Chapter Fifty-Three Letting Go: Part One Learning 1 страница

Out of all the emotions in the world, I thought I had felt them all. I knew what it was like to be in pain, to feel something sting me so hard mentally it left a welt and a scar so large inside myself that it worked its way to the surface. I knew what it was like to feel numb to that pain, drowning it out with beer can after beer can and not giving a damn about changing it. If I was numb, how was I even supposed to realize I needed to change? I knew what it was like to feel angry, so angry my fists were going to fall of from clenching them so much. So angry it felt like my blood vessels were going to burst under my callused skin. I knew what it was like to want to rip off my own skin, just to escape the wrath and feelings I had within me. I knew how that felt. I had gone through it, preserved the memory in my mind, only to attempt to rid my body of myself by using any vice imaginable. I had felt a lot of emotions in my lifetime and it hadn’t even been that long yet. This small pitiful existence that I had lived was slowly ending in that moment, Gerard’s words not registering in my mind. They were hitting my ear drum, making their way into my brain, but I refused to compute them. I heard them, but they were just words. They were not actions, promises, or a hopeless future. They were not leaving a scar on my brain because I wouldn’t let them cut me.
But the blade was sharp and Gerard kept repeating them over and over again, breaking my skin through friction. Or maybe Gerard wasn’t even talking at all, it was just my head repeating the words, and I really was losing my mind. My forthcoming insanity would have been the only thing that made sense in the room. That would be the only way this was all happening. It was a dream; it had to be a dream. It was a vivid depiction and continuation of the mess of thoughts I had gone through that night. I was still in my bed, waiting to go to the hospital. This was a dream.

In a dream, I could wake up. As I blinked and closed my eyes constantly, I realized that this wasn’t going to happen. The sleep had been rubbed out of my eyes ages ago. I barely got any sleep the night before, barely enough to have a dream this vivid. This had to be a reality. I would have reached over and pinched my skin in a final test, but I didn’t need to. I felt too much pain inside to know this was all too real. The ache inside of me started in my chest, and blossomed through the rest of my body. There was nothing I could do but clutch at it, willing it away.

God, I thought to myself, looking at Gerard. His lips were moving, but I drowned out his incessant rambles about Paris. I had heard him talk about the place so many times before, but it had been a distant memory. He wanted to go to Paris, I knew that much. He spoke French and loved the culture. But I thought he had accepted his defeat in his quest, and settled for the culture the two of us had created, manifesting something he used to long for. We read French poetry naked on his floor, the sun coming in through his bay window as we sipped red wine and ate French bread with brie cheese. We had talked of Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud, their torrid love affair with poetry and deceit. He recited to me their poems in French, and then translated the foreign meaning to me in English. Sometimes he never even bothered to translate, and told me random words for the hell of it. I watched in awe the way his tongue would move differently against the words, but I would never focus on the words themselves. I never committed them to memory. I never thought I had too. I just wanted to listen to him speak. French filtered through our home so often I took it for granted, for some white noise and guttural utterance every human did. Instead of cough or sneeze like a normal human being, Gerard simply spoke French. Even a part of me was in French, on his wall, my yellow handprint for the world to see. Comme le soliel interminable. Like the never-ending sun. Wasn’t this never ending? Wasn’t there more to this? I may have been the never ending sun, but he was fading, and setting fast right before my very eyes.

He had picked up the plane ticket from the ground, talking in an exotic language, not French or English, but something I couldn’t comprehend. The language of leaving; I didn’t want to learn its foreign tongue. He pointed out the time of arrival in Paris, talked of the time change, jetlag, and other frivolous details that I didn’t care about. I watched him as he conversed with himself lively, my eyes washing over the small gash on his forehead. It was small, no more than an inch or two in length, black lines from the stitch work pointing out from the sides. It was right under his temple, on an angle towards his ear. It was dangerously closed to the sensitive spot on his head, and if he had been hit there, he may have bled profusely and even died.

