Lying is easy. Hiding, on the other hand, is impossible. Especially from yourself. PIKEY. Read, review, rate and feel my love! :P
Slit my wrists. Hang myself. Jump in front of a bus. Overdose. Drown. Starve.
I adjust my headphones slightly, twisting around the tiny black ear buds in order to drown out the sound of my parents’ relentless arguing downstairs with the angry shouts of Black Flag.
It doesn’t work.
Largely because it’s not really my parents that are shouting but the little voice inside my head, telling me what I should be doing right now.
What I want to be doing right now.
What I want to be doing right now instead of being curled up on my bed trying to ignore the world as it crashes down around me; as the bullying gets to be too much on top of my big brother’s endless drinking and my parents’ non-stop fighting. I just want it to stop. All of it. Even the little good that I have left because, even with good, no life is better than the one that I have.
The one that’s not even mine anymore.
The one that’s not even a goddamn life. Not really. Not at all.
If I can’t feel anything, then am I really alive? No. Of course not. But I only don’t feel because I’m trying to block out what I would be feeling right now if I hadn’t numbed myself to it after years of practice. After years of Pete Wentz holding me close and making it all alright again.
Warm arms and quick kisses don’t just magically fix everything. If anything they make it worse, so much worse, because when those warm arms and quick kisses aren’t there then you have loneliness and longing to add to the list of negativity.
I want Pete.
Faggot. Loner. Loser. Freak. Waste of space. Worthless. Fuck-up. Fucked-up. Stupid little shit. Hated. Alone.
The shouting’s back, loud and clear. Just like when those words were shouted at me the first time round, some from the other kids at school, some from my parents and the odd one from Gerard himself. None from Pete though.
Never from Pete.
Pete only ever says nice things to me, things that drown out all of the bad because knowing that he loves me is more than enough to make me content with who I am. Until the next tirade of flaming arrows launches into my low self-esteem at least. Pete always makes me smile, makes me laugh and blush like nobody else can purely because he took the time to learn me from the inside out, just like I did him.
I’d kill to be in his arms right now, just like when we’re at school and he hugs me hard whenever the opportunity arises; just like when he took me to the beach in his shiny red Ferrari and snuggled me as we watched the sunset together; just like when I get beaten up and he loosens the tension in my body in a way that’s only alright when he does it; just like when I sleep over at his and we share his tiny one-person bed, the two of us curled up like I’m the hideous snail hiding in my intricately stunning shell.
Why can’t he be here right now? Why did he have to go on holiday with his mom?
A mom who’s more of a mother to me than my own. I like Mrs Wentz, she always helps Pete clean me up if he takes me straight back to his place after getting jumped at school. She cooks for me too, actually takes notice of the fact that I’m practically wasting away where I stand.
I want her. I want Pete. I want them to make me feel better because I know that Pete’s soothing whispers are the only things that can drown out the deafening shouts of my innermost thoughts telling me to do what Pete tells me I can’t.
He said it’d kill him if I were to kill myself.
Said it right after he saw the deep crimson scars on my icicle wrists.
I promised I’d never do it again, it was the least I could do at his reaction to the thing that finally broke my majestic boyfriend. I promised him that I’d never hurt myself again.
As the soft dribble of freshly-shed blood on my bed sheets will testify.
Mom. Dad. Mad Mr Metcalf from across the road. Gee. Ray. The crazy cat lady next door. Frankie. Pete.
The names swirl in my mind like black specks in a rose-red paint tin, all of the little people in my life who could possibly react if I ended it. I think they’d react anyway. I mean, it’s not every day that a lanky fifteen-year-old tops himself.
The first three would probably be indifferent, barely noticing the lack of shadow that I’ve become. Mom might maybe cry a little at first because that’s what the world would want her to do; to act like she could give a shit at the thought of her youngest baby boy dying by his own, worthless hand. Dad would probably be glad, one less mouth to feed and one less kid to keep in line with his iron fist. I’d be surprised if Mr Metcalf, like the rest of the world, would even remember my name without my presence.
Gerard would probably be genuinely sad. I’d like to think he would be, anyway. We used to be so close, me and him; my big brother and me. He would definitely have been sad if I had killed myself back before he started drinking, back when he still cared about himself. Now though, he’d probably just wash away my face with one vodka shot too many.
Ray, Gerard’s best friend, would most likely attend the funeral. Shed a tear or two for the quiet little creep he used to play video games with whenever he saw him. Ray really is one of life’s nice people, one of the few people who stopped to ask me what was wrong if he saw me crying. But all I am to him is his best friend’s emotionally unstable little brother. Nothing more and a hell of a lot less.
Our next door neighbour would just scream and stroke her cats like she always does. She probably doesn’t even know my name even though I’ve lived here all my life. What can I say; I am the invisible ghost of a kid. I might as well be dead.
Frankie, Gerard’s boyfriend and the closest thing I have to a best friend, would definitely cry. Sob even. He would mourn me. And that makes me feel guilty, the idea of wanting to do something that’d make someone else hurt. But it wouldn’t make him hurt for long. He’d just take a ride on Gerard and forget all about the kid he only hung out with to keep his boyfriend happy. Yeah. He probably hates me. So does Ray.
