All Mikey Way wants for Christmas is to be left alone. FRIKEY Christmas one-shot. Read, review, rate and feel my love! :P
I love Christmas, really truly adore it and everything it stands for.
Not just the whole family-values side to it, but the way that it always seems to bring out the best in people like the sweet lick of vinegar on a grimy old coin can make it shine once more; like the dazzling fairy lights adorning practically everything are too bright for anything to be dull or down. I like the way that life just seems to stop, all of it just forgotten in favour of chasing some fairy tale idea of endless joy and peace. Ideas that will never happen but, just for a few days, feel possible; because for those few days surrounding Christmas everyone is happy purely because it’s Christmas and nobody’s not happy around Christmas. It just can’t happen.
Who the fuck am I kidding?
I hate Christmas for all of the reasons I have just specified. It’s all so fake, so put on; like society expects people to just act like the world isn’t falling to shit just because everyone has to be happy at Christmas or else they get called a scrooge and get despised by the rest of the world just because they’re smart enough to know that hearts won’t stop breaking just because it’s December, just because the world is so ridiculously caught up in a festival of fakery. It is fake, every last part of it. Smiling at the people who you know hate you like they’re your best friends, giving presents to relatives who probably wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire, pretending that you aren’t getting beaten up every day because everyone else is so happy and shouldn’t be brought down.
Is there something wrong with me; am I the only one twisted enough to see through this commercialised holiday that just means nothing to my hollow heart?
No. I think that my big brother sees it that way too, is just too mature to act like I do. Because, according to my mom, coming in from school and not wanting to decorate the tree because my head hurts too much from being kicked in against the lockers, classes as ‘ruining Christmas’. Gerard hasn’t gotten annoyed with me for ‘ruining Christmas’ purely because I think that he sees how not merry I am, how much I am not enjoying a holiday that I used to adore back when I was too dumb to realise that Santa was just an anagram of Satan.
Normally when Gerard sees me hurt he’ll ask me what’s wrong and try to make it all better, but not at this time of year.
Because it’s motherfucking Christmas. And to talk about anything less than joyful is as good as burning down an orphanage.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I want to bring everyone down, not at all, I just wish that I was allowed to act like myself as I always do; the myself that always gets teased for wearing eyeliner to school and beaten up for looking at people who think they’re better than me.
They probably are better than me; they’re definitely stronger and braver than me, obviously more important than me because if I ever get a punch in back at them then people care. The teachers will ask why their favourite student has a tiny smudge of a bruise underneath his eye and then give after school detentions to the loser with a broken face without batting an eyelid at the still gushing nose, the teary eyes, the ripped skin. So I just don’t fight back anymore; sure, it makes it worse for me, but at least then Mom and Dad don’t get phone calls saying that their pathetic little boy is a troublemaker.
At least Mom and Dad don’t shout at me for getting into trouble, don’t get shouted at by Gerard for shouting at me, don’t shout at Gerard for shouting at them and don’t care when Gerard shouts at me for getting him shouted at, for not fighting back harder. When Gerard shouts it’s only because he wants me to try harder next time, to not get hurt again and I really do love him for it; but I’d rather he hugged me instead. Back when he was still at my high school, he used to protect me; make sure that nobody would dare to hurt me. But then he got expelled for knocking out one of the jocks, some guy named Tyson, who just wouldn’t stop kicking me; not even when I started coughing up blood as though it were drowning me. Tyson didn’t get in trouble because, according to all of the witnesses, Gerard and I started it. So I got suspended and Gerard got expelled.
Leaving me all alone in a world too cold to handle without the warmth of my only friend.
But that doesn’t matter right now. Because it’s Christmas.
Maybe for everyone else, but not for me.
How is it that everything else stops, everything but my misery? I still get beaten up in December, still get forced to eat lunch alone, still cry myself to sleep at night because I know that everyone who isn’t my big brother hates me.
Oh well, it’s just how life is; how the world is. Everyone who’s stupid enough to be different, to want to stand out for reasons other than stereotypically good ones, gets stamped out because anything different could be a threat, could bring personality to everyone else.
At least today’s the last day of term. Maybe today someone will finally be nice to me and just not hurt me, maybe the so-called Christmas spirit will possess my tormentors and persuade them to just leave me the hell alone for once. That’s all I want for Christmas, not even to not be alone, just to be left alone. That would be nice.
“Hey, Way! What do you want for Christmas? Nice new set of razorblades?”
Normally, I’d turn around and try to talk my way out of whatever is about to come my way but today I just can’t. I just don’t want to go home to Gerard’s questioning eyes begging my nose not to be broken this time around, to go home to a family too blinded by Christmas cheer to bother to cheer me up and care that I’m hurt.
