FicWad

KILL ALL YOUR ENEMIES

Do you know the enemy? D’you know your enemy? Well gotta know the enemy Whae--! Yup. I do. And I’m sitting beside him right now. Seated in what he refers to as ‘A car to nice for your faggot ass to be in’. Real nice. Only he wishes the seats were made out of animal skin. Nope. No leather, just polyester. Which is, in my opinion better anyways. It’s a small car, a snow colored Suzuki with big back lights that remind me of a clown’s evil grin when they light up. I’m sitting on the passenger side, my arms wrapped around my knees which are brought up to my chest. My head is gently resting on them as I gingerly rock back and forth as much as the charcoal colored seat belt will let me. After all, I don’t really want to be choked to death by it. My stomach seems to be invaded by an army of angry butterflies; butterflies with razors as wings, cautiously tearing up my insides out of nerves, frustration, and the fact that I’ve decided to give up arguing and just try and remain calm. And, in all honesty, I think I’m doing a pretty good job with that. My father however, is of a different opinion.
“Could you stop rocking back and forth like that?!? Can’t you just sit still for one fucking minute?!?” he snarls, eyes still locked on the road ahead. I roll my eyes and nestle my head in my knees as we approach a large, white sign with pine-colored embellishments, decorations probably destined to lessen the harshness of its purpose. That’s right. Big, giant, bold capital letters scream out DR.JOHN MITCH, therapy.
I can’t help but grunt as my father turns onto the small parking lot surrounded by a weathered wooden fence, pulling to a stop in front of the ground level building; its white siding seems so sickingly spotless I can feel a wave of nausea wash over me. I was never fond of excessively perfect things, although I don’t mind clean. I violently shake my head in attempt to chase said nausea out, my black, floppy hair strands landing in all different directions. I quickly run a few calloused fingers through my hair, bushing it back into place. This only makes my father glare disapprovingly in my direction through the corner of his cold, bitter, unwelcoming eyes. An apathetic look spread across his wrinkled vulture-like face.
“Here, now get out” he spits “Walk home when you’re done. Don’t count on me to pick your faggot ass up.” he adds, as I slide out of the car and onto the pavement, slamming the milk-white car door and walking away. I try and stay indifferent to my father’s stinging words, as I fight to keep them from piercing through my light olive colored skin. I reluctantly drag my feet up the few leaf-covered brick steps, listening to the swish-swish of the rotting brightly colored leaves under my scuffed up black converse, as I push the metal-rimmed glass door open. Greeted by the unpleasant odor of hand sanitizer and the overwhelming scent of citrus Febreeze, I quickly look around and step inside. White grayish daisy wall paper , fake leather black metal waiting chairs (which I recognize from an old tattered Ikea magazine we used to have in our living room), a small glass coffee table with health magazines piled high and a big, fake wood and plastic counter to the right, with a big Thanksgiving themed bouquet. It’s actually kind of a nice bouquet, homey, welcoming, and very much in the holiday spirit, but it seems alarmingly out of place here, especially since behind it is seated a bad-perm-fake-blond-orange-tanned woman who’s chewing a big wad of bubblegum, twisting her overly manicured fingers in her fried hair while blowing big disgusting fluorescent bubbles in my face. Don’t you just love a doctor’s office? Yeah, me neither. My hands sunk into my hoodie pockets, I unwillingly advance towards her.
“Frank Iero?” she asks in a I-breed-pink-fluffy-unicorns-for-a-living voice, smiling unattractively, teeth so white I squint from the fear of going blind just looking at them. Man, and they say those things are supposed to improve your appearance? “Dr. Mitch is waiting for you. It’s right through there” she adds, pointing to the only other door which doesn’t bare a black ‘restrooms’ sign on it, her gone-off cotton candy like voice thickened with what I assume to be a fake accent. I head towards a translucent glass and oak door, and, inwardly commanding the razor-blade butterflies to go away, draw my fist up and knock softly.
“Come in” calls a sing-song voice. I obey, dreading the situation I’m about to live. As soon as the painted-gold knob turns it reveals a canary-yellow office, furnished with an impressive cherry wood desk, two leather chairs neatly placed in front of it, and papers scattered everywhere. As in; desk, chair, floor, everywhere. Seated behind the imposing auburn colored desk is a short, tout, practically bald middle aged man, the little hair he does have left if mousy brown and loosely scattered around his ears. He has some sort of grin plastered on his flat, round face, and both his hands are tucked into his beige pants, while his ivory cotton shirt hangs loosely around his round belly. I stand uncomfortably in the doorway, eyes darting around the room, hoping to find some comfort within.
