Gerard Way never thought that writing a suicide note would be so difficult. FRERARD one-shot.
No. Too personal; he’ll blame himself if I address this to him. And that’s the last thing I want. I may be something of a pessimistic sadist, if you are to believe hearsay, but not even someone as horrible as me, as Gerard Way, wants the love of my life to have to deal with the guilt of having my death on their intricately delicate hands. Hands that have wiped tears from my face like the sun wiping the stars from the sky on a regular basis.
Besides, if I address it solely to my Frank then Mikey will think that I’ve forgotten him. As if I ever could forget my baby brother, the sweet little fourteen-year-old with the geeky glasses and goofy smile. In fact, I wish I could forget the kid; at least then this wouldn’t be so hard. At least then I wouldn’t have to worry about him like I have been doing since I found the scars on his barely-there wrists, staining it like man-made pollution clouding the haze of something pure and good. When I’d asked him why, he just burst into tears and ran up to his room, acting like he was petrified of what I thought of his dirty little habit. Because I’m a terrible big brother; because I didn’t notice that he was suffering; because I’m a fuck-up and everyone, especially my Frankie and my Mikey, will be better off without me.
I scowl down at the notebook on my desk, the garish lamplight making my crazy chicken-scratch stand out all the more, and tear out the page; scrunching it up into a frustrated ball before chucking it into the bin. I let out an exasperated sigh, one that infiltrates the stagnant air particles of my bedroom like blood spreading across snow, and bite the end of my chewed-up old biro nervously.
I’ve got to get this right. It’s the least I owe both my brother and my boyfriend.
To my friends and family,
Again, too personal. It just sounds like I’m begging them to feel guilty, to feel bad about the wayward Way that they couldn’t save; the seventeen-year-old who’s taking the easy escape route because one snide word was finally one too many, because Dad’s disapproving glares have finally burnt through my heart, because I’ve been a terrible big brother and an even worse boyfriend.
Hang on. Maybe I do want them to feel guilty, maybe I want them to feel bad about the kid that they just ignored unless he was completely rat-assed and laid, more often than not, puking on the carpet. I want them to remember me and the best way for that to happen is for me to be stained in the back of their mindless heads like the dried life-liquid that I often see staining Mikey’s sleeves.
Yeah, I want all of those fuckers to feel guilty about this; about my suicide. About my one final act of revenge.
No. I don’t. I can’t let them feel like this is all their fault, especially my Frankie because it really fucking isn’t.
The first time I met the crazy, punkie jack-in-the-box boy was when I was in the queue for the cafeteria, waiting to pick up a plate of food that I knew I was never going to eat anyway; I’m ugly enough without gaining the weight that must surely come from the grease-doused pizza that Belleville High offers for two bucks a piece. People were laughing at me like I was some sort of animal in a circus, calling me names and telling me that I wear more eyeliner than all of their mothers put together. Frank Iero, the new kid in school, pushed pass them with a face like a storm and told them to leave me alone unless they wanted to see just exactly what he’s capable of. He never did tell me why he decided to help me, in so many more ways than one, and now I guess I’ll never know.
I yank the page from the book and tear it into little bits of anguished confetti, throwing it up in the air as an act of desperation. This note has to be perfect; after all, it’s the only thing that the world will have to remember me by other than a few sketchbooks full of shitty drawings that I doubt anyone will actually want. Apart from maybe Frankie; he says he loves it when I draw him pictures. I go to start again, but my biro’s out of ink; it’s like Fate’s taking pride in making this all the more agonizing for me. My hand reflexively reaches into the top drawer of my old maple desk, the one that was my grandfather’s before it was left to me, and pull out a fresh biro; this time with blue ink. Blue. That’s Mikey’s favourite colour; he says it makes him think of the ocean and of being free. Being free. Talk about ironic.
To whoever the fuck wants to read this,
Yeah. That sounds about right; all angry, pent-up scribble that digs deep into the page like the blade will be digging deep into me before sunrise. That’s how I think I’m going to do it, the way that the bullies yell at me to every day at school. At least I’ll be giving them something truly worth laughing about.
