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Chapter Seven – Relapse



Mikey’s POV







I ruin everything. Not Gerard; me. I ruin it all, everything. Just like some selfish little shit, just like some stupid little emo-slut, just like someone too cowardly to speak, just like the horrid person that I’ve been trying so hard not to be.

I really have been trying to be better, to be a nicer person and a better brother to Gerard; I even managed to not stutter with him for a few months, no matter how scared I was that he’d hurt me again. But he’d never do that. He’d never hit me like he used to. Never hit me like he hit Pete, no; like he hit my boyfriend. Like he hit the one person stupid enough to want to kiss me and love me and call me his when most people would kill to not call me theirs.

Does Pete really love me, or is Gerard right like always?

What if he is just using me, what if he thinks I’m just some stupid freak that’s too lonely to put up a fight; an emo-slut that he just wants to use, like Gerard said?

No.

Pete’s not like that, he does love me. He really does. He must do. I hope he does. I don’t know what I’ll do if he doesn’t. But, then again, why would he love me; someone with a stupid, infantile stutter and a scar that scares little children and a million other reasons for him not to like me? Why would someone like him want to make someone like me theirs when he could probably have someone just as good as he is? Apart from nobody is as good as he is, nobody is as perfect as Pete; as perfect as the person who introduced himself to my big brother as my boyfriend.

But he could have been joking. Could have been playing a game, the kind of game that he’d win and I’d lose if that were the case. I hope it isn’t. Hope with the vehemence of a rabbit seeing a fox stalk around it’s warren that it won’t be detected by the deadly predator. I want to be able to kiss him again; I liked it. I liked the way he let me be in control, the way did things that he knew I’d like and let me feel the defined lines of his toned upper-body; I liked the way I was brave enough to reach out to touch his chest like it was the most natural thing to do, the way I felt loved enough to feel safe in his presence in such a way that made it alright for him to be on top of me and for him to remove his top like his skin was jealous of his t-shirt just because my worthless hands were clinging to it.

I loved the whole experience nearly as much as I love him.

As much as he must hate me right now. Hate me for making his nose get all bloody and his back all bruised.

How the fuck could I have let that happen to him, to my boyfriend?

Because I’m a motherfucking coward, that’s how. He’s never let me get hurt whilst in his presence, so it really shouldn’t be too much to ask for me to protect him in return, should it? No. Of course it fucking shouldn’t. It should be a given that I can make him safe like he makes me feel safe; like nothing can ever hurt me as long as he’s holding my hand or he has his strong arm around my weak shoulders.

I should have protected him.

But I was just too frightened; frightened of my own big brother, of my legal guardian and the man who really does try his best to help me. I just always ruin it, always do something wrong to make him feel bad. I never mean to ruin it all, I just have these little spikes of panic that like to stab me whenever I’m left alone or left solely with Gerard; because my mind is as selfish as I am in it’s longing to keep itself safe from harm.

Not that I care about getting hurt anymore; if anything I deserve it for yelling at Gee, for making him angry enough to hit Pete, for making Frank angry enough to slap Gee.

Frank actually got angry. As in; Frank Anthony Iero, the calmest and most rational guy that I have ever met, actually got mad enough to strike my big brother. Because of me. If I hadn’t have been there then they would have nothing to be angry about, nothing to feel bad about, nothing to get hurt about. If I had actually done what I tried to do a few months ago correctly, Pete wouldn’t be hurt; Gerard wouldn’t be hurt; and all three of my favourite people wouldn’t be feeling bad right now.

If I were dead everyone would be a hell of a lot happier.

Apart from me; if I were dead I’d still be alone, still be ignorant to how good my life could be with Pete Wentz in it.

That’s if he still wants to be in it after I let him get hurt. Twice. After I neglected to look after him like a good boyfriend should.

I’ve only been his boyfriend for a few hours and I’ve already fucked it up. Just like everything I come into contact with. I always ruin everything. Because I’m selfish. Because I’m cowardly. Because everyone hates me. Hates me bad enough for it to hurt, but not enough to outweigh how much I hate me. Apart from I didn’t hate me last night, when Frankie cuddled me on the sofa like the big brother that I’ve grown to see him as; last night I felt like a good little brother, like the kind of little brother that deserves to have a big brother purely because that big brother wants to comfort the little one.

