FicWad

-this is a story I have been working on for quite some time, It's kind of comlipcated, but I like to base my stories on my own life, although, the abuse that Roxy gets is way worse that what I have come across.
Please do not read if you have suffered from depression, sexual abuse, or have ever physicly hurt yourself, because trust me, this shit doesn't help, and you should love yourselfs, I am no role modle, nor is this story.- Also, This is a scene setting, Gee will come into this in the next chapter, sorry. xo

My name’s Roxy. I live in a small Village outside London.
I have short black hair, what most people would call “emo” I just call it easy, because I really don’t have to do anything with it. I have a lip piercing on the left side and I have small gauges.
I have a shitty job In HMV, but hey, I’m the manager, so at least I get good pay.
My life is boring. Nothing interesting ever happens to me.
I have one good thing in life, and that’s my best friend. Nixon. I love him to bits.
I would be nothing without him. He has helped me through everything. We were made to be friends.
I pretty much live at his house. We are both into the same music, mostly bands like My Chemical Romance, The Used, Avenged Sevenfold, Papa Roach, Iron Maiden, The Misfits, Smashing Pumpkins, the list goes on…
We are against the world, them v us. He was the one that introduced me into My Chemical Romance when they started out, we were so young and they weren’t even very big, I was surprised he was even aware of them, but he insisted I listen to them. And here I am, many years and three albums later, sitting Nixon’s his house (as always) wearing their friggin’ shirt.
I know what you’re thinking though. And no. He’s not my gay best friend, that’s what most people think. Either that or that we’re dating. He may be a little camp, but trust me, when you get to know him; he is the straightest thing since sliced bread. Have you ever tried to cut it yourself? I have. It seams it wasn’t born to be cut by human hands, not that it was born at all, but you get what I mean. I’m so thankful for sliced bread.
And I’m thankful for him. He rescued me.
I wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t there for me.

flashback - Two years ago

Here I sit, on my bed. With nothing to live for.
Well, I have Nixon, but he would be better off without me.
We were in our last year of school, and the bullying didn’t stop. People still hadn’t grown up to see that labels were nothing. They didn’t get our kind of style of music and clothing, they didn’t understand that it didn’t mean that we slit our wrists. We didn’t have to cut to have a good time. We like a good party as much as the next chav. But just minus the under-sex and drinking. We were good like that.

Well, that goes for Nixon. I suppose I’m really living up to the label.

I wouldn’t be like this if they hadn’t started it; the bullying, the names, the physical abuse.
I got used to it at first. “FUCK YOU!!!” became my motto and I didn’t give a crap what people thought of me. But hurt my best friend and you will have a guitar in your ass.

Sideways.

I guess it just pushed it when they started shoving me into things.

-Lockers
-People
-Boys toilets. Trust me, the smell from outside was already bad. Being locked in for five minutes was a fucking death wish.

You get the picture.

It was pretty ruff. But things got worse.

I started getting hit, slapped or kicked, in the hallway by random passers by. It must have been some sort of joke for them.
It wasn’t that bad, I was used to getting hit, my parents are divorced and my Mum blames me. My Step-dad is a drunk, and doesn’t get that I am not a punch bag for when my Mum gets sick of his games. She only married him because she was broke after the divorce and needed some help with the bills. His abuse wasn’t too bad. Not until he saw the bruises and cuts I was left with from school. He thought I was doing it to myself. That I was just being a little Emo kid and just hurting myself. He said I deserved it. His abuse got worse after that.

So I now had abuse at home, AND at school. SCORE.


The hitting at school became beating up; the abuse at home became brutal. My Step-dad got drunk more often, sent my Mum out to get him more booze more often.

When he did, he would lock me in my room, he would rip me of my ‘Emo’ clothes and would show me what girls my age should be doing. He raped me, a lot. I became paranoid, I would scrub my skin for hours a day, just to get my shame off of me.
I gave up.
Not that my Mum cared anymore. At least it wasn’t her, she didn’t give a shit. I must have been a mistake; she wasn’t made to be a Mother.
That’s why I’m always at Nixon’s house. It’s my only escape.
Once the abuse at school got so bad I became pretty used to it. I would often just escape in to my own mind until they were done with me.
I read an article about a woman that self harmed. She said it was a release.
At first I cringed at the thought of it. How could it be a good thing? I didn’t understand it.
One day when I was being beaten up, I thought back to what she said. Release. I taught myself to enjoy what they were doing to me; I convinced myself it was a good feeling. I escaped through my own enjoyment.
One thing I could never take was the rape.
I hurt myself more often. I never used to cut. I always had a fresh bruise or open cut I could just poke or squeeze.
The open cuts were my favourite, the blood. I got obsessed.
I would cut just to see the blood.
Once Nixon noticed that I had a lot more cuts than bruises, He confronted me.
He sent me to the school councillor.
She was no help.
I told him I had stopped. I was just more careful where I cut.
There I sat on my bed. I clutched my arm, covered in bruises. The cuts were hidden under my clothing. I never showed all that much flesh anyway.
It’s been ten minutes since I sent my goodbye text to Nixon.
I knew that if I didn’t do it soon, he would come and stop me.

I looked at the razor in my hands; I had stolen it from my Step-dad. Turns out he helped me end it in more ways than one.

I would do it quick and clean, so no one had to clean up too much. I single slice up my vain in my forearm and it would be over.
I held the razor to my arm, I dug it in slightly, I wanted to feel the burn before I did it, and I would take it slow. I had time, Nixon lives quite far away anyway, and it would take him fifteen minutes to drive here.

I have five minutes.

I dug it in a bit more.
Before I could go any further though, a very flushed looking Nixon burst through my door.
So there it was, turns out if you break every possible speeding law around here, you could make it in ten. Damn.

Nixon helped me with my life, he was always there, why couldn’t I see that all I needed was to tell him about everything, and he would help me.
He came up with a new theory. Every time I felt like cutting, I would write an MCR lyric down in a journal he gave me. By the end of the year I had recited every song from every album. Twice. Wow. Maybe I really did need the help.
If it was any other band he told me to write it for, then I would have said no, but My Chem had always had a calming affect on me. Gerard’s words had always hit me, they saved me. If they were anyone else’s, I would have given up.

Everything seemed so positive after then.

Nixon and I worked everything out. I reported my Step-dad and he was sent to prison.
My Mum didn’t want me anymore; she could no longer pay the bills and kicked me out.
Nixon’s Mum had always been more of a Mother to me. She offered to take me in, and I was now living with them. Life couldn’t be more perfect than this.