Chapter Four
Gerard jerked awake with a start, used his shaking hands to brush his tangled hair away from his face. It didn't register his hair was still wet - not from the rain, but from the tears he'd shed in his dreams. He was so miserable, empty and so lonely. He wondered why he had to relive this endless torture over and over again.
He had often thought about just ending it, buying the pills from the scary boys in their too baggy clothes on the corner, with their defiant, hostile stares.
Washing them down with a good strong bottle of spirits, instead of the weak crap he kept himself on now, in a desperate attempt to stop himself from suicide through alcoholism.
He'd been tempted so many times to stop and answer their yells and taunts on his way home from washing dishes, scrubbing pots and emptying bins.
Black bags stinking and spewing their insides every time he shook or stumbled which was getting to be rather more often than his drink money liked, but he had to get money for the plastic bottles, they were the only thing that kept the DT's from being so much worse.
He dragged his hands through his hair and sniffed as he brought them down to rub his face awake. He could feel that he needed a shave. It felt like there was a good few weeks there already.
He checked his pockets for his lighter, eventually finding it in the button down pocket of his black denim shirt. He stood, shrugging the cramps and stiffness in his neck and shoulders, rolling his head until he heard the cracks ripple down his spine. He stretched his arms wide and brought them back together, lacing his fingers and cracked his knuckles loudly.
Frankie always used to freak when I did that he muses as he lopes over to the tiny kitchenette of his bedsit to open the fridge. Taking out the generic loaf of white bread, un-naturally bright yellow butter and a packet of convenience store pink ham that made up the entire fridge contents. Fuck.
Again with that name, what's wrong with me tonight, keep the rules don't go there, just... Do Not.
He crossed back to the couch and sits, carefully balancing the sandwiches on their chipped pottery saucer, putting the heavier brown plastic bottle from under the sink on the floor beside its deflated twin, leans back plate in one hand and thumps his feet in their heavy black boots onto the coffee stained table someone had thrown into a skip a few months back.
Heh! He grunted as he bit through the dry bread, feeling the too greasy margarine coat his teeth. See, Mikey? I told ya I'd be fine. I don't need any of your interfering. I have a room, food, a place to sit and, now a table too. What more do ya want? He muttered bitterly to himself.
Before he can make it stop, the ever-present film imprisoned in his head starts to replay.
He could see his brother standing in his mothers kitchen shouting at him, to get a grip, stop pissing it all away on drink, sort your head out and start being a father again, it wasn't fair on their poor mother, she'd been through the struggle to bring her family up in a bad neighbourhood, already dealt with the tantrums and emotional problems of young troubled teens. It wasn't fair she was doing all over again with Bee.
She'd long since given up on him, quickly learning when daddy was drinking to stay away or it'd be more off those too tight hugs, with tears and snot and foul sickly sweet breath muttering things she could never quite make out properly.
So Bandit learnt fast Gran was boss not Dad, her daddy was back in the sun drawing pretty cartoons and always laughing, not this smelly shambling wreck who cried all the time.
Who never answered questions or listened when she started to talk about her new school, the funny way kids spoke here, or later the girl who pushed her on the steps and laughed when she tripped over.