I didn’t hate me back in my bedroom when Pete was kissing me like he’d never tasted anyone sweeter; when Pete was kissing me I loved me because me was enough to make Pete smile at me and love me and hold me and let me be his and him be mine.

But now he knows what a freak I am, knows that I’m emotionally unstable, that I’ve tasted tarmac through my own choosing, that I’m a complete freak of nature that shouldn’t be let out in public; he knows that I tried to kill myself.

Knows because Gerard told him. And I fucking hate my big brother for it.

No, that’s not at all fair on Gee.

Gerard was right to tell him; Pete deserves to know what he’s getting himself into and who exactly with. I was bad; I should have told him myself, I shouldn’t have let my selfish anxiety get the better of me and force me into silence about the subject. But now he does know and he probably hates me for keeping it from him, or most likely thinks I need to be locked up away from society. Either way, he probably doesn’t want me anymore.

Did he even want me in the first place?

Of course he fucking didn’t; who’d want a suicidal, scarred, weak little freak like you? No fucking one.

Then why’d he kiss me; why’d he act all nice to me?

He probably just felt sorry for you.

But he’s my boyfriend. He said so.

What about what Gerard said? You know Gerard wouldn’t lie to you; he’s your big brother.

He might have gotten it wrong?

He might not have.

I hate this, this going back and forth inside of my own head. It hurts and it confuses me more than when Gerard looks at me like he’s done something wrong; like he feels guilty for being honest and trying to help me. He never means to make me frightened or make me cry, he wouldn’t do if I didn’t make him mad in the first place. I never mean to make him mad, it just happens and I get all stupid and panicky; like a motherfucking child getting lost in a shopping mall for the first time. Me making Gerard mad hasn’t happened for a while, not since I left the hospital just over two months ago, but it doesn’t surprise me all that much anymore; yet that doesn’t mean that I don’t fear it any less than the first time he got mad with me.

Frank getting mad, however, is something new entirely. If I didn’t know that Frank would never hurt me I might have ducked for cover when he slapped Gerard.

Slapped my big brother like I wanted to slap him for making my boyfriend bleed.

How cold is that, how evil and ungrateful do I sound?

I can’t believe that I can even think of wanting to hurt Gerard; he’s my big brother! But he’s more than that, he’s my legal guardian and for that I should be extremely grateful. He didn’t have to volunteer to take me on, didn’t have to get clean just so that he could pass background checks from the social services, didn’t have to shift from being a brother to a guardian over night; but he did and all I ever do is make his life a living hell. He still doesn’t have to be my guardian; could put me into care any time he wants to. He was given that option whilst I was in the hospital, was asked if I was too much for him to handle and told that if he wanted to find me a foster home he could. It actually surprised me when he said no. When he yelled no in such a way that the poor woman who asked looked like she regretted ever suggesting it. It surprised me because I’d just made him waste time hanging around with me in my hospital room with Frankie and he still wanted me even though he knew how fucked up I am.

But does he really want me or is it just some blind sense of obligation that’s starting to wear thin?

Maybe I should try again, try that which only an idiot like me could fail at doing. I’ll run right into the middle of the road this time, make it so that I couldn’t survive even if Fate is cruel enough to will it to be so. It’s half nine at night, I really have been walking along the main road for that long, and pitch black; the bus driver won’t even see me walk out in front of him. Or maybe I should use a lorry this time; they have more wheels for me to get caught under and a higher chance of actually ridding everyone of me once and for all.

Will anyone miss me? Fuck anyone; will Pete miss me? What if he really does love me like I think he does; will he cry if I do this right? I don’t want to make him cry. I really don’t, I’d rather live through hell than make him cry.

Ha. As if someone like Pete would mourn a pathetic little weirdo like me.

Of course he would. He loves me. He must do. He called himself my boyfriend, called himself my boyfriend like he was proud of it.

Because he loves me.