“Well, why don’t you take a seat, Frank” he suggests, signaling one of the two black chairs opposite himself. I wince at the sound of my name, shuffling my feet awkwardly from side to side, not moving from the doorway, disappointed when I realize this isn’t really helping the army of butterflies that has invaded my stomach. I quickly glance up at him, my brownish-hazel eyes meeting his piercing grey one for a brief instant, before returning my gaze to the carpet. Piercing grey eyes, that, despite not seeming very welcoming, don’t seem to be pure evil either. Finding some reassurance in that, I take one slow, staggering step forward, pausing in my tracks and looking up at him again, while gently playing with my thin silver lip ring, which I carefully threaded through my pale, pink, chapped lips not an hour before this.Cuz you see, it being Sunday and all I’d been planning to sleep till at least mid-day, so when my mother woke me up at 10h30 am, I was less than pleased, even when I noticed the two pop tarts she’d toasted and brought up for me, the thin pastry crust toasted to perfection, the warm, brown sugar and cinnamon filling trickling out of it, and the delicious icing the perfect combination…okay, so maybe I describe pop tarts as the love of my life, but they are, seriously like heaven in a plate. “Well, take a seat, Frank” he repeats, bringing me back into reality, a slight hint of authority having found its way into his greasy, overused voice. I nod and quickly pad over to the nearest chair, awkwardly picking up a sheet of paper that’s dangling over its side. He smiles as he takes the paper form my hand, shrugging and stuffing it into his top drawer. I unsurely sit down, chewing my nails as I do so, while my mind spins with thoughts of unfamiliarity, self-consciousness, nervousness, and now also anger, revenge and frustration towards my father; for forcing me to come here, my mother; for not talking him out of it (although, in complete honesty I wouldn’t contradict him if I were her either), and now also towards the grinning, bald, forty something year old man whom I presume to be John Mitch.
“Well then, Frank” he begins, articulating slowly as if I was a very young child, still struggling to comprehend his words. “I’m doctor Mitch, but please, call me John” he continues, still talking to me as if I was 18 months old. But that’s where he’s wrong, despite my (selective) playfulness, I’m no longer that innocent, wide-eyed, big-cheeked toddler anymore, even though my eyes aren’t small, especially when rimmed with a hint of eyeliner. I’m no longer that little kid, oblivious to all the shit going on in the world.
“Frank…?” John’s greasy crackling voice snaps me out of my thoughts once again, and promptly drives me back to the gloomy reality. Not that my thoughts are particularly bright at the moment, but I still rather be lost in them than in any reality, especially one where I’m currently sitting at some therapist’s desk, because I’m not man enough for the human being who refers t himself as my father. “Frank…?” John repeats, uncertainty lacing his voice. I raise my head, my eyes focusing on his reddened nose.
“Mm?” I ask, once again needing to be dragged back to earth.
“I was asking if you’d tell me a bit about yourself” he says, planting his elbows on the table and interlacing his short, hairy fingers. That grin still spread across his face.
“Oh…um…okay…well…my names Frank Anthony Iero, I was born in--”
“Frank, I don’t want to know where you were born” he cuts me off, “What interests me is you now” he adds, shifting in his head. I lower my head, slightly embarrassed, and remain silent. Once John realizes I’m not planning to say any more, he spins around in his chair, returning to face me before opening his mouth.
“Well…why don’t you tell me why you’re here?” he suggests. Shit. I knew it’d come to this.
“Um…well…my dad, or the guy who calls himself that…wants me to see you” I admit, lowering my head again, allowing a strand of my dark, floppy bangs to gently brush against the tip of my pierced button nose, before I push it out of the way.
“Mm-hmm” he nods “And why does he want you to see me?” he asks plainly, as if it was an obvious question, which, I guess it kind of is. I frown as I try to and think of a way to piece my answer together. How am I supposed to tell someone, a stranger especially, that my father hates my guts because of who I am, and would only ever begin to love me if I changed not only my looks but my entire personality? No idea? That’s what I thought…
“He…um…hates me…” I manage to say quietly, some anger I’d managed to bury earlier on returning. John simply nods. Is that all he can do? “He thinks…I dirty his reputation or something” I add, raising my head.
“Oh…Okay well, how about now you try telling me a bit more about yourself” he suggests. His grin returning only this time widening up to his ears.
“Well…what do you want to know?” I ask sheepishly, not wanting to embarrass myself and be told to shut up like I was earlier when previously asked the same question.
“Everything” he states matter-of-factly.
“E-Everything?” I choke out. Everything huh? Well that could take a while. “But I thought--”
“Your likes, dislikes, that kinda stuff, Frank” he corrects, grin still plastered on his wrinkled face. I suddenly feel extremely self-conscious and even more uncomfortable then I was upon entering his duckling-colored office.