I can’t help but think that, although this is the best way for me to get my revenge, I’m letting them win. Just like I tell my baby brother not to whenever he comes to me in tears at what people have been saying to him.
God, I’m such a hypocrite.
Like that matters anymore anyway; life isn’t just some game that you can win or lose. It’s just something that we’re forced to live through and hope that it turns out well even though the majority of us know that it will only ever end in our inevitable death. Death is inevitable, a fact that nobody can deny, but everyone seems to be scared of it like it’s some sort of epidemic that’s sweeping across the world that can be prevented by a cheery smile and a dash of optimism. Bullshit. Death can’t be stopped and nor shout it be feared; all it means is an end to life, an end to the torment that shattered hopes pull us through every dull day.
That’s why I’ve stopped hoping; hope only leads to hurt when the world you live in is just some hopeless hellhole that takes pride in destroying the dreams of people too shy to reach out and make them a reality.
Apart from Frankie is everything that I could ever dream of. No; he’s so much better than anything my twisted little thorn-bush of a mind could ever conjure up. He always knows what to say to me whenever I get down, he can always turn my daggers of sorrow into gleaming springs of laughter. I honestly don’t know what it is about him, maybe it’s the soulful eyes or that adorable giggle or the heart that’s warmer than the sun, but he can just make everything seem so hopeful; like nothing ever can be hopeless whilst he’s around because he is living proof that dreams really can and do come true. Because he’s my dream come true.
Maybe I shouldn’t do this; I don’t think that I can stand the idea of never seeing Frank’s angelically sinful face again.
No. I have to do this, it’s for Frankie’s own good; he deserves so much better than the clingy little freak that I am and he’d never leave me due to his own selfless sense of loyalty. This is the only way that I won’t ever bring him down again. I have to do it. It’s about time I did something for him as opposed to him doing everything for me.
Tears start to whistle down my face like tiny atomic bombs of emotion, exploding haphazardly onto the page and dotting it with liquid agony. I clutch the blue biro ten times tighter and press it to the page, knowing that I have to write this now before I can let myself back out of the one thing that will make all concerned happy. Including myself.
It’s Gee here. If you’re reading this then, well, I guess you know what it means. And I guess you probably want to know why.
Does that sound a little too presumptuous, like I kind of expect them to care? Well, if it does then what the fuck does it matter; it’s not that I expect them to care, so much as that I want them to care. I know that Frankie’s always cared, Mikey too to some extent, but it’s everyone else. They need to care if I want them to learn any sort of lesson from this, from me and how they murdered me. Because that’s what suicide really is; murder. Because other people have forced this upon me, they’ve pushed me to this and therefore it’s murder. Or maybe just manslaughter. Doesn’t matter either way; I still end up dead.
Dead. Gone forever and never coming back to see my Frankie’s sweet little smirk or to hold my baby brother when he cries. I guess Frank can do that now, he already was anyway; whenever something’s up with Mikes, Frank picks up on it days before I do and always tries to convince me that there’s something wrong with the kid. I never listen, telling myself that Mikey would tell me himself if he needs help, and I always end up paying for it by seeing fresh regiments of self-hate standing to attention on his delicate skin.
So this really is for the best; at least with me gone Frankie will be able to give my baby brother the kind of help and friend that he oh-so-desperately needs. The kind of brother that I’m not and never will be no matter how hard I try. I did try getting Mikes to talk to me about it once, but he just shook and whimpered and very nearly panic-attacked; terrified of the thought that he’d been found out and was as big of a fuck-up as I am. So I just left it, I allowed for my baby brother to carry on hurting himself because I’m too much of a failure to be able to stop him.
Frankie says that I’m not a failure though, that none of this is my fault; that he loves me and thinks that I’m just fine the way I am. But he has to say that, it’s just him being the perfect boyfriend that he is and I know that I can’t be back. He deserves so much better than some vampiric creeper who drinks more alcohol than is healthy, to put it mildly.
Still though, thinking of those two people who make up my world, I can’t help but think that I shouldn’t do this. That if I do then Mikey might get worse, that Frank will miss me and blame it all on himself even though he’s only ever helped me like no antidepressant ever could. Maybe I should just put the pen away, return the blade to the secret hidey-hole that Mikey thinks nobody knows about and just carry on; do what I do best and pretend everything is fine even though it’s all falling to shit around me.
