched him smoke, I don’t think he ever knew what he was doing to me. He knew that when I watched him paint, I was in awe because it was truly amazing. I was allowed to be in awe then. That was art he was creating and painting was something that all people could appreciate. They didn’t have to like it, but they could see it gained merit. When Gerard smoked, however, he created a forbidden art form. I was not allowed to like it. I wasn’t supposed to watch the smoke tendrils and try and reach out and grab the aftermath. I was not supposed to breathe this art in, appreciating a mere second-hand copy of it all. It had been forced upon me since childhood that smoking was bad. Smoking caused cancer. Smoking made your skin yellow and your teeth brown. It made your lungs black. Smoking killed you. Smoking was not supposed to be art.

But when Gerard did it, it was. And all of the side effects didn’t matter. As long as the art was there to be appreciated by some it was worth it. The fact that the act was hated by others, forbidden by most only made everything ten times better. It made the very essence of it dangerous, and was the contributing factor that made me keep coming back to Gerard again and again, even after he wasn’t following through with his promise right away.

“Soon,” he told me, riffling me out of my smoke drenched thoughts. He was almost done his with cigarette now; I had no idea I had zoned out for that long. He pushed the butt of it into the old newspapers piled on the coffee table and then looked at me. The smoke haze was still around him and I could barely see his face. But I knew he was smiling. He always smiled.

“I haven’t forgotten about our promise,” he assured me, his thin lips parting and dancing inside the smoke haze. “Things have just been really busy recently. If we don’t start this week, I’ll have you come in on Saturday and I can teach you then. I promise.”

I tried to give him a smile back but I was too captivated by my own thoughts and the smoke that hung around the air. Instead, I looked back at Gerard, feeling guilty that I had ever doubted him. And I was surprised at his offer. I never came in to help Gerard on weekends. There had only been two of them since I had started my clean up routine, but it was just known that I didn’t come in then. The deal was every day after school, and because I didn’t have school, I didn’t go. The idea had crossed my mind a few times, but I had let it pass by like I did with a lot of thoughts about Gerard. I just pissed away the time as usual in my vacant room, trying to play my guitar. It had been okay before, but now that Gerard had allowed the idea of a weekend date to be set in my mind, I loved the thought. I had begun to get stir crazy inside my room, writhing in my own skin knowing that my parents were there with me. Even if I was alone in my room, I never felt completely alone if my parents were at home. It was some weird, irking anxiety inside of me; I always thought they were listening in on everything I did. I was paranoid, and when my mom came upstairs one time within the past week, furrowing her brow when she saw my guitar on my bed, my thoughts were confirmed. My parents didn’t seem to like me, and I sure as hell didn’t like them. Spending weekends with Gerard sounded like a fucking fantastic idea. Even if it meant waiting more days for my lessons to begin, I was ready to make that sacrifice.

“Sounds good,” I told Gerard, nodding my head slightly. By that time the smoke aura around him was gone, dispersing into the air and melting into my clothing. Gerard leaned back again, falling asleep once more. It was then I looked back down at what I had been doing. I noticed the broken mug and started to pick up the pieces somehow thinking they had a deeper meaning.

*

The day after, for some unthinkable reason, I left my key at home. I left the entire ring at home actually, locking myself out of my house in the morning after my parents were gone, causing me to leave my homework that I had really done on the other side. I had been mad and pissed most of the morning, but knowing that I was going to Gerard’s place seemed to make things better. When I knocked on the door though and heard Gerard’s irritated voice, I felt my insides drop out from under me. I didn’t need to deal with another bitchy person today, including myself.

“I don’t want what you’re selling!” Gerard yelled from the depths of his apartment. I heard his heavy footsteps trudge around on the hardwood floors, but they were nowhere near the door.

“Gerard, it’s me!” I shouted meekly into the deep olive colour of the door. I suddenly heard the footsteps stop and taking that as a bad sign, I clarified. “Frank.”

