Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Caged.
I hate what I do. Sometimes, I wish I was one of those annoyingly apathetic kids who worked at Target, refusing to make eye contact as they bagged your dollar-section purchases. But unfortunately, I'm not. I don't know if I could pass their pesky little drug tests, if you know what I mean. But I really hate my job, in a way that hurts me and consumes me. I can't quit it though. That would be like switching from the Bloods to the Pink Triangle brigade. You'd die.
My stomach seizes up as I walk into the bar, shrugging off my jacket. I stretched out my freezing fingers and blew on them, attempting to warm myself up. It was May; brisk, and chilly one day, then balmy and unnerving the next. May was a fucked up month, but I could relate. No judgments here, Mother Nature, we all birth mistakes.
The moment I walk in, those familiar faces are turned. Older, shiny-haired men – their eyes can rake me over, allowing themselves to stare me down. Take a look, you fucks, this will be the last night you see me – at least, for a while. I'm sure we're headed in the same direction, being in this bar and all.
I walk over to the counter, making eye contact with Manny, the head guy. He was a real rough looking character, someone I rarely associated myself with, except in transactions. One time, I heard that he cut a girl open and took a piece of her skin, just to feed it to his pet bird. I tried not to believe it, but sometimes he'd look at me with that goddamn vulture of his and I would seize up, then have to look away.
The night was passed in its usual splendor, with me on my knees, giving some overweight man a good time so I could pay for groceries. It was really just a system, if you think about it. I don't know how I felt so dirty about it – it wasn't like I wanted them or anything. It was just a few simple movements, like making instant dinners or taking a shower. Ten minutes and then its over. Done. Fin. Just like me; over and done with. How could I not love it?
Swallow, stand, spit, gasp, cry, explode, collapse, repeat.
Because its really fucked up, that's why. And because I hate myself for it. And because I've never been in love, and because it doesn't really exist. Its just made up for fat people and outcasts, so they can feel worse about themselves on a Saturday night; like an inside joke to the beauty and wealth of America.
And repeat.
My job ended at three am, with one loud asshole who was so drunk he couldn't stand while I worked, and kept trying to put the money down my pants and into my boxers. No, thank you, I'm fine. I don't want your filthy hands down there, and I never will. So, I took the money from him and stood up, placing it in a small white envelope.
And repeat.
I took a short wash off in the bar, which had a small set of bedrooms for the older guys who worked overnights (those sheets were never washed, by the way, no matter what Manny said), and I put on fresh clothes I had brought with me in a small bag. I carefully folded the envelope in half, and placed it in the front pocket, so that maybe they could find it. This was it; the disgust ended here. The dirty cons and lack of pros and whatever it was all supposed to be would vanish. And I'm not tough, so I won't really lie; I was scared.
And repeat.
It was a selfish fear, really, to be like that. Everyone is going to make it without me, and everyone who I want to suffer from this is going to suffer. Literally, its the perfect revenge. I liked the though of that; destructive, quiet Frank Iero finally gets his just revenge. Then they'd see that I wasn't just someone to push around, and I wasn't just that little fuck up in the back of the classroom (when I bothered going); that mindless, nameless kid you take advantage of, justifying yourself with money. That I had words, and phrases, and anger – so deep and fresh and raw that it could kill faster than a bullet, or maybe a fucking bomb. And then under all of that bitterness, there was a child, sad and wounded like an animal, reopening the wounds in spite of it all. But damn, I was scared for whatever was going to happen, to die, to maybe even get an afterlife worse than this. But that's usually just my luck, so there's no real point in worrying, either.
I stepped outside and tasted the dirty, polluted air; brisk and thick and lively against my cheek. There were big inner conflicts, thoughts racing as I walked to the back alley. Here is my gun, here is my knife. Not too sure what to do, but I think I'll figure it out soon. I think I might have brought rope – I checked my bag – yeah, I brought rope. There really wasn't any other way out of this, and I took my shaking hands and blistered lungs to the corner of the alley. There was a tree, hanging over a small brick wall and the fence, with two crates for me to climb up on. I know that God works in many ways, but that was a little too obvious. I mean, do you really want me to die, too? That's cold; it wasn't my idea to be born, anyways, it was yours.
