FicWad

Something about this chapter I can't stand.Anyway.Hope ye enjoy.
being an annying motherfucker since 1993,
xo,lauren.
PS:Title is from some very depressing) slang for cocaine.
PPS:In case you've haven't already figured from the "angst" category,and the warnings,then allow me to break the news:
Randomer:This is a violent chapter?!
Lauren:Well,not exactly,but it does contain strong descriptions of violent and self destructive imagery.It also contains a bit of spousal abuse,Pop Tarts,and Gerard being irritating(hence title).
Randomer:Seriously?
Lauren:Yes,seriously,and if you don't like it,go wait in the car.
Randomer:*looks at Lauren's car* Ha!Your car sucks donkey dick!
Lauren:*sigh*
There ya go.
Lauren's Current Inspirations:"The Pretender" by Foo Fighters,Foo Fighters new album,Easter holidays.

"Ow!Goddammit,Mikey!"
This is the result you get when you fucking use a toaster which has been raped by numerous fucking forks over the years.It burns your fucking Pop Tarts and tries to eat your fucking hand.
"Ugh,fuck,"I grumble,inspecting a Pop Tart closely,"fucking sprinkles are fucking singed."I throw it in the bin,along with it's partner."Mikey,you bastard."
I stalk around Mikey and Shannon's kitchen,which is alarmingly clean for a rock bassist.It's bright white,with little flowery pink tiles.Whenever I ask Mikey about them,he just kinda narrows his eyes at me and mumbles,"Shannon picked 'em out."
Which,y'know,I bet is totally true apart from the fact that Mikey owns a spice rack.
And several designer aprons.And yells at anyone wearing shoes in the kitchen.And wait for it:
He calls the utility room the kitchenette.
Gerard and I just call it "that shitty room behind the kitchen the cat shits in."
Anyway,the whole reason I'm here is because of this party Mikey and Shannon had last night.Their engagement party.
Don't get me wrong,it was a great party;loads of people there-how does a unicorn-loving,apron-wearing,twenty-five-year-old have more friends than that Facebook guy?-music was good,and food was everywhere the eye could see.Shannon's friends from Ireland came over as well,and had loads of drinking games and stuff.Mikey's friends-yeah,I didn't know he had other friends either-from,I don't know,The Star Trek Convention were pretty okay too,and towards the end of the night you had these wimpy,pale little guys in glasses singing in fluent Irish and slamming down Jagerbombs.
My problem isn't the party;it's the fact that Gerard didn't ring me last night,when he promised to.
Thinking about it makes my stomach twist into knots.I try not to think about it and stuff two new Pop Tarts into the toaster.
Mikey slumps into the kitchen,walking like a zombie.Looking like one too,actually.His hair is sticking up at the back and there are bright blue bags under his eyes.
"Morning,"I mutter.
"Mmm,"comes the reply.Always such a way with words.
Mikey,nearly dead to the freaking world,tries to jam two pieces of bread into the toaster.
"Mikey."
"What the hell is wrong with the-"
"I have Pop Tarts on,Mikey.Pop Tarts?"
Said Pop Tarts now jump up and carry out an assault mission on Mikey's eye.He squeals in pain and the Pop Tarts fall to the floor.
"Dammit!"I growl."That's the second fucking time this morning,Mikey!"
It's like he hasn't heard me.He's still just jabbing the bread in the toaster.
"Sit down,Mikey,I'll do it,"I sigh.What am I,a fucking housewife?
"Okay,"he croaks.
"Jesus Christ Mikey,how much did you drink last night?"
"Coupla Jagers...and tequila...and Guinness."
"Right,"I say,"the bread is now successfully about to be toasted."
I plop down on my chair,and briefly glance at my phone.
No new messages.
"Frank?"
"What,Mikey?"
"'s wrong?"
Sure,he can't fucking make toast but he can spot an evasion going on even half-drunk.Nosy git.
I sigh heavily.The broken toaster coughs,spits the bread into the air,and dies in a black cloud of smoke.The bread,utterly ignored,falls to the floor.
"Mikey,promise you won't get mad?"
"Promise."
"Gerard..uh..Gerard has depression."
Suddenly Mikey is awake and coherent.His eyes fly open and they stare at me.
"What?"
Fuck...
"Yeah,"I flush red,"and that's why he didn't come last night."
Mikey still stares.
"You said he had a doctor's appointment."
"Uh-huh,"I splutter,now staring at my knees with great intensity,"and remember how..I "walked into a door"?"
He nods,incredulous.
"That...was..Gerard."
I fill with shame.I feel like one of those women on Law and Order who got raped by her husband and never admitted it because she loved him.I'm like that now,tears streaming down my cheeks and bright red in the face.