“I know who it is!” Gerard called back, this time his voice losing the irritation from before and adding a playful edge to it. I heard the footsteps start up again and make their way towards the entrance. It was thrust wide open in a matter of minutes and it took my eyes awhile to adjust to the new surroundings. To my complete and utter surprise, Gerard was standing in the doorway, sunrays from the window in the background reflecting off his wet body. His hair was damp and hung in front of his face, tousled like it was nothing. One arm held the door open and the other held the faded baby blue towel draped snugly around his waist.

I felt my cheeks grow red and hot when the realization hit me. Gerard had just gotten out of the shower. I swallowed hard but my throat felt ten times thicker. I wanted to turn away and I knew that I should but my feet were planted to the rotted wooden floor of the hallway. I was so fucking embarrassed that I had disrupted this. And yet, in contrast to my reaction, Gerard just stood in the doorway, no ounce of shame or embarrassment gracing his wet and chubby face. In fact, he was smiling as he held the door open, motioning with one hand for me to come in.

“Now, Frank! I don’t have all day,” he teased, shaking his wet hair, causing it to part away from his face, revealing his mischievous eyes. I could feel some of the dampness splatter on me, but it did nothing to rouse me from my state of shock. Finally, my feet began to move and I pushed myself through the door, way ahead of Gerard so I didn’t have to see anything else that I wasn’t supposed to be seeing.

“I’m sorry,” I spouted the apology from my lips as soon as I ascertained enough composure to speak without stuttering.

“It’s okay,” Gerard insisted as he shut the door and turned the lock. He looked over at me, while I merely stared at my feet. “I gave you a key to avoid things like this, but I guess you just forgot it today?”

I suddenly brought my eyes to meet with his eyes – and only his eyes. It took me a minute to gather what he was saying. He thought I was apologizing for forgetting my key? Did he not know he was standing there in only a towel? And a short towel at that. I could see his pelvic bones slightly through his thick skin. He hung the fuzzy fabric just above his pubic bone and I could see the faint triangle of muscle that lead down beneath. He was much older and had a bit more extra weight on him, therefore the triangle that I knew from studying my own in the mirror so much wasn’t as visible, but it was definitely still there; along with the dark trail of hair that made a line from his navel down below the towel. I couldn’t also help but also notice that his chest was just as silky and white as his hands were and not graced by the dark hair that was below his navel. At first I thought that he might have shaved his chest hair, but there were no little red marks from razor burn. It was completely smooth and white. It was so white that I almost wanted to reach out and touch it, to make sure it was still there but I snapped myself back into reality. A reality that I really wished wasn’t happening.

“Don’t tell me you lost my key, Frank,” Gerard voice dipped lower and he narrowed his eyes at me. “I don’t need strangers having my key. One is enough.” He smiled at me, baring his teeth despite the seriousness of the situation.

“No – I – uh,” I stumbled over my words, trying not to look at anything, even his eyes anymore. I stared at my hands, which I noticed were almost shaking. I clenched my fists together in a desperate attempt to make them stop. I had never been this embarrassed in my entire life. “I just forgot your key. I left it in my house this morning. All of my keys.”

“Ah, okay. Well that’s a relief,” Gerard stated, breathing out. He switched hands that were holding the towel in place, but the switch caused the towel to fall a little lower off of his hips. As he commenced the action, I noticed he had love handles that spilled over the towel’s edge.

“I’m sorry for walking in on you…like that…“ I said, making myself turn away from him again. Though I kept telling myself not to look, my eyes somehow always ended up there anyway.

Gerard looked perplexed for a moment, then looked down at himself and realized just where I was coming from. It was like he had forgotten he was nearly naked in front of me. “Don’t be sorry,” he insisted, waving his free hand in the air. I was about to say something back, but my voiced choked in my throat. I didn’t know what I was going to say, but I was glad it never saw the light of day as Gerard continued. “If you had remembered your key today, you may have walked in on me without the barrier of the towel.” The way he had said the last part, friendly with a hint of something else at the end of it made me look up, breaking my promise yet again to not look at him while he was like that. And when I made eye contact, I could have sworn I saw him wink. I could never tell because his long raven hair was in his eyes, but I know what I saw. Or at least I knew what I wanted to see.
“Anyway,” Gerard said, breaking the tension again. “I’ll get dressed.” After shooting me another look, he moved from his standing position in front of me and began to turn around and head towards the black door to his room. I mumbled an incoherent approval and started to shift my weight from foot to foot. I needed my head to stop spinning and for my face to not be so fucking hot anymore. I placed my hands, still cold from the outside chill, over my cheeks in an attempt to cool them off. It barely worked and I decided to walk to the kitchen to busy myself with something while Gerard was getting dressed. I placed my hands inside the soapy water, when Gerard’s voice interrupted me again.