Fuck, I almost wished he was dead, I found myself thinking bitterly, turning away from the marking and him. I felt horrible thinking it, but I couldn’t help it. At least if he were dead, I knew he wasn’t choosing to leave me like this. He couldn’t decide when his own death would be, no one could, but he was picking his departure time for Paris. He was choosing to leave me, and leave me so suddenly. Beside, if Gerard was dead, I could hold onto the memories we had together pleasantly, remembering all the fun times we had had together. I could remember him teaching me about art and life and love. When we destroyed his mural together and had metaphorical paint sex. When he took me to the park and we touched ourselves under starlight. I could remember fun times, good times.

Not now. If he was leaving me just to leave then that was all I could remember. All of the good things would be dissolved because he was choosing to leave them behind. I would only think of Gerard, the artist that I loved and left me with nothing to cling onto when I used to have everything. I had been clinging to anything I saw with such a violent force within the past few weeks. I even clung onto strangers like Elisabeth, though not physically, but mentally in my mind. I clung onto feelings and sensations that ruptured through me, small victories with my family. I clung onto Gerard’s jacket, which was still heavy on my shoulders, heavy knowing that he would never wear it again. Most of all, I clung onto Gerard. I had been ever since the first day he threw a bucket of paint on me, making me realize that I was trapped. I clung onto him right then in the apartment, nearly knocking the wind out of him when I came inside.

After the news spilled from his mouth, there was no clinging. I was just standing there, my arms weak and limp at my sides, watching him as he explained how he would get to Paris. He barely looked at me, his bangs falling over his face most of the time as he motioned with his hands to his suitcases. In those rare moments where he dared to look, and I dared to continue the gaze, I could see a light behind his green eyes. It was a painful light, but shining nonetheless. He wanted to go. He wanted to leave me. He was saying it over and over again and I felt bile rise in my throat. My chest felt like it had been torn in two, my heart lost somewhere in the depths of his apartment. Maybe it was in his suitcases, and he planned on taking it to Paris with him. I had given myself to him in so many fucking ways and now he was tearing me apart. He could not just get up and leave.

I looked at his suitcases and debated climbing inside. I could fit, too. I was short. It was the only time I was proud of my height, but I knew I would merely suffocate on the plane ride if I did climb inside. It seemed like a good way to go; I was merely drowning right there in front of him anyway. And I had nothing to cling onto for safety.

“Frank,” Gerard called to me, his hand suddenly appearing like a dead weight on my shoulder. I had been staring at the dreaded object, mentally cramming myself into one. My catatonic state seemed like the only way to deal with things, especially as his touch hit me like an anvil. He was touching me, making me realize that this was all real.

I loved it when he touched me, it made me feel whole, alive, and like I was still there. I used to zone out sometimes, even before Gerard, just thinking about random shit. When I started coming to see him, he brought me back into reality. When I was with him, reality didn’t seem so bad. It didn’t seem like something I needed to rebel against. I was happy there, and that was a rare phenomenon. I had felt so many emotions in such a short period of time, but happiness was fleeting. It was one of the ones I knew no matter how much I tried to cling onto it, it would never just appear. I could always be sad and numb, just by thinking about things and bringing issues to the surface once again. Happiness was something you couldn’t just conjure up like that. If I thought of happy memories, it would still make me sad because they didn’t happen anymore. It hurt me more than it helped. Happiness was not something you could flick on and off. If it was, then not half the population would be depressed and divorced. There wouldn’t be Prozac or any other medication to make things better. Happiness was fleeting, but I thought I had caught it. I should have realized happiness, just like Gerard, was impossible to catch.

I had been brought back into reality with his heavy hand and it really was happening. I had tried to revert to my old ways, shutting out the word and becoming numb with feeling, but Gerard had touched me. He brought me back. I figured he was trying to save me once again from my past life, but he was also killing me at the same time. Somewhat of a selfish suicide on my part or maybe just completely masochistic.

I looked up to him from my focal point, slowly craning my neck to the right angle. His hand rubbed my shoulder slightly, willing me back into veracity slowly. I didn’t want to be willed back slowly; I didn’t want to appreciate sensations. It was like ripping off a band-aid. It had to be done fast, and tear the skin off with it. The area he was touching was so hot then, his fingers like sparklers of emotions, the specks running their way down me. His eyes met my own, and we just stared at each other. He furrowed his brows a bit, the caterpillars of hair moving and inching along, watching me as my mouth gaped open and I struggled to breathe.

