"Sanity, insanity. It's all the same really." WAYCEST one-shot. Read, review, rate and feel my love! :P
Some would say that I crossed the line from slightly insecure into insanity a long time ago; others might decide that I was born completely fucking unhinged. I’ve even met people who would go as far as to say that I was cursed before conception, that Lucifer had me planned out long before my dad’s condom broke mid-thrust and I became implanted in my mother’s womb like an unholy bullet of everlasting agony; a stain on the piece of carpet of humanity that is constantly covered by the strategically placed rug of society.
Personally I think I’m the only sane one in this Godforsaken town. Sorry, I meant to say; in this forsaken town. I don’t believe in God, so how could I think that he’s forsaken somewhere? Now that really would be crazy, referring to someone from a little kiddie’s fairy-tale guide to life as though he’s a real entity.
I guess that’s what sets me apart from everyone else in this sleepy little town; my refusal to let other people’s thoughts hold back my so-called ‘wrong’ opinion.
Just because I don’t want to be dragged into the choppy waters of indifference and beige sameness it doesn’t make me crazy. Does a man out at sea who doesn’t want to drown appear as insane to you? No. Well, it’s the same concept for my situation. Just without the vast quantities of literal water which is instead replaced by the metaphorical undercurrents of our hideously bland society.
But no, they don’t see my way of life as my mind’s way of surviving through being turned into a dull zombie. They see it as madness, as something that needs to be seen to by the school nurse and then some child psychology expert.
See? They’re the crazy ones; I’m not even a child. I’m sixteen. Sixteen and already considered to be insane by a large percentage of the local populous.
Now that’s what I call an achievement.
Mikey doesn’t think that I’m mad though. He tells me I’m not, that I’m just unique and that that’s what he loves me for. He comes to me at night, fingers like moonshine on my yellowing skin, and whispers to me about how it’s alright to not be alright; about how thrilling everything is when you turn the word ‘reject’ into ‘rebel’. He teaches me things too, like how to show everyone that I’m still alive and just as poignant as any of their fat-cat politicians are. Says I’ve got to shock them into seeing me or else I’ll become nothing more than a ghost of the teenager that society slaughtered. So I do what he says, paint my messages and feelings onto my skin in bright-red honesty.
It’s that which got me thrown in this clinical manmade hell in the end; Mom said that enough was enough, though enough of what I don’t know, and that I can’t just hurt myself like that and get away with it. So she threw me in here, in what adult’s call a Mental Hospital.
In what I call the local Looney Bin.
It’s even more oppressive in here than it ever was out there, with their constricting rules and ever-watching eyes. Hell, I can’t even take a piss without some pervert watching over me.
That’s insanity, right there. Letting middle-aged men watch teenage boys use the bathroom. And I swear to God that they do watch me, are getting ready to grab me and use me like the crazy bastards that they undoubtedly are for willingly working in this hellhole.
Mikey says he’ll protect me though. Whispers it to me every time I let myself get frightened into maybe thinking about possibly attending a group therapy session. They all say that it would be good for me, to discuss what takes place in the impenetrable labyrinth of my, apparently lost, mind. But Mikey tells me that it’ll change me; make me lose myself and then what will this have all been for? Nothing.
And if it’s all for nothing then I’ve let myself, let Mikey, down.
Mikey’s the only person I can bring myself to care about anymore. Not the bullies at school who I could easily drown out with the headphones that have long since been confiscated because I could apparently use them to inflict some agony-numbing pain upon myself; not my parents who ignored me as much as I ignored them; not the guys in the bands that I used to jack-off to when testosterone first started making itself known to me.
Now all I care about is my Mikey. The one person who has only ever supported me in my quest for individuality, who has never once called me crazy for all of the flimsy reasons that the others do. Because Mikey loves me; I could never want to drown him out with my lethal headphones or try to ignore him because he never ignores me. And since his appearance in my storm-cloud life I’ve found posters have become obsolete when it comes to jacking-off. All I need to do is think of Mikey, his slender fingers and spine-tinglingly deep voice, and that’s enough to send sparks of arousal flying every which way through my burning body.
He’s my guide, my rock, my best friend and the greatest lover any hot-blooded male could ever lust for. But he’s more than that; he’s the last thread stitching together my undoubtable sanity.
Sanity, insanity. It’s all the same really. It just depends what angle you’re looking at it all from.
The old, leathery voice of yet another despairing therapist drills through my breezy thoughts, making me look up at the old madman wearing a wolf’s smile. To which I respond with a calm one of my own, doing as Mikey says and playing the predator at his own game.
“Would you like me to repeat the question?” I just nod, unsure what question he’s going on about because I’ve been too lost inside my own head to even remember when he got into my holding room. “Okay. You keep talking about Mikey. Why is that?”
“He’s the only person who visits anymore.” I respond honestly, taking my time to phrase it in a way that would make Mikey proud of my articulateness. “He’s the only person I let visit. The others are crazy, even Frankie; all they do is lie.”
I can feel the tears coming but I will not let them be shed like meaningless droplets of blood on a bullet-torn battlefield. I will not let this man break me. The only person who can break me is Mikey and I know that he never will. Because we love each other too much to ever hurt one another.
“Why do you think they lie, Gerard? What do they lie about?”
He leans up close to me, snow-white stubble dusting the mountain ranges of his numerous chins, and offers me something that none of the others ever have; a small frown that screams the want to understand.
Too bad that I won’t let him. Mikey says I can’t because then they’ll kill him and that means I’ll be all alone.
And that scares the shit out of me because without Mikey I have no-one to keep me from losing my mind, from losing myself.
“Mikey.” I shudder, the feeling of my love’s fingers on my back creating an almost draft-like effect throughout the pitiful room. “They lie to me about Mikey.”
“What about Mikey?”
“They tell me that he’s why I got ‘sick’. But I’m not sick, Doc. I’m not crazy.”
He sighs, pushing his spectacles further up his podgy nose, and runs a hand through the hair I think he wishes was on his gleaming head.
“What do they think Mikey did to make you crazy?”
“They say he died. A long time ago. But I know he didn’t; he can’t be dead.”
“And why’s that, Gerard?”
He leans in closer when he catches sight of the smile creeping onto my lips at his stereotypical approach to my so-called insanity. Moron.
“Because only crazy people talk to the dead.”
A/N: Thank you very much for reading and I hope that this made some vague sort of sense. I’m reading Watchmen at the moment and Gerard’s character in this was inspired by Rorschach. Also, to anyone who rated my last Frerard one-shot (“Only Absence”); thank you very, very much for sending it green – you guys made my day!
Anyway, thanks for reading and please let me know what you think! :)