"Oh,Frank,"he whispers,and moves chairs so he can hug me,"I'm so fucking sorry.Why didn't you tell us?"
"Because he's not a monster!"I weep,sobbing and snatching breaths,"He's just going through a bad time."
"Frank."Mikey stares into my eyes,his large brown lamps dark and owl-like close up.
"Did Gerard ever rape you?"
It's a slap in the face for me,but Mikey seems perfectly calm.It's like considering his brother as a rapist is part of his daily plan.
"No,"I say firmly,"Gerard loves me."
He remains still,breathing evenly an neatly.I'm heaving and puffing like a warthog.
"Did Gerard say he'd call you last night?"
I nod.
"And has he?"
I shake my head.
"Right."He gets up and leaves the kitchen.I hear him pad around the apartment.
He returns a moment later,fully clothed and car keys in his hand.
"Frank,get dressed.We're gonna sort this shit out."
"Mikey,no.He'll be so pissed that I told you!"
"You told his brother he has depression."He narrows his eyes,like when I ask him about the tiles."That's hardly a bad thing,Frank."
I recognize defeat and retire to the bed I slept in last night.I find sweatpants and a hoodie,and don them.I mope back to the kitchen.
"Ready?"
I grunt.
We clamber into Mikey's shitty Buick.The drive to the flat is horrible.I sniff and don't talk,and Mikey just grips the steering wheel with all his bodily might.It freaks me out slightly that his knuckles turn white.While we drive,Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah tinkles from the radio.I turn away so Mikey can't see me cry.
We're there after what seems like three years.
Mikey pounds on the door.I've never seen him like this;strong and determined,no trace of unicorn obsession.It's like after years of me telling him to,he's finally grown a pair.
No answer.That's bad.
"You have a key?"
This is my apartment,Mikey.
"Uh,yeah."
I thrust the key into the lock,turn it and run in.The corridor smells like it always does; cupcakes,paint and cat piss.It's become one of my favourite smells in my whole life.
"Gerard!"I yell."Gerard,are you here?!Baby,it's me,it's Frank!"
Nothing.Holy fuck,I'm going to cry.
Mikey runs after me,calling as well.
"Yo!"I hear from upstairs."Ya faggots shut tha fuck up,we'se tryin' to watch Jerry Springer!"
"FUCK YOU!"Mikey screams.The last time I heard him get this emotional was at Biscuit's-the mother of his current cat,Bunny-funeral.
I try the kitchen.Not there.
"Find anything?"I ask Mikey,while I rifle through a few telephone bills on the table.
"No...well,here's his wallet."He shows me a plain black wallet.
"That's weird,"I mutter,more to myself than Mikey.
"What?"
"All his money..and his credit card..gone."
"You think he got robbed?"
"I dunno.Let's keep looking."
I search the flat,going crazy with want.I open drawers,closets,chiffarobes,cabinets,guitar cases.He's nowhere.
"I'm gonna go to the bathroom.I haven't pissed,in,like twenty four hours."
"Thank you for telling me that,Mikey."
I'm in the middle of searching a cutlery drawer when I hear Mikey screech.
"FRANK!"
I drop the knife I'm currently holding,and sprint into the restroom.I first see Mikey standing in the doorway,mouth frozen in a scream,finger pointing.
It’s Gerard,drooping over the bathtub.
I push Mikey out of the way,and fall to my knees beside him.I try to maneuverer his arm so he can move.I hear a sharp groan,and suddenly something sticky and thick clings to me.
Blood.
"Gerard,"I mutter,"what have you done?"
"Mmmm,"comes the reply.
"Frank."
It's Mikey.
"Look."
I look,and see.A credit card rimmed in white powder.
I tip Gerard's head up to look at his nose.A thin line of blood strings down from his nostril.
"Mikey,"I croak,"go ring 911."
I hear him sprint to the living room.
"Frankie,"Gerard mummers,leaning back and closing his eyes.
"Yeah,Gerard?"I swallow nervously,talking to my fiancée,who has overdosed on cocaine.
"Frankie is my fiancée,"he states proudly,like a little kid who's showing off a drawing,"I love him."
Tears spill down my cheeks.
"We're getting married."
"I know,"I say softly,"and he really loves you too."
"Really?"
"Uh-huh,"I croak,my voice breaking."So.Much."
I press my forehead to his arm,kissing his wrist.
Mikey runs in,followed by doctors.
"What's wrong?"
"When did he OD?"
"When was the body discovered?"
"How old is he?"
Doors open.People run in.Gerard's lids slide shut.I fade out.