“Frank,” Gerard repeated, his lips moving to pronounce each word agonizingly slow. “I’m sorry.”

I crushed my eyes shut, hearing the horrible, horrible words. He was apologizing. I hated it when he apologized because it was against his character. He never apologized. He never thought he was wrong and he wasn’t wrong. Even in this situation, I could tell he wasn’t wrong. He had always wanted to go to Paris, and he was going. I should have known this was going to happen, I should have known everything would fall part. He may not have been wrong in his actions, but there was a stark difference between being wrong and being fair. This wasn’t fair to me. I felt the artist in myself reaching the surface and I was becoming selfish again.

“How can you do this to me?” I uttered slowly, my eyes darting between his own and around the apartment, back to the suitcases. I crushed my eyes closed again, seeing the leather packages.

“I’m not doing this to you,” Gerard started slowly, placing his other hand on my opposite shoulder. I didn’t move into the embrace, but I also didn’t shove him away. I couldn’t. This may be the last time he touched me. “I’m doing this for you.”

Gerard turned his head and tried to look at me, but I turned away. I didn’t get what he was saying. How could this be for me? Could he not see the piece of wreckage I was becoming with him leaving me? I needed him, and he was taking himself away. All of my thoughts and questions pooled into my mind, flashing before my eyes in vibrant colors. I opened my eyes to look at him, all of the colors hitting the prism backwards, coming out as a white light in one single utterance and all around question.
“ Why?”

He sighed weakly, knitting his brows as he pursed his lips, debating how to reply. I couldn’t tell if there was too much or too little to say to the question. Slowly, he answered, “I have to, Frank. It’s just as simple as that.”

I tried to scoff at the remarks, but it only came out as a strangled breath. Simple? This was simple? Nothing was ever simple with Gerard. There were always six different meanings to what he was saying that not even he understood them all. This couldn’t just be it. There had to be more. I wanted more, I needed it, but my voice was shattered and splattered across his floor, rolling out like an empty paint can, the shell of the former artistic medium cracking away. I shuddered as I breathed, feeling Gerard’s hands on me, but not around me like they used to be. He was just holding me then to brace me. Not to feel me. I wanted him to feel me again. I wanted so badly to be inside of him again, and not in a sexual way. I wanted to be under his arms, inside his shirt and feel how warm he was. I wanted to touch him, and as I looked in his eyes, I saw he wanted to touch me too. He was only holding me now, thinking I didn’t want anything to do with him.

It was quite the opposite situation. I wanted everything, probably even more than I ever had before. I wanted that everything because I soon knew there would be nothing.

Using all the strength I had, which wasn’t a lot, I broke free from my catatonic state. I was still weak and immobile in some areas, but I took step forward, bridging the small gap in between us. Gerard didn’t move, except look me up and down, watching me as I struggled to push my body and emotions forward. I stepped closer again so now both feet were in front of him. I felt his arms slip off my shoulders and into my back, ever so lightly drawing me closer to him. Our faces got closer and closer and pretty soon I had to look at him at an angle so our noses wouldn’t bump into each other. We watched each other as we drew nearer, his deep olive eyes scanning my face for a reaction. His skin was so much softer and smoother than I remembered it being. It looked like porcelain when I was up this close. Usually when we kissed, my eyes were shut by the time we got to this point. But we were moving so slowly, so painstaking slow that I could take everything in and see it.