“Um…well, I really love music…I’ve been around it my whole life” That part’s true, that was the one thing I got from my father’s side of the family, a love of music. Although, for some reason, he never got it. Not ever. I remember, when I was younger, I’d spend days at my grandparent’s house, playing guitar with my grandpa, before a cancer of the pancreas slowly and painfully took him away from us. I don’t go there anymore. Not since my grandpa passed. I haven’t even seen my grams since the funeral. I mean, once in a while I’ll receive a small, short letter on which a kind word is scribbled, but that’s about it. I think seeing the love of her life slowly fade away, death feasting on him a little more each day really closed her up. Sometimes I wish she’d write a bit more on those notes called letters, or that I had enough good news to write a whole page. That’s one thing though, I never see her, but if I forget to write once a month, she’ll, in her own words ‘hunt me down and force-feed me soap”. Charming lady…but really, her and my mom are the only people that seem to love me on this earth…
“Frank? You still here?” asks John’s confused voice, as he waves his sweaty palm in my face. I cringe, and try to figure out what I was talking to him about. Oh, right. Music.
“Yeah, and um, my guitar’s name is Pansy” I state proudly, smiling for the first time since I last watched Friends.
“Pansy?” he repeats, unsure.
“Yeah, she’s a white Epiphone Les Paul, a custom…it was a gift from my mom a few years back” I say, smiling as I remember that snowy white Christmas day, the day where I received my first guitar, my real first guitar. I was so proud of it that--
“She?” asks John, clearly amused.
“Yeah. She”
“Okay…well…what kind of music do you like to play” he inquires, leaning back in his chair.
“Punk rock”
“Punk--Oh…Oh” I frown, trying to figure out why he chose to emphasize the second “Oh”
“What’s wrong with--?” I ask, confused.
“Oh…nothing it’s just you…seem to be a,” he pauses, apparently looking for the right word “ah yes, rebellious individual” I stare back at him blankly. Me? Rebellious? My ass…
“Um…no, not really” I say, my voice quieting back down to a whisper. I’ve never considered myself rebellious. I mean, I try and stay out of trouble as much as possible; the only person I really ever talk back to is my father. He’s really the only person I’ve “rebelled” against. Plus, I mean, everybody sneaks out of the house once in a while…don’t they?
“Frank! FRANK!” John’s exasperated voice calls out, while he waves his red, doughy chubby hand in front of my nose for the second time in the past 10 minutes. “Are you usually this lost in your own world?”
“No…not really…not this much…at all”
“Well then…listen, why don’t you come back tomorrow, we can continue then” he offers, sympathy returning in his voice. I nod; I don’t really have much of a choice do I? Plus…as comfortable as this is, its a few more hours a week away from my father, right? “Like this you can sort out your obviously captivating thoughts” he adds. Much to my surprise, I don’t detect any sarcasm in his voice. “Oh, and maybe try being a little livelier” he adds as an afterthought… Apparently, being in my presence isn’t exactly entertaining… His hand indicates the door, as he executes a polite, awkward smile. I slowly rise, biting my lip ring, and exit his office. As I precipitately walk past bubblegum chick something catches my eye. In the corner of the room, sitting in one of the Ikea chairs by the back window is a thin, beautifully pale, ivory skin colored boy, ebony chin length hair that is messily tousled, creating a gorgeous frame for his angelic face, of which I can only see a small button nose, as he is slouched down in his chair, his lean figure hidden by his black hoodie, as he shyly picks at a loose thread in his black jeans.
“Gerard? John’s ready for you” I wince as I recognize fluorescent-chewing-gum-lady’s voice, straightening out my face as the angelic figure rises from his seat, proving to be just a little taller than my short 5’4 frame. Our eyes meet for one swift second, his also hazel, but deep, artistic, and entrancing, unlike my plain ones. He swiftly walks towards me, head bent, as I realize I didn’t even bother to smile. No, that would have been too simple, I just had to stand and stare, like the idiot that I am.
“E-e-excuse m-me” a sweet voice says shyly, I spin around realizing it’s none other than the boy, who’s trying to get to Mrs. Bubblegum.
“Oh! Sorry!” I say quickly, darting out of the way.
“You can go in Gerard” says my great friend the receptionist (yeah right).
“O-Ok” I watch as he disappears into the bright office I was just in, watching until I notice the receptionist staring at me expectantly, twisting her fingers in her gum. Without turning back, I quickly run out of the building, slowing down to a jog as I reach the parking lot, which later slowly fades into regular walking as I round the corner, my mind blank except for one two-syllable name: Gerard.



hey! that was (as you probably figured XD) chapter 2. Well, please lemme know whatcha think! I'd really like some feedback!
anyways, must go do maths homework (sometimes I dream of strangling the ass who made made math obligatory...wait, did I just say that out loud? wupps...)
xx,
angelica