“My brother came in to see me today,” he said, starting a story that no one had asked him to tell.

“You have a brother?” I asked. I had never really thought of Gerard as anything but the forty-year-old artist. It never occurred to me that he had a family, had been someone else’s child and had a life before this apartment covered in paint.

“Yeah, he lives two towns over,” Gerard informed me, his voice louder than normal so it could carry through the walls. I knew that he had not shut his door when he changed and it took all of my willpower to stay inside the kitchen and not move anyplace else. And to convince myself that it was just curiosity on my part making me want to move.

“That’s cool,” I offered, trying to sound interested. I was listening, I just didn’t really know how else to respond. My mind wasn’t coherent enough to make sentences yet. I could digest them, but there was no way I could throw them back up yet.

“Yeah, I guess,” Gerard replied. I heard the pulling open of drawers and rustling of fabric as Gerard continued talking. “He’s younger by about four years but I forget that looking at him. He looks older than me sometimes. He works all damn day. Nine to five at a boring desk job. He’s got a wife and a few kids. And though he says he’s happy I can see it in his eyes that he’s not really. He comes to see me because of that. He could have just left me alone like most of the other family did for one reason or another, but he still chooses to come and see me. He envies my life here. I do what I love to do all day. He does what he’s told to do all damn day. He wishes he could live like me. And I hate seeing that dull spark in his eye. I remember when we were kids and he used to play guitar… or bass or something like that. He’d go on and on about it for hours. And he always told me that one day I would be an artist and he would be a bassist. And he could have a band and I’d draw pictures for a living. But apparently being a bassist doesn’t pay the bills. Being an artist doesn’t either, but fuck, at least I’m happy…”

Gerard was far from finishing his story, but I still nodded and interjected with my half assed little ‘Oh really?’ and ‘that’s interesting’ comments. It’s not that what he was saying wasn’t interesting me because it was. It was a tad long and repetitive, but it was still intriguing, finding out something about the man that had been such a mystery. At the same time, however, I had found something else that perked my curiosity. I saw one of Gerard’s many button up shirts tossed on the kitchen table, his lighter, wallet and cigarette pack splayed out next to it. I took my hand out of the soapy water and began to make my way over to the prized possessions as Gerard continued to drone on about his unhappy brother and his demanding wife. Apparently he had showed up without warning and they had had a nice talk, but it had run late and Gerard had not had time to shower yet, hence why I caught him in a towel. But thankfully, those thoughts were out of my mind. I grabbed the half folded red and white pack of cigarettes and held it in my hands. I was drawn to them right then, for all of the magical properties they possessed. I recalled the image of Gerard smoking. The dangerous, mysterious and corporeal image of him and his unmistakable art aura. I twirled the pack in my hand for awhile, debating my next move. I had not been receiving my art lessons, but as I held this pack in my hands, I felt like I could teach this one myself. I wanted to try to smoke. I wanted to try and to conjure up the same images Gerard was able to when he in took the cancer stick. I knew this was bad for me. My grandmother had died from lung cancer when I was seven and my parents had always breathed down my neck about not smoking. But I didn’t care right then. I was going to try it out. The complete and utter irony of the beauty in the object that could lead to my death allured me and made me want to try it. The only thing that was stopping me was the fact that I would be stealing from Gerard. I didn’t want to betray his trust and I didn’t want to get caught. I must have twisted the pack around in my hands forever before finally deciding to risk it all. In one quick stealth-like movement, I jammed the pack into my coat pocket. It was for art, I told myself. Gerard would surely understand that.