My eyesight fell to his slightly parted lips and the fleshy hue of a tongue at the base. I felt my nose brush up against his cheek, and closed my eyes feeling the touch of his skin on me so intimately. I moved forward more, capturing his mouth and feeling him pull back. I cringed at how painfully intimate it was as I wrapped my hands around the small of his back. We began to kiss, slower than anything I had ever experienced before. Our mouths were open, playing with the other’s lip and how it felt against our own, tasting and just feeling. I changed the rhythm first, adding a tongue. I pushed forward, tracing around his bottom lip before he opened fully, letting both of us fully taste each other. When his tongue came into my mouth, it was hard to fit, my jaw locked under all the emotions I was feeling. I felt a choked sob try to emerge from my throat, making my mouth involuntarily shut, and cutting him off. He moved away from me a bit, touching his forehead to my own as a substation for the kiss. He wanted to keep the intimate appeal, and more importantly, he saw that I needed it. He had thought I didn’t want it before, and was trying to take my best interest to heart, but this only made me ache more and more. I didn’t care about anything then. I wanted him to keep kissing me, touching me, and not being so hesitant about everything. All the things we had done before were so slow that I almost just wanted to get them over with now. I wanted to experience him again, as many times as I could before he had to go. We didn’t have much time now, and I needed all of him.

I turned my head against his, meeting our lips again and kissing with more of a force. He matched me, surprising me with his stealth at first. Our tongues entered in no time, and I shrugged off any choked sob or sigh that I felt coming on. There was no way I was going to spoil this.

My hands, once on the small of his back, retraced their way to his pant line and began to pull out his tucked in shirt, gradually working their way to the front. He moved with me, sliding his hands underneath the dove jacket and giving me that warm feeling I was craving. I still tired to kiss him as I began to unbutton his shirt from the bottom, but it became increasingly difficult. I didn’t want to sacrifice anytime away form him in any form. He seemed to feel the same way, running his hands up and down my body, making me feel so good, I almost forgot about the searing pain in the middle of my chest. Almost.

Eventually, when I could only get one button free, and we had both bitten the other’s lip in aggravated excitement, Gerard pulled away from my mouth briefly, casting me a knowing gaze.

“Do you want to go to my bedroom?” he asked, his warm hands and fingers pressing into the small of my back. I bit my lip and closed my eyes, as I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I couldn’t speak, not when he had said it all. Bittersweet despair seemed to seize in my chest as I trusted myself to look him in the eyes.

He must have seen the pain I held because he began to kiss me again, pulling me close to his body, so close I could feel the layers of skin he sported under his black shirt. Keeping me as close to him as he possibly could, he guided us to his bedroom, opening the black door and stepping inside. He pretty much had to drag me, my legs and knees were so weak, but again, it almost felt appropriate. When we got into his room, he lifted me up a little, kissing me slowly as he placed me on the bed. It was almost like he was carrying me over a makeshift threshold, dropping me down on the bed we would lie in for the last time that night. I felt my chest surge again, but it was muffled as he got on top of me.

He kissed my face only briefly this time, letting his lips wander around to my neck, his hands going up and down my arms again, pushing off the thick dove jacket. I shed it willingly, the heat of the room astounding. I still kept it on the bed with us, in the space we were not taking up yet. I wanted it to smell like Gerard again, to smell like us, and the art we were about to create.

Gerard straddled my hips, both of our merging erections rubbing up against each other. His kisses were soft, wet, open-mouthed ones that he trailed down my neck, over my ear, whispering in something that I couldn’t quite understand. His fingers worked their way up my shirt until he gradually sat up, helping me to lift it off my shoulders. Still sitting, I reached my hands forward, starting to undo each one of the small smooth buttons. As more and more of his skin became visible, and less and less of the shirt was on his body, I began to see what my father had done to him.

Purple markings were spread up and down both of his sides, nicks and scratches scattered haphazardly everywhere else. There was a thicker collection of longer markings down the left of his body, where it looked as if he had almost been dragged. Once I got to the top of the shirt, Gerard helped me to remove it, shrugging it off his shoulders. Though he tried to hide it, I could see him cringing as he rolled his shoulders back. He went to move on top of me fully again, but I extended an open palm to his shoulder, stopping him. I wanted to look and see everything for what it was really worth. Without a sound, my eyes wandered over his white flesh, seeing the full effect of the bruising. I traced my fingers along his ribs slowly, touching the dark green and purple flesh, seeing if it felt any different. Gerard breathed in sharply and closed his eyes, but never told me to stop. He knew it was important for me to see him this way – to see what had really happened. I did not know the whole story, what had happened during the beating, but I began to piece it together in my mind. I looked at the small gash on his head, and reached up to touch it gingerly. Gerard leaned over me, supporting his heavy torso with his arms, and never broke eye contact with me as my fingers traced the wound lightly. Other than the bruising and small flesh wound, nothing else seemed to be wrong with the artist. I ran my fingers along his arms and hands as well, feeling the scratches the pavement had caused, sanding down his already smooth skin and leaving rough patches. He closed his eyes from the slight discomfort having his wounds picked at, and I closed my own right along side him. I felt my stomach lurch forward, realizing my father – my own fucking flesh and blood - had done that to him. I felt sick, and the sympathy I had built up for my father, the some kind of respect I had made with him, started to dwindle down into nothing. He may be getting better at being a dad, but he had failed at being a real human for a long time.