After my knot was tied, I stepped up to it, crates wobbling underneath me. My stomach tied itself in knots as I wondered what was going to happen, what kind of Hell the afterlife had to offer me. I took a deep breath and placed the noose around my neck, jaw quivering. Crash, swallow, stand, spit, gasp, cry, erupt, repeat. Just one last time, I swear. This is it, Frank; this is the big finale.
“I wouldn't do that”
My breath hitched and I turned, blinking down at a man who was inhaling on a cigarette, casually flicking the ash off of onto the pavement. Suddenly the noose seemed so comical, and all of my plans seemed childish under his hazel stare. I felt like a child being caught in the act of stealing, or a teen getting caught with a dirty magazine. He threw the half-smoked cigarette on the ground and crushed out the ember, then nimbly hopped onto the second crate beside me. Lifting up the rope around my neck, he let it fall, and we both looked to watch it swing erratically, like the ending to a sentence. I shifted uncomfortably – this guy was much too close; I could smell his cheap cologne and leather jacket, and the heat from his body was making me sway.
“Come on,” He said, flicking the long black hair from his eyes as he extended his hand to me. He couldn't have been older than 25, tops. I don't think he worked here though, but he seemed too eerily familiar. Someone I knew in a past life, before my innocence just crashed an burned.
“I don't want to” I said, awkwardly shifting to another foot. I really think I kind of did. However, there was still a gun, and a knife – and I think I even remembered some Oxycontin in the pocket of my dirty jeans. No, tonight wasn't good, but by the look of this guy, I'm sure I'd see him again when I died. Even with that pretty face, he wasn't going to weasel his way to Heaven.
“Too bad, Doll,” the man smirked at me and held his hand out. “We've got things to do”.
And I'll be damned if I didn't take it.
*
I'd like to tell you that I got in his car, and he took me somewhere far, far away. That we ran off into the sunset, to start a new life on a full tank of gas. And that he was some kind of savior in the middle of downtown, kissing broken boys and making them all whole again, starting with me. I'd like to tell you that this was a love story for the masses, and that he took me to his house and gave me an escape. And that this was five years later, and we were married in some great new house in upstate New York. Not that I like him or anything, I just think it'd be a nice story, you know? I'd also like to tell you that things are better because he came and got me; that he dragged me out of this Hell and saved me.
But he didn't.
We stood there, staring each other down; his breath blowing icy into the sky, me not breathing at all. There was something unnerving about his eyes - they just looked so ... familiar. He motioned for me to follow him out of the alleyway, and when I continued to stand there, he took my hand. My bag was slung on his shoulder and we walked out. Step by step, together. We were leaving, back into the streets of Jersey. We were getting out of that place.
Its a strange phenomenon, giving up on things. When it can't get worse, you lose a lot of fear. I mean, sure, its never always gone – but for the most part, it is. The world just becomes less frightening when you accept that things are just fucked up. When you don't care, things just get simpler. It could happen, or it couldn't. There aren't any preventative measures, no spare keys and pepper spray. People who think like that don't live long, but I don't think they really want to, anyway. So, I walked to the edge of the street, of course, because here's the worst that could happen; get raped, beat up, robbed, maybe even murdered – it wouldn't matter, he'd just be carrying out old wishes anyways. There isn't any harm in that.
He took me down the road and away from the bar, down a few winding streets. We passed through a few different places I recognized, and then I stopped knowing where I was. I think we were more uptown, and my heart started lifting a bit. Maybe he was taking me away from here, maybe this guy wasn't some kind of sick fuck who was going to do weird shit to me in an abandoned warehouse. We walked up to a train station, where he finally stopped and let my hand go. My fingers unfurled and spread, suddenly missing the feeling of his skin.
“I'm leaving now” He said, pale face and hazel eyes resting on me. This sickening, new, and bitter rush of disappointment rushed over me. I was thinking that maybe he was some kind of angel, here to take me around, like that Christmas Carol movie. To save me from the brink of it all. Or maybe he'd take me hostage, and make me an accomplice to his sordid affairs of killings and robberies. I thought we had things to do, that maybe he'd take me away. But I never have such luck, as I've said before.
