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❝𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐟 𝐈'𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐎𝐫 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐯𝐞, '𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐲, 𝐈'𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐬, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝❞

Gerard had always been the silent yearning type. The quiet poet, the hands praying above coffins resting beneath statues of weeping angels. He had been many things, some unholy, some sacred, but always hopeless when it came to you; Franks younger sister. You two were both riddled with Catholic guilt, the only solace found for either soul located somewhere between soft words spoken in the dead of night and an untuned radio. The prayers muttered, clutching rosaries that smelled like ciggarette smoke, and gasoline was perhaps the only thing keeping either of you two sane.

❝𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞? 𝐎𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐞? 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞? 𝐎𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐞? '𝐂𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈'𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝, 𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐠𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐩𝐞 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧❞

He knew you had traumas of your own like he did. You had met the worst of humanity by the hands of your father and stepfather while he had met his own hell at the feet of who he was. The bullied outcast, the disdained child of a mother who wished she had a daughter rather than a son. The scripture had been wrong about only one thing; no sin was equal, and the consequence was left in the form of stigmata on the skin of both the disdained boy and the broken girl.

❝𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐬❞

Oh, how he loved you. He prayed for you, burned love letters once doused in holy water as if it would somehow fade the sin he was committing by loving you. How he hated himself for it, for falling in love with his best friend. For being the son his mother never wanted, for his feminine features and obscure interests and devout rituals at that old abandoned church. In his eyes, he wanted you to save him from himself. He knew that you couldn't look at yourself in the mirror some days, that you hid scars beneath baggy clothes and masculine modesty to never again induce the sins committed upon you for merely being a woman. And in his eyes, you were the most holy thing he could adore.

❝𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰, 𝐬𝐨 𝐈'𝐦 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈'𝐦 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠❞

Gerard clutched the rosary in his hands, kneeling before the decrepit cross in that abandoned church with no electricity. The place reaked of rot and smoke, half charred in some rooms from vandalism. Spray paint on the walls in places, fresh candles in others that hadn't yet been lit. The only light source was the full moon illuminating the chapel from the damaged ceiling panels. He thought maybe it would help ease his sorrows, his urge to bury himself deep into the earth until Armageddon. Maybe it would make it all end; maybe somehow it would cease the nagging thoughts of the burning cacophony in his head.