Gerard began to descend upon me once again, after we had paused for a second, holding scraped hands. He kissed me softly, pressing his body into me as his arms slipped around my sides. I wanted to touch his in return, but he suddenly felt so fragile in my hands. He was bruised and broken; he was in enough pain. He didn’t need me to inflict anymore. He sensed my dilemma, looking down on me with perturbed eyes. He nodded, saying nonverbally that everything was okay, taking my hand and placing it on his torso as he moved down my body. I gripped tighter than I needed to.

We didn’t talk much during our action, and I figured it was the best for both of us. I didn’t know what I would say just yet, and I really didn’t trust myself to speak. Each action, though pleasurable and I wanted it, hurt just the same. I needed to concentrate on the physical of everything if I ever wanted to get my mind off the emotional, at least for a little while. I didn’t know how long it would take for both of us to come, but I didn’t want to go fast anymore. This needed to last as long as possible, distracting us both from the event at hand.

Gerard began to unbutton my pants, sliding them and my boxers off my hips in one swift movement. I felt the sudden shock of air against my unprotected cock, the tip already wet and feeling cold. I kicked my pants the rest of the way off, Gerard moving himself more down my body. He wrapped his hand around me, his kisses redirecting themselves from my nipples down to my belly button and pubic bone. His tongue traced the skin and sucking as he pumped me slowly. It was feeling good, but I tried not to make any noise, unsure of what would happen when I opened my mouth. I bit my lip and though Gerard saw it as he repositioned himself on me, he didn’t tell me to stop. Normally, he hated it when I stifled myself, trying to get me to speak my mind, even if it came in moan form. He didn’t fight my silence then because he understood. He knew I couldn’t talk because neither could he, and I could tell as he took me into his mouth, he was masking his own verbal abilities. He began to suck me off, his tongue sliding around my head, touching the slit and his mouth moving up and down.

It wasn’t the same as it usually was. His jaw seemed more relaxed, unable to keep a tight grip on me constantly. His mouth looser too, even as I hit the back of his throat. The act was still intimate and caring, his hands touching my sides, my thighs, and my balls, gently trying to make me feel good, but there was a sadness about the action we were both portraying. We knew this would be our last time, and we both didn’t want it to be over.

Gerard took me out of his mouth momentarily, switching his lips to my inner thighs and licking the flesh their. I moved up slightly, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him up towards me more. I ran my hand around the rim of his pants, letting him know I wanted them off. He nodded into my neck, placing a few quick kisses on my chest before he stood up on his knees. He grabbed my hands in his own, placing them on his fly and only guiding me for a brief second before he let me do the rest of the work. He liked it when I was the one who took off his clothing, and though at first I thought it was so he was positive I wanted it, I saw a deeper meaning in it now. Sex was an action that happened between two people. It was something people did together, not separately. Me taking off his clothing, and him taking off mine meant we were together. And this was probably the last time we ever would be.

The tight fabric was peeled down his legs slowly, as to not strain any of his chest wounds. As his creamy white legs emerged, I took note to the small bruises, not as deep or darkly coloured as the ones on his chest, but still bruises nonetheless that littered his legs. The biggest were on his kneecaps, probably from when my dad gave him the initial shove down onto the pavement. There were scrapes and cuts too, but I ignored them. I wasn’t supposed to be inspecting his body. I was supposed to be consuming it.