“Don't worry” He said, relighting a cigarette. “I'll be back – we've got unfinished business, you and I.” I continued to stare at him, like an incomprehensible mute. Taking a deep, heavy breath, I stared up into the sky; I wasn't about to get worked up about this – I wasn't supposed to care. I was supposed to feel angry, and if not that, then comfortably numb. Everything else was too much to ask of me.
“Hey, I had to get you to stop somehow, Sweetheart”
Sweetheart. What kind of guy would call me that. Whore, maybe, but this was just cruel. Just lie to me to make me not do something that was bound to happen anyway. I felt the anger rush through my system; who the fuck was this guy, to just play with me like that? Did people really just think I was that dumb (was I really that dumb)? My hands found their way to his chest and I pushed, harder than I expected. He took a step back and his eyes widened, surprised that I would do something like that. I had my fists balled up, the backs of my eyes aching with tears. Yeah, I would, because I'm irrational right now. Because nothing makes any sense anymore.
Swallow, stand, spit, yell, cry, collapse repeat.
This wasn't fair; it wasn't fucking fair. Karma hates me, God hates me – fuck it, even Allah hates me, and I don't even know the guy. “Who the fuck are you?” I spat, letting my voice bounce off of the cars and the fairly empty sidewalk. Hot tears were streaming down my face, and I felt embarrassed, which in turn made me more angry. It wasn't right to stop somebody from doing what they really had to do. Because I had to go home now, I had to suck dick tomorrow, I had to continue to fuck up, I had to face this whirlpool of disaster – all because this guy had an agenda.
“I'm surprised you don't know” He said softly, coming closer again. “But I figure you'll remember soon, at least”. His eyes found their way to mine, and he reached out to me. He pulled me towards him, and I struggled in return.
“Get off me, you asshole, I-” But then I shut up because he was hugging me, and it felt nice. I don't think I remember the last time I've been hugged, so I hug back, one awkward arm at a time. With my job, things are always a little off; there isn't ever a smooth night, or a good night, or a normal night. But its maybe about four am, and I'm hugging a stranger (who maybe really isn't?), and he's got a plan for me, and I'm not totally alone anymore.
(A/N: Deds to sheXxie. I really hope you are enjoying this so far. Feel free to check out my other oneshots that I'm posting on here, and also my livejournal ~ skeletonletters.livejournal.com. Okay!! Thank you for reading, feedback is always appreciated. Love, Ceilidh. ^___________________^)
My stomach seizes up as I walk into the bar, shrugging off my jacket. I stretched out my freezing fingers and blew on them, attempting to warm myself up. It was May; brisk, and chilly one day, then balmy and unnerving the next. May was a fucked up month, but I could relate. No judgments here, Mother Nature, we all birth mistakes.
The moment I walk in, those familiar faces are turned. Older, shiny-haired men – their eyes can rake me over, allowing themselves to stare me down. Take a look, you fucks, this will be the last night you see me – at least, for a while. I'm sure we're headed in the same direction, being in this bar and all.
I walk over to the counter, making eye contact with Manny, the head guy. He was a real rough looking character, someone I rarely associated myself with, except in transactions. One time, I heard that he cut a girl open and took a piece of her skin, just to feed it to his pet bird. I tried not to believe it, but sometimes he'd look at me with that goddamn vulture of his and I would seize up, then have to look away.
The night was passed in its usual splendor, with me on my knees, giving some overweight man a good time so I could pay for groceries. It was really just a system, if you think about it. I don't know how I felt so dirty about it – it wasn't like I wanted them or anything. It was just a few simple movements, like making instant dinners or taking a shower. Ten minutes and then its over. Done. Fin. Just like me; over and done with. How could I not love it?
Swallow, stand, spit, gasp, cry, explode, collapse, repeat.
Because its really fucked up, that's why. And because I hate myself for it. And because I've never been in love, and because it doesn't really exist. Its just made up for fat people and outcasts, so they can feel worse about themselves on a Saturday night; like an inside joke to the beauty and wealth of America.
And repeat.
My job ended at three am, with one loud asshole who was so drunk he couldn't stand while I worked, and kept trying to put the money down my pants and into my boxers. No, thank you, I'm fine. I don't want your filthy hands down there, and I never will. So, I took the money from him and stood up, placing it in a small white envelope.
And repeat.