No. I can’t do that. I’ve got to do this; I just don’t want to be in pain anymore.
So I sniff hard, trying to rebottle all of the feelings that are falling from my lost hazel eyes, and look back to the paper. The sun is just starting to peek out from under the filthy blanket of night, meaning that I only have a few hours left before it’s too late and I have no choice but to keep calm and carry on. Because I know if I don’t do it tonight, then I probably will never get the courage up within me to take the coward’s way out. I’m gripping the biro so hard that my fingers feel like they’re on fire, but that’s okay, all that matters right now is getting the goddamn note done.
Truth is, I don’t even know why. Not really. I guess I could say that it’s the other kids at school who treat me like shit because I’m different. Or maybe I could say that it’s Dad’s fault for hating me. Or maybe I’m sick of being some drunken teenager with no future. Or maybe it’s because I can’t stand watching my brother self-destruct.
Can I really put that; is it right for me to out Mikes like this? Fuck that, I should have outed him eight months ago when I first found out, back when it was just the odd scratch here and there, perhaps if I had outed him back then I wouldn’t be where I am now. But is it really right for it to be listed as one of my reasons; can I really do this to my little baby brother who clearly needs the help that I just can’t give to him anymore? No it isn’t. But neither is letting it stay a secret that will slowly eat him alive.
It’s funny actually, looking over that list there are only two people in my life who aren’t on it. My mom and my boyfriend; the two people left who can still manage to make me smile, my mom with her shrill coos of embarrassing adulation and my boyfriend with just about everything that he does. Especially when he kisses me.
God, his kisses; I think that I’m going to miss them the most of all. The way that he tastes of strawberry Skittles, because they’re his favourite flavour, mixed with the taste of the cigarettes that I give him; the way that his lips can paint a smile onto my own with how caring they are; the way that his tongue licks against the walls of my mouth like he’s licking out the wounds that life has given me; the way that he makes me feel like I matter to at least one person, to the person that matters the most to me.
Can I really go an eternity without tasting paradise ever again?
Yes. I have to. For him. For my boyfriend and best friend. For my mom too, so that she can stop worrying about the antisocial freak that does nothing but hide in the bat-cave of his bedroom twenty-four-seven. Not to mention Mikey; he won’t have to put up with me dragging him down even further into the depths of the hellish depression that is obviously starting to engulf the two of us. And I’ll be damned if I let it drag my baby brother down with me.
But what if this makes Frankie sad, like the kind of sad that he won’t ever get over it? I never wanted to make my boyfriend, the relentlessly optimistic masterpiece that is Frank Iero, anything less than happy. That’s why I’m doing this, after all.
I have to bite down hard on my tender bottom lip to stop a sob from clawing it’s way out of my mouth, I can’t let anyone find me until Mom comes to wake me up for school in a few hours time. I’ve got to have the note done by then, have something to prove to her that it’s not her fault.
This part’s for Mom: It’s not your fault. At all. Don’t you dare think that it is, okay? I couldn’t have wished for a better mom, you always taught me wrong from right and just wanted me to follow my dreams. If anything, you helped me to live longer. And I love you, Mom, so much. Don’t ever forget it.
Good, I like how that reads; it sounds genuine, it’s sincerity amplified by the tears that are splashed generously around it. It may sound a little clichéd in places, but that’s okay; things are only clichéd if they’ve been used a lot and things only get used a lot if they work, right? I’m not even going to pretend that this might just stop her from crying and blaming herself, but at least it might ease a small amount of the pain that this will undoubtedly cause her.
Great. Now it’s my turn to feel guilty, to feel rampant remorse flaring through me like my veins are a racecourse and the guilt is the most dangerously speedy formula-one car in existence. I know that I’m being at least slightly selfish by doing this, leaving the world because I can’t cope with the shit that other people have to put up with as well.