Gerard got the lubricant out from his bedside table, spreading some of the clear liquid onto his fingers, getting ready to prepare me. The tube had been brand new when we first started having sex, and there used to be two of them. We had used up the warming lube first (for obvious reasons), and now this normal one was on its last legs. Gerard had to slam it a few times before anything came out. I let myself smile, baring my teeth a bit and laughing at just how much we had sex. Smiling was an odd feeling, but it was good. I felt like I hadn’t smiled in so long. Gerard saw and reciprocated, perhaps thinking the same thing.

He took way longer than he needed to prepare me for entry, but I didn’t say a word. I liked having our eyes and body movements being the only form of communication. It showed me just how close we were that we could use our own language. We became even closer as I felt him push into me, slowly and with little pain from all of his prep work. I lolled my head against the pillow as I bucked forward into him, wanting him as deep as I could get him inside of me. My arms were hung loosely around his shoulders, my legs wrapped around his lower back. He kissed me on my lips a few times, our tongues tackling the others, saliva collecting and spilling out of our mouths. For the most part he buried himself in my neck, kissing and nibbling whenever he had the chance.

I allowed myself to moan, but they came from deep inside my throat and I never opened my mouth to make them. I just kept groaning as he thrust in and out of me at our normal speed. A few times, he just stopped all movement, taking the time to kiss my face, trailing his tongue around the ridges of my ears. He tried to touch me in those moments of ceased activity and his breath panting hard, but I shoed his hand away. I was hard and his touch felt good, but I didn’t want to come yet. I didn’t want to come all over our chests and have that be it. I wanted to be inside him too that night, and I could wait until he was done to have that happen. He understood the pleading look in my eyes as I gripped his hand away from my swelling cock, pushing our foreheads together as he thrust in and out of me more. I let out a particular deep moan when he hit my spot. I pushed my head into the pillow, the soft fabric spilling around my ears so I couldn’t hear anything. Gerard kept hitting me there, knowing my moan and the inside of my body too well at this point in time. He started to pick up his speed little, and within moments I heard his own distinctive moan and felt his cock moving within me, getting ready. His face was in my neck as he came, his teeth next to my hot skin, but not biting down. I could feel the smooth marble quality of them, and felt his tongue slip out in a heated breath as he folded into me more in that moment of weakness.

We waited a long time just panting and holding our sweaty bodies together before we both decided it was time for him to pull out. I ran my hand through his hair, feeling the sweat at the back of his neck, and I even started to grow a little soft. There had been some friction in between our moving bodies and now that we were merely holding each other, my cock had nothing to work with. Now that it was merely sandwiched, it failed to be as excited. The somber quality also returned to both of us, our breathing becoming wavered as we realized that one half of our action was done.

Not wanting to be consumed by anything but Gerard, I started to kiss the top of his head, bringing one of his hands to my mouth and nibbling on his fingers, willing the sadness away. He looked up at me from my chest, and gave me a weak smile. He connected our lips together, gradually pulling out of me as he did so. I was pretty sure it hurt more coming out than it did going in. Gerard kissed me for a bit longer, but I could tell he was tired and spent from our action as my hands running up and down his back. He was still willing and eager to make me feel just as good, turning himself over on the bed, onto the dove jacket and waiting for me to climb over. He tried to move the article of clothing out of the way, but shook my head, and started to bombard him with kiss after kiss. Within moments, my erection was up to standard again, and I found the lubricant, slamming it to get enough to come out.

I began to comprehend why Gerard had taken so long in this action; we were both too tense and it took awhile for the ring of muscle to stretch out. I liked to watch the faces he was making, the slight cringing and then open mouthed gaped when something felt good. He was totally flaccid and there was no chance of him getting back up anytime soon, but my actions still felt good, and he responded accordingly. I tried to be careful as I pushed myself inside, not wanting to hurt or crush him anymore than he already had been. As soon as I was all the way in, his hands were on my lower back, pushing me inside and on top of him more, crashing our lips together. I could tell he was in pain, but it didn’t seem to matter. It felt good to him, and maybe was better than the emotional turmoil running through us.