I took a short wash off in the bar, which had a small set of bedrooms for the older guys who worked overnights (those sheets were never washed, by the way, no matter what Manny said), and I put on fresh clothes I had brought with me in a small bag. I carefully folded the envelope in half, and placed it in the front pocket, so that maybe they could find it. This was it; the disgust ended here. The dirty cons and lack of pros and whatever it was all supposed to be would vanish. And I'm not tough, so I won't really lie; I was scared.
And repeat.
It was a selfish fear, really, to be like that. Everyone is going to make it without me, and everyone who I want to suffer from this is going to suffer. Literally, its the perfect revenge. I liked the though of that; destructive, quiet Frank Iero finally gets his just revenge. Then they'd see that I wasn't just someone to push around, and I wasn't just that little fuck up in the back of the classroom (when I bothered going); that mindless, nameless kid you take advantage of, justifying yourself with money. That I had words, and phrases, and anger – so deep and fresh and raw that it could kill faster than a bullet, or maybe a fucking bomb. And then under all of that bitterness, there was a child, sad and wounded like an animal, reopening the wounds in spite of it all. But damn, I was scared for whatever was going to happen, to die, to maybe even get an afterlife worse than this. But that's usually just my luck, so there's no real point in worrying, either.
I stepped outside and tasted the dirty, polluted air; brisk and thick and lively against my cheek. There were big inner conflicts, thoughts racing as I walked to the back alley. Here is my gun, here is my knife. Not too sure what to do, but I think I'll figure it out soon. I think I might have brought rope – I checked my bag – yeah, I brought rope. There really wasn't any other way out of this, and I took my shaking hands and blistered lungs to the corner of the alley. There was a tree, hanging over a small brick wall and the fence, with two crates for me to climb up on. I know that God works in many ways, but that was a little too obvious. I mean, do you really want me to die, too? That's cold; it wasn't my idea to be born, anyways, it was yours.
After my knot was tied, I stepped up to it, crates wobbling underneath me. My stomach tied itself in knots as I wondered what was going to happen, what kind of Hell the afterlife had to offer me. I took a deep breath and placed the noose around my neck, jaw quivering. Crash, swallow, stand, spit, gasp, cry, erupt, repeat. Just one last time, I swear. This is it, Frank; this is the big finale.
“I wouldn't do that”
My breath hitched and I turned, blinking down at a man who was inhaling on a cigarette, casually flicking the ash off of onto the pavement. Suddenly the noose seemed so comical, and all of my plans seemed childish under his hazel stare. I felt like a child being caught in the act of stealing, or a teen getting caught with a dirty magazine. He threw the half-smoked cigarette on the ground and crushed out the ember, then nimbly hopped onto the second crate beside me. Lifting up the rope around my neck, he let it fall, and we both looked to watch it swing erratically, like the ending to a sentence. I shifted uncomfortably – this guy was much too close; I could smell his cheap cologne and leather jacket, and the heat from his body was making me sway.
“Come on,” He said, flicking the long black hair from his eyes as he extended his hand to me. He couldn't have been older than 25, tops. I don't think he worked here though, but he seemed too eerily familiar. Someone I knew in a past life, before my innocence just crashed an burned.
“I don't want to” I said, awkwardly shifting to another foot. I really think I kind of did. However, there was still a gun, and a knife – and I think I even remembered some Oxycontin in the pocket of my dirty jeans. No, tonight wasn't good, but by the look of this guy, I'm sure I'd see him again when I died. Even with that pretty face, he wasn't going to weasel his way to Heaven.
“Too bad, Doll,” the man smirked at me and held his hand out. “We've got things to do”.
And I'll be damned if I didn't take it.
*
I'd like to tell you that I got in his car, and he took me somewhere far, far away. That we ran off into the sunset, to start a new life on a full tank of gas. And that he was some kind of savior in the middle of downtown, kissing broken boys and making them all whole again, starting with me. I'd like to tell you that this was a love story for the masses, and that he took me to his house and gave me an escape. And that this was five years later, and we were married in some great new house in upstate New York. Not that I like him or anything, I just think it'd be a nice story, you know? I'd also like to tell you that things are better because he came and got me; that he dragged me out of this Hell and saved me.
But he didn't.