Like they do anyway. They don’t, apart from Gerard.
So I don’t turn to make some sort of point by grinning as they beat the shit out of me; I run. Run out of the corridors and out of the back door, not caring that I can hear angry, shocked voices yelling at me to come back. I can’t stop running, not until I can’t hear the heavy scuffle of their own footsteps. I can’t stop, not until I know that I’m safe. Gerard once told me that the best place to go to hide from someone is behind the old sports equipment shed, that there’s an old bench hidden from view by the old oak trees. It’s the best shot that I’ve got.
It’s the only shot that I’ve got.
The passing school field becomes a murky blur, smudged by the stupid tears that won’t stop pooling in my eyes like milk in a bowl that’s been left out for those infantile flying reindeer that children are gullible enough to believe in; that I want to believe in because that would mean that everything is alright. Because it’s Christmas and Santa’s coming, so nothing can possibly go wrong. But I don’t believe in them and nothing’s okay; I get beaten up almost every day and I just can’t take it anymore. I thought that I’d be able to hold on until I graduate in three years’ time, but that was back when Gerard was still here by my side every day.
And I know that I can’t take it, that I’m going to end up dead inside if this keeps going on, that I’ll go beyond apathetic and just be completely lifeless. I don’t want that to happen. I really don’t. I just want to be able to enjoy things again, enjoy Christmas because that’s what’s normal; what I actually want to be able to do. I want to be able to smile as Gerard gives me a Christmas card, laugh when Dad reads some cheesy cracker joke, feel loved when Mom gives me a Christmas hug on Christmas morning.
I don’t even remember what happy means anymore, let alone remember the last time that I actually felt it; let alone imagine feeling it any time soon.
I can see the dilapidated, unused sports shed, the shed that’s surrounded by gnarled old oaks that somehow seem inviting to me; like they want to shelter me from the pain that’s always hiding behind me. I like the way that winter sunshine filters through the leaves like some sort of gentle disco lights, flicking around to the tune of the icy breeze that gently caresses my face like the hand of a concerned friend. Ha. That’s right, my only friends right now are some ancient trees and the invisible breath of the sky.
“Hey, are you alright?”
I jump at the faceless voice, feeling panic well up inside of me and causing my heart to beat even faster than when I get beaten up, looking around to see where it could possibly be coming from. I’m behind the old shed now, discovering that the bench has long since been snapped in two, and there’s nobody else around. I’ve lost the bullies, at least I think I have; what if they’re just waiting to pounce when I finally manage to feel safe? What if they’re going to jump me and hurt me twice as bad for running away?
I shouldn’t have run, I should have just taken it like normal. I should have let them hurt me.
How pathetic does that sound?
It’s true though.
I’m only good for stress relief.
With that thought I can’t help but cry harder.
“Oh, please don’t cry! I’m not gonna hurt you, honest I’m not! I just saw you crying and wondered if you were hurt or something?” The voice sounds genuinely contrite and longing to help. I want it to help, but how can it do that if I can’t even see it?
I like the voice; it sounds warm and caring, everything that I haven’t heard in a very long time from someone other than Gerard. But even Gerard hasn’t sounded like that in a while, not since the whole Christmas cheer of the commercial industry took a hold of the country. The voice sounds kind of raw, like the throat producing it is clogged with the same sorts of emotion as mine is.
And that makes me sad; the first entity to actually be nice to me for a long time doesn’t deserve to feel as shit as I do. Ever.
“Up here, Buddy!” I look up to the trees in confusion, searching for the source of the almost angel-like voice.
Hang on. ‘Buddy’? Not ‘loser’ or ‘weirdo’ or ‘fag’ or ‘emo-freak’?
“Hang on a sec.”
I hear a few deep breaths above and, just like an angel from heaven, a boy lands expertly on the ground from one of the trees. A boy that may well actually be an angel for his looks certainly are angelic in their sinfulness; all pale skin and black clothes, kind of like a skinny, short panda. Like a panda in the way that he’s captivating to look at, came from a tree and looks extremely huggable. And in the way that there’s a huge black bruise forming around his stunning hazel eye.
Could he be like me?
“Are you alright, you just kinda… I dunno. Started crying. So, um, are you? Alright, I mean.” He’s rubbing the back of his neck, a neck that is doused in an oil-slick of ebony wildness, and blushing in a way that makes me want to giggle. Or maybe it would if my soul was still capable of singing. “Sorry, I can go if you want to be alone…”
“No! I mean, uh, no. Please stay. I don’t want to be alone.”
Wow. Way to sound desperate.