Pete would blame himself. The one person who makes me not want to live out my dream would blame himself for me ending my nightmare. He’d cry. He’d sob. He’d weep. He’d do everything that he helps me through whenever I’m in his arms. God, I bring him down.
Pete’s had to miss numerous parties, sporting events and gigs too, because of me. Because of my emotional melt-downs and dirty little habits. He’d be better off without a fuck-up like me leeching onto his golden heart.
I like leeching onto his golden heart. It makes me feel human.
It makes me feel loved.
Like I don’t want to die.
Razor. Pin badge. Knife. Safety pin. Scissors. Needle. Compass. Pencil sharpener blade. Letter opener. Paperclip. Pizza cutter.
The list replays itself over and over in my head. Taunting me. Reminding me of all of the times I broke my promise to Pete with the implements that I keep in a big wooden box under my bed. They all work, all make me bleed and hurt like I deserve to.
Like I need to. How else am I meant to know if I’m alive?
They all work, but my favourite is the razor. So sharp, so sweet and delicate in it’s intimate kiss.
No. A kiss is what Pete gives me; lovely and warm and reassuring and safe. Nothing like what I make my razor do to me as it dances happily across my forearm. The razor’s my favourite because it could so easily go wrong. It could so easily kill me and I wouldn’t even have to be guilty about it because it was an honest accident.
That’s what I used around twenty minutes ago, my trusty razor that’s stuck with me even when everyone else has left.
Even Pete’s left, gone a million miles away to China for a two week holiday. He said he didn’t have to go, that he’d stay if I wanted him. It took one look at his eyes to see how much he wanted a break; from New Jersey, from school, from everyday life. From me. From his pathetic little leech of a boyfriend.
So I smiled and told him to go. To have fun. That I’m fine.
He believed me. And now I’ve got nobody to curl into as my parents fight with each other and Gerard stumbles around in a stupor in his own bedroom, no doubt high as well as drunk.
Because I’m not good enough. If I was then I’d be able to make my family happy. But I can’t.
Because I’m worthless. Weak. Useless.
Better off dead.
Never. Ten years from now. Next year. Next month. Next week. Tomorrow. Tonight. Right now.
I could do it. I know I could. I could make all of their suffering stop. Mine too.
Just a quick slash with my bittersweet friend straight down the inside of my forearm, right along the vein, and it’d be over. I’d bleed out in the comfort of my own bedroom, surrounded by the friendly faces of Mark Hoppus and Dave Grohl.
Yeah, that’d be nice.
To die in peace, nobody beating me up and nobody telling me that I’m not good enough for them even though I already know that I’m not. Nothing but me, my posters, my headphones and my razor. Twirling into oblivion together. Twirling into rest and peace and an eternity of…
I don’t know what exactly and that’s something that terrifies me enough to make the ideal idea lose some of it’s attractive sparkle. What if there’s simply nothing? What if there’s only Hell? What if everyone in the afterlife treats me even worse than everyone here on Earth?
What if I never get to see my Pete again?
Die! Die! Die, my darli-
My ringtone, my favourite Misfits song playing loud enough to break through my headphones, pushes the ugly thought of an eternity without Pete Wentz out of my clouded head and I immediately flip my cell open.
He’s remembered me, remembered his promise to text me whenever he can.
He still wants me!
Sorry I didn’t text sooner, Sugar. China’s great! Real hot though. Not as hot as you.
Missing you. So fucking much. Why d’ya let me go?
Mom took me shopping in Beijing today; I got some new pics for my bass. Made of bamboo. Maybe you can share them with me?
Onto you, Sugar. How’ve you been baring up this past week? Are you alright, do you need me to come home early? You haven’t done anything stupid, right? Promise me you’re alright. Only if you are though, don’t lie to me. Are you alright?
Lots of love,
I sigh at his text, tears cascading freely down my cheeks at the thought of how hurt he’ll be when he gets home to see the state I’ve put myself in.
Especially my wrists.
He’ll hate me. He’ll stop loving me. He’ll call me a freak and hit me. He’ll leave me all alone.
If he finds out. He doesn’t have to. I can hide this from him. I know I can. I have to.
For him. For me. For us.
I can’t lose him. If I do then there’ll be nothing stopping me from dying, nothing stopping me from never seeing his pretty little face again.
Don’t worry about not texting, it’s not like I thought you’d abandoned me or anything.
Glad you’re having fun in China, those pics sound awesome and I can’t wait to hear you play with them! Say hi to you mom for me.
Jeez, Pete. No need to worry so much. I can take care of myself and no, I haven’t done anything stupid. I promised, remember? I’m absolutely fine, you don’t have to worry about me. Just have fun in China.
Even more love,
I’m such a good liar.
I’m such a terrible person.
I don’t deserve Pete.
I deserve to die.
A/N: Thank you very much for reading and I hope that you liked it! I’m kinda thinking about making this into a two-shot, or maybe a short little series, so if that sounds like a good/terrible idea please let me know. Again, thanks for reading and please let me know what you think! :)