No. I’m not selfish; I’m just weak. Weak and too hurt to carry on because I know that it’ll only get worse no matter how many cookies my mom bakes just for me; no matter how many empty smiles Mikes tries to force-feed me in vain attempts to quell my worry; no matter how hard Frank kisses me and cuddles me and tries to make everything better even though he’s the younger out of the two of us. I mean, how many fifteen-year-olds have to put up with having a boyfriend who can barely hold it together for five minutes without having more than a little bit of vodka?
Exactly. All I’m managing to do with my life is hurt those who mean the most to me and my death will hurt them even more, but that’s okay; the sting of my suicide will be quick and after that I won’t be able to hurt anyone anymore. I’m not being selfish. Honest, I’m not.
I wince as the sun’s first bright beam infiltrates my bedroom, glinting off of the glass of my empty bottle collection and shining straight into my eyes as though it’s laughing at me in my struggle. Laughing at me and announcing that I’m fast running out of time to get this done, thus forcing my biro back to page.
This part’s for Mikes: I don’t really know what to say to you, bro. Just that you’ve gotta get help, that I love you very much and don’t give in like I have. Seeing you tear your skin apart is tearing me apart inside, Kiddo, and it’s my dying wish that you get help. For me. For your big brother.
I can’t stop the tears this time as they stampede down my face and over my trembling lips. He’s just a kid, a baby in need of a good big brother, and here I am abandoning him; knowing full well that the poor kid will blame himself, that he’ll punish himself the only way that he knows how because he really does hate who is due to what the world has taught him he is. But he doesn’t hate him as much as I hate me.
Do I really hate me? Do I really hate me enough to want to kill me? Do I really want to die and leave my baby brother alone in the world that’s already killed him?
Well, put like that…
No. I’ve got to do this. It’s what’s right; it’ll make everything better. I know it will.
I shudder as I hear soft sobs from the room next door, a few more cyanide-sweet droplets trickling down my own face for the boy whose only hope is about to die on him. It’s the fifth night in a row that I’ve heard Mikey crying in his sleep; heard him weeping over things that he wouldn’t tell me even if I asked no matter how much keeping it inside is killing him, both inside and out. The way he cries isn’t like anything else I’ve heard, it’s an infinite number of times worse and I’m not saying that just because he’s my baby brother. I’m saying it because he consciously controls the volume to make it so that no-one else will hear, so nobody will worry about the kid who just wants to disappear. And I let it happen. Surely I deserve to die for that.
I quickly jam my headphones in to blot out the sound of suffering and blast the Misfits into my ringing ears. Fuck, Misfits; they’re my Frankie’s favourite band, the one that he always plays for me on his electric guitar whenever I’m down.
I can’t do it. I can’t leave him, not my brother and certainly not my Frankie. I just can’t do it.
I have to. I don’t have a choice.
This part’s for Frankie:
I throw my biro against the wall, not caring that it leaves a small blue mark on the wallpaper, and let out a loud heave of misery; I just can’t do it. Not to my Frankie. I at least owe him my life for giving me his.
I reach in the bottom draw and pull out my most prized possession; a pristine photo booth picture from my first date with Frank. The two of us are giggling at the camera, his eyes aglow with joy at simply being there with me and his black slick of hair tickling my pale neck like his lips were tickling my cheek, letting me know just how loved I am. Just how loved I always will be as long as I have my Frankie, who I won’t have anymore if I end it.
And I can’t do that. I just can’t, not whilst knowing that I have my angel right here with me.
I suddenly tear out the page, ripping it to shreds with my ferociously quick fingers; I can’t leave my baby, it just wouldn’t be fair on him. On me. On anyone. My life might not be perfect, but I can make it better and I will try to purely because I know that Frankie wants me to carry on living it. Because he loves me, because I know that he’ll help me through everything, even help me help Mikes. Which I will be doing; the kid needs aid and I’ll be damned if I let this continue the way it is.
We might be fucked up, but at least we have each other; all three of us against the world.
And I’m not about to let the world win.
A/N: Thank you very much for reading this, it’s been in my head for ages and I was home from school today, so I thought I’d write it out. Sorry that it’s kinda crappy, but I hope that you liked it and please let me know what you think! :)