Now he’s going to do one of three things; laugh at me before running of, get freaked out before running of or punch me in the gut for being creepy and then run off. Either way, I’ll end up alone. Just like always.
But to my surprise, he smiles. A smile so genuinely pleased that I can’t help but want to smile back. So I do. It’s nowhere near as blinding his smile because it hasn’t been used in a very long time, but it’s still a smile. A smile just for the punk-boy stood in front of me, holding out his hand as though he wouldn’t mind if I touched it; would never use it to smash me around the face like so many others have taken pleasure and pride in doing.
“I’m Frank. Frank Iero.”
Iero; sounds like hero. I think that’s exactly what I need.
“I’m Mikey. Mikey Way.”
“Way cool to meet ya, Mikes.” He snatches my hand, which is limp in pure shock at actually meeting a nice person who’s actually being nice to me, and shakes it with the gentle exaggeration of someone exalted to meet a fellow outcast yet is scared of hurting them with such a benevolent gesture. “So, wanna tell me why you’re all teary-eyed, Buddy?”
I gawp at him in pure, unadulterated shock. He actually cares. Actually wants to help me. Why?
His eyes become agonized and he squeezes my hand, a hand that never let go of his in it’s disbelieving pleasure.
“Of course it does. Look at this.” He points to the bruise surrounding his eye, a bruise that breaks my heart because he seems way too nice to get hurt. Not like me, I deserve everything that I get. Even my parents seem to think so. “That matters. I get beaten up, but at least I know that they’re wrong; that I’m better than they are. I don’t let it get me down because the bullies are just insecure bastards jealous of people who are actually comfortable with who they are. Like me. Like you should be.”
Woah. He really doesn’t deserve to get beaten up like I do.
“But you’re nice.”
“How do you know that? You’ve only known me for a few minutes. What makes you think that I’m nice?”
“I… I… You haven’t hit me?”
“Mikey Way, that doesn’t make me a nice person. It makes me normal. Is that why you were crying, did someone hit you?” His voice is soft, gentle, like the fingers that are still holding my sweating hand.
I shake my head.
Why was I even crying? They hadn’t hit me, hadn’t said anything too derogatory, hadn’t kicked the shit out of me. But they were going to. And I can’t take it anymore; can’t take being hurt and alone all of the time. I’m alone, that’s why I was crying. I just can’t take the loneliness anymore. The beatings wouldn’t matter if I had someone to make me smile. Smile like this amazing, pure-hearted boy did earlier. I’m not smiling now though, I’m crying again.
Crying because I know that I’m always going to be alone.
Alone and unloved and bruised and bloody and hated and battered and laughed-at and despised and-
Wait. I can’t see anything.
No, I can see black fabric; the black fabric of his downy t-shirt. Oh my God, he’s holding me into him; letting me cry as though we’ve known each other for years and not just minutes. Minutes that, as stupid as it may seem, have changed my life. He’s hugging me, actually hugging me like he cares and wants to make everything go away; like we really are friends purely because we understand what it’s like to have nothing, to be hurt by people who don’t understand you.
Because it’s Christmas and neither of us care that Christmas doesn’t care about us.
“It’s alright, Mikes. I used to be like you, used to think that it’s all my fault. But it isn’t. How can it be when you’re the one that people hurt all of the time, when you never do anything other than be yourself. From what I can tell, you’re a beautiful person, twice as beautiful on the inside as you are outside and anyone who hurts you is fucking retarded. You get bullied, don’t you?” I nod, not caring that he can see how piteous I am because he’s the first person to ask about how I feel in a very long time, not just assumed that I’m being some emo kid with no real problems. “I know how to help you. Talk to me. Tell me how it feels when they hurt you, it’ll help. Honest, it will.”
“I don’t care that they hurt me. I just don’t want to be alone.”
How can he make me just instantly open up like this, how has he persuaded my inner-conscious that I can trust him not to hurt me?
Simple; he’s just been honest with me, has taken the time to be nice and to ask me to open up instead of wishing that I’d just shut the fuck up like everyone else does. And I like it, love it that someone finally does care about me as much as I care about being alone.
I feel him wince at the word ‘alone’ and he grips me tighter, his hands acting like small children making snow-angels on my shuddering back.
“You think that you’re alone?”
I look into his eyes to see pure friendly sympathy reflected in them.
Something warm and soft, like the wings of an angel, presses against my nose and my heart all but stops before pulsating quicker than ever; he kissed me. On the nose. And, whilst quick and fleeting, I understood it perfectly.
I shake my head.
“Good. Because you’ll never be alone again.”
A/N: Sorry if this is rushed or stupid or whatever and I know that it’s a little late for Christmas, but I really wanted to do this and I hope that it was alright! Thank you very much for reading and please review! :)