I waited for a few seconds after, not breathing, just waiting to see if I was going to get caught. But when Gerard kept talking about his brother still, I knew I was safe. I relaxed my stature and began to look at the other objects on the table. Gerard’s brown leather wallet was open and crooked, causing yet another object to catch my attention. I could see the familiar shade of blue that made up the licenses in this part of town. The top of the essential card poked out from its snug casing, displaying the beginnings of a DMV photo. My curiosity had already gotten me so far that day, and I decided to fuck it all, pulling the card out of its place. I’ll put it back right after, I told myself. I just want to see something.

I held the thin blue plastic in my hand for awhile, running my fingertips along the softened corners. I laughed at the photo on the card internally, letting my grin seep through. Gerard’s hair was totally scraggly and puffy, falling all over his face. His mouth was twisted into an expression that I could not comprehend and his eyes were half open. The photo was definitely him, but did not flatter him at all. All license photos were like that though; they weren’t supposed to make you look good. After giggling at the photo for a little while, my eyes locked on the exact thing that I wanted; his date of birth. For the most part, Gerard’s age had been a mystery to me. I knew he was old, much older than me obviously. I had guessed in my mind that he was in his forties probably but the smooth skin on his hands and his youthful zest on life always seemed to drop his age down considerably. I had been wondering his exact age ever since I had met him that day he dropped paint on us, but I had never gathered the courage to ask him about it. It was rude, but then again so was going through his wallet. But if he didn’t catch me, then my rude behaviour would go unnoticed and I would have an answer. I found the year number and did some quick math in my head. I had to calculate the numbers a few times because I thought I was consistently getting the wrong age. But I wasn’t. I nearly dropped the card from my hands when I had figured it out.

Gerard was forty-seven years old.

My mouth hung open as my heart smacked against my rib cage, causing it to cease beating. Gerard was forty-fucking-seven years old. That seemed like a lifetime, considering I was only seventeen. Gerard was thirty years older than me. It freaked me out to no end that he was living in this apartment, already half way through his life when I was just being born. And then it hit me; Gerard was the same age as my father. My father had been thirty when I was born and had his birthday the middle of January. Gerard’s was in the beginning of February. They were both the same age now.

My thoughts began to swirl around in my head and crash up against my skull. Gerard was as old as my dad. It irked me so much. I was coming to his place every day after school and hanging out with him like he was one of my friends, and he could have been my father. I had always known that Gerard was old; I could see it in his deep wrinkles that lined his face, but now that I had an official number, I didn’t like it. I wished that I could take it away, shove the card back into the wallet, and forget that I had ever seen it. I wasn’t trying to be mean or ageist; something just didn’t sit right.

With these thoughts going around in my thick head, it took me awhile to realize that I no longer heard Gerard’s voice rambling on and on about his brother. I looked up slowly from the blue card in front of me and saw Gerard standing over by the kitchen, another collared shirt hanging down off of his smooth white skin, but not buttoned up yet. He looked at me with his head cocked to the side and his arms folded over his chest. I felt my stomach lurch, for more than one reason.

“So you know how old I am now,” Gerard stated bluntly. He wasn’t exactly mad, but he wasn’t happy either. He seemed sad, but not for the obvious reason that I had been snooping through his things. He almost seemed sadden by being reminded of his age.

I immediately dropped the blue card back on the table where the wallet was and backed away, lifting my arms up as to show him I didn’t have anything else. The cigarettes were still in the bottom of my jacket pocket, but that was a distant memory at that point. His age was still ringing constantly in my ear and now the guilt that he had caught me was added to that, causing a loud ruckus.

“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice coming out quick and rushed. I backed up in the kitchen until I ended up with my back against the fridge. I don’t know where I had been trying to go, but my journey was obviously put to an end.

“Don’t be,” Gerard insisted, shaking his head and curving his lips into a scoff. “I’m old and I should be proud of it, I guess.” He rolled his eyes and shook his head, his hair still slightly damp and falling around the corners of his face.

“You don’t look old,” I offered, trying to make the situation better. I could feel my heart racing inside my chest, pounding against its cage and trying to get out.

Gerard breathed out happily and smiled. “Thanks,” he nodded, then drew his eyes to me, pinned against the wall. His countenance took on a more serious structure as his eyes examined me from head to toe and then back up again. “You don’t look your age either.”