We stood there, staring each other down; his breath blowing icy into the sky, me not breathing at all. There was something unnerving about his eyes - they just looked so ... familiar. He motioned for me to follow him out of the alleyway, and when I continued to stand there, he took my hand. My bag was slung on his shoulder and we walked out. Step by step, together. We were leaving, back into the streets of Jersey. We were getting out of that place.
Its a strange phenomenon, giving up on things. When it can't get worse, you lose a lot of fear. I mean, sure, its never always gone – but for the most part, it is. The world just becomes less frightening when you accept that things are just fucked up. When you don't care, things just get simpler. It could happen, or it couldn't. There aren't any preventative measures, no spare keys and pepper spray. People who think like that don't live long, but I don't think they really want to, anyway. So, I walked to the edge of the street, of course, because here's the worst that could happen; get raped, beat up, robbed, maybe even murdered – it wouldn't matter, he'd just be carrying out old wishes anyways. There isn't any harm in that.
He took me down the road and away from the bar, down a few winding streets. We passed through a few different places I recognized, and then I stopped knowing where I was. I think we were more uptown, and my heart started lifting a bit. Maybe he was taking me away from here, maybe this guy wasn't some kind of sick fuck who was going to do weird shit to me in an abandoned warehouse. We walked up to a train station, where he finally stopped and let my hand go. My fingers unfurled and spread, suddenly missing the feeling of his skin.
“I'm leaving now” He said, pale face and hazel eyes resting on me. This sickening, new, and bitter rush of disappointment rushed over me. I was thinking that maybe he was some kind of angel, here to take me around, like that Christmas Carol movie. To save me from the brink of it all. Or maybe he'd take me hostage, and make me an accomplice to his sordid affairs of killings and robberies. I thought we had things to do, that maybe he'd take me away. But I never have such luck, as I've said before.
“Don't worry” He said, relighting a cigarette. “I'll be back – we've got unfinished business, you and I.” I continued to stare at him, like an incomprehensible mute. Taking a deep, heavy breath, I stared up into the sky; I wasn't about to get worked up about this – I wasn't supposed to care. I was supposed to feel angry, and if not that, then comfortably numb. Everything else was too much to ask of me.
“Hey, I had to get you to stop somehow, Sweetheart”
Sweetheart. What kind of guy would call me that. Whore, maybe, but this was just cruel. Just lie to me to make me not do something that was bound to happen anyway. I felt the anger rush through my system; who the fuck was this guy, to just play with me like that? Did people really just think I was that dumb (was I really that dumb)? My hands found their way to his chest and I pushed, harder than I expected. He took a step back and his eyes widened, surprised that I would do something like that. I had my fists balled up, the backs of my eyes aching with tears. Yeah, I would, because I'm irrational right now. Because nothing makes any sense anymore.
Swallow, stand, spit, yell, cry, collapse repeat.
This wasn't fair; it wasn't fucking fair. Karma hates me, God hates me – fuck it, even Allah hates me, and I don't even know the guy. “Who the fuck are you?” I spat, letting my voice bounce off of the cars and the fairly empty sidewalk. Hot tears were streaming down my face, and I felt embarrassed, which in turn made me more angry. It wasn't right to stop somebody from doing what they really had to do. Because I had to go home now, I had to suck dick tomorrow, I had to continue to fuck up, I had to face this whirlpool of disaster – all because this guy had an agenda.
“I'm surprised you don't know” He said softly, coming closer again. “But I figure you'll remember soon, at least”. His eyes found their way to mine, and he reached out to me. He pulled me towards him, and I struggled in return.
“Get off me, you asshole, I-” But then I shut up because he was hugging me, and it felt nice. I don't think I remember the last time I've been hugged, so I hug back, one awkward arm at a time. With my job, things are always a little off; there isn't ever a smooth night, or a good night, or a normal night. But its maybe about four am, and I'm hugging a stranger (who maybe really isn't?), and he's got a plan for me, and I'm not totally alone anymore.
(A/N: Deds to sheXxie. I really hope you are enjoying this so far. Feel free to check out my other oneshots that I'm posting on here, and also my livejournal ~ skeletonletters.livejournal.com. Okay!! Thank you for reading, feedback is always appreciated. Love, Ceilidh. ^___________________^)
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