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I'm burning again.
Gerard thought he would have handled his own injury better by now. Ever since he fell off the diving board, straight onto the cement floor, he never imagined surviving and living with the consequences.
The pain was like a stabbing blade, slicing through his hips, radiating down to his thighs and toes. He had to set his sketchbook and pen aside on the living room couch, realizing that he had been leaning in the same position for a stretch of a time. He was stuck–whether he was still or shifting, the overwhelming sensation made no difference.
Where's my cane?
The mobility device in question was across the room, leaning on the wall by the entrance–out-of-reach. He hated the distance for the anxiety it caused.
He wanted to scream out Mikey's name. Doing so would damage his vocal cords, and he needed to preserve them to sing. His cell phone was on the coffee table before him. Taking deep breaths through his nostrils, Gerard grabbed the cellular device and flipped it open. With shaky hands, he looked through the contacts on its small screen with tiny text. It was hard to focus through blurring vision, but he managed to call Mikey.
“Hello?” came his brother's voice.
“I need your help right now,” Gerard wavered, fighting through the tears springing in his eyes.
“What's wrong?”
Gerard gritted his teeth. “The pain is at an eight out of ten. Get me some Advil and my cane.”
“On my way.” He hung up.
Gerard knew the task would be quick, but the wait was aggravating. He doubled over in his seat, trembling and gasping. He heard some rummaging in the kitchen nearby–the opening and closing of a cabinet, followed by the pantry door; the rattling of pills in the bottle and water pouring from the dispenser.
Mikey stumbled in, almost tripping. The bottle of Advil was held in one hand, a cup of water in the other.
“Here,” Mikey mumbled breathlessly, holding out the ibuprofen.
“Thank you so much,” Gerard croaked, taking it.
“No problem.” Mikey turned to the cane, going to retrieve it.
Gerard opened the cap and, shakily, poured out two shiny, blue gel pills. They were tossed into his mouth, washed down with the water.
“Better?” Mikey asked, handing over the black carbon fiber cane.
Gerard gripped it by the handle. “In a few minutes, yeah. But that doesn't take away from you being here.”
“Glad I could help.”
“God,” Gerard choked, digging the bottom of his walking device into the carpet. “It's times like these where I hate myself for what I did.”
Mikey told him gently, “Hey,” sitting down beside him. “Don't go back there. It's not good for you.”
“I never thought your absence from the Paramour would affect me like that.”
Mikey took Gerard's sweaty hand and clasped it in his, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He leaned his head against him, and the gesture was reciprocated. “Breathe,” Mikey whispered to him, echoing the nurses' instructions back at the rehab center. “Breathe.”
Mikey did not like remembering, either–leaving in the midst of recording for the sake of his mental health, only to later get hit with devastating news. At the hospital, he held tightly onto Gerard's hand, as if afraid to let go.
“I'm sorry,” he had apologized profusely through his tears. “I'm so fucking sorry.”
“It wasn't your fault,” an exhausted Gerard whispered with a faint smile. “It was mine. I was obsessed with finishing The Black Parade and perfecting it.”
And now, in the present, Mikey had to fight back the ache in his chest upon witnessing what his brother's condition did to him. As he held him close, warm and comforting, he had to remind himself that Gerard did not have to endure this alone. They could be strong together.
“I'm here,” Mikey whispered.