I laughed nervously, my breath coming out too jagged and high pitched. “I probably look younger,” I snickered, my eyes darting around the room. Everyone always told me that I looked younger than I was. I never really thought so – I just looked my own age. But since I was shorter than most guys and I had a slightly softer facial structure – I didn’t have as many ridges and bumps and scars – it seemed to give me added youth that I did not want.

“No, actually,” Gerard stated seriously, his eyebrows lifting. He was no longer somber about his own age, and instead was now focusing on mine. He walked closer to me, crossing across the kitchen floor and around the table, fencing me in more. I flinched a little as he moved closer, but only because I was already uneasy. His words were making me dance inside my own skin and when his eyes ran over me, I thought I was going to die. There were too many things being caged up inside of me, fear, guilt, shame, happiness that I just couldn’t take it anymore. And his moving closer was not helping.

“You look older than seventeen,” Gerard informed me. He cocked his head to the side and pursed his lips thinking hard as he looked at my face. He reached out and touched the side of my jaw, running his smooth finger down it slowly. “You see here?” he asked as he moved his finger along, making my insides vibrate. It was then I noticed that his shirt was still not done up and his white silky chest was inches away from me. I had no idea what the fuck was going on, but it looked like I was going to find out soon.

“Your skin has more pores and they are more open, absorbing sunlight easier,” he explained as he continued to rub his finger down the length of my face. His fingers felt nice and warm on my skin, just cleaned from the shower and soft from whatever soap he had used, but I still tried to get away. Something was not right about this scene. Gerard was as old as my father. I could not be in this position with him.

“Your skin tans easier, giving you a more distinguished quality. Especially around your eyes,” Gerard continued, finishing with his finger touching the tip of my chin, and pulling me forward slightly so he could look into my eyes more. “Your eyes are deep and concerning and you’ve already got wrinkles forming around the outside.”

“Oh yay,” I uttered quietly trying to look away from Gerard but not being able to move. He was no longer looking at my eyes, but past them at the surrounding features. “Wrinkles always sound good,” I quipped.

“No, that’s not what I mean exactly,” Gerard tried to correct himself, still staring at my features. He was really close to me now, even if his voice sounded somewhat detached. He was standing right in front of me, so close I could feel the heat from his bare chest. It was warm and something I knew I should be afraid of. “The wrinkles you have aren’t from age, they’re from experience. Intelligence,” he corrected himself. He took his hand off my chin and touched some of my brown hair that fell over my forehead. He pushed it aside and let his hand rest behind my ear where the hair did. Still looking past me, he commented, “Something is on your mind, making the wrinkles deepen.”

“Really?” I asked, my voice coming out in a choked whisper. I could feel him breathing on me.

Gerard’s eyes shifted their attention to me again, looking deep into my eyes, begging for some kind of attention that I wasn’t sure I could give. “What’s on your mind, Frank?” he whispered leaning closer to me, though I thought he was close enough as it as.

We stared at each other for a few moments more, my lips parting and coming together again over and over, thinking of something to say. Gerard was content in the silence, simply reading my face. He was getting a good enough answer from that. I suddenly felt just as naked as he had been only moments earlier and had the sudden urge to jump out of my own skin and escape my body. Something inside me was shouting at me, screaming at me, and I couldn’t understand what it was saying. Gerard was too close and it prevented me from making sense of anything.

“I…I-I gotta go,” I finally uttered. Gerard looked at me skeptically for a moment, but when he saw me squirm under his gaze and position, he waved his arm away, pointing at the door. He leaned down on the table as I left, not saying good bye, his hand folded over his chest and head down. I practically bolted from the apartment. I didn’t say bye to him either; the only thought that kept occurring in my mind over and over again was that I shouldn’t be feeling the way I was feeling. And no amount of running away was going to fix it. I had broken the mugs before to get him to pay attention to me again. But when he did, it was too much for me to handle. I felt like those mugs I crashed down to the floor each day. Only this time, I wasn’t sure if I could be put back together and I certainly didn’t want to be thrown away.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-14