Fuck, I’m cold. I wish I had a jacket on over my flimsy t-shirt. It really is absolutely freezing; colder than my heart when Pete’s not around to make it flutter into warmth. No, I don’t wish I had a jacket, I wish I had Pete’s arms around me like they always are whenever I get upset in front of him. I wish I had my boyfriend to hold me and wipe away the icicles that are dangling from my eyes. I was going to go straight to his house after I ran out of my own, but I just couldn’t. What if he does hate me for letting him get hurt; what if he does think I’m some sort of freak; what if he is just using me?

Fuck, I’m hungry. I can’t remember the last time I ate a full meal. I just… start feeling all sick and funny inside when I see food; like it’s going to hurt me, like it’s going to make me even uglier than everyone already sees me as. I just act all quiet at breakfast so that nobody notices my empty plate, like they’d care anyway; when Pete asks me why I’m not eating, eyes rife with concern, I just say that I got hungry and ate my lunch during class behind my teacher’s back, not that I threw it in the bin on my way to the cafeteria; I take my dinner into my bedroom at night, pick at it a little and then flush it down my en suite’s toilet. I’m not anorexic. I can’t be. Anorexics don’t eat anything at all, right? I do eat stuff. Just only when I’m hungry. Which isn’t all that often nowadays; it’s hard to feel such things as hunger when you’re frightened or miserable, kind of like all you need to fuel you is the pain of the torment that your pathetic little heart can’t seem to leave behind. To be anorexic you have to think that you need to lose weight, right? I don’t think that, I’m fully aware that I am way too skinny for someone of my height. But I just don’t see the point in eating when I’m not hungry, when I don’t deserve it, when I’m not worth the food put in front of me.

Fuck, I’m tired. I didn’t sleep at all last night. I rarely get a full night’s rest anymore; the nightmares are just too much to make me allow myself to drift off into them. I do still get nightmares, nightmares about being dragged along the road; about Mom and Dad telling me how much of a failure I am if they were to suddenly materialise from the grave; about how bent and twisted Mom’s forever-terrified face was when I was stupid enough to run into that fucking operating theatre; about Gerard beating me like he used to, like I was just his punching bag and not his little brother. No, just like I was his little brother, the little brother that always got in his way and made him mad. Either way, it still stops me from getting to sleep at night. It’s actually quite childish, isn’t it? Hiding from sleep like some motherfucking toddler hides from the so-called monsters under the bed. I don’t care if it’s childish; it keeps the nightmares away. Or if I do sleep, I make sure I wait until Gerard and Frank are asleep so that they won’t hear me cry when I jolt awake; I don’t want to bring them down with me. But that doesn’t change the fact that I feel like I’m about to clean pass out on the road side.

Fuck, I feel so confused. I just don’t know what to do anymore, who to believe. Pete said that Gerard is a bad big brother, that I don’t need him; he said it like he really believed it. But I know that he’s wrong. Without Gerard I really am nothing, without my big brother I have no family and nobody who feels obliged to look after me. Pete said that I’ll never be alone, but I’m alone now; all cold and tired and hungry out on the narrow pavement of the main road that runs through Belleville’s town centre. Yet my current loneliness is my own moronic fault; I’m the one who ran away from my problems like the cowardly little mute that I am, that I must be because Gerard said so. Gerard said that I’m everything I’ve been trying so hard not to be; everything that Pete and Frank seem to not see in me. Does that make them wrong? Or are they just lying to save my feelings? If they’d lie about that sort of stuff, what else would they lie about? Does it mean that Frankie would lie about wanting to help me, about feeling like the big brother he tells me so often that he feels like, about actually thinking that I am an alright human being? Does it mean that Pete would lie about loving me, about being my boyfriend, about thinking all of the wonderful things about me that are so obviously lies? I really don’t know what to think anymore, who to believe and just what to do. And it really fucking hurts, feels like my head is about to explode. Which is doing anything to help the fact that I can barely stagger along the deserted pavement amidst my exhaustion, my hunger, my coldness.

Fuck, I’m frightened. I can’t stop thinking about the last thing Gerard said to me.

”Remember what happened last time? What nearly happened last time?”

He was, of course, referring to the last time I ran off into the night on my own. The night I met Frank. The night I got attacked. The night I would’ve have gotten raped if Frank hadn’t seen me and had seen a person worth saving instead of actually seeing me. What if I get attacked again; will anyone be around to save me this time? Scratch that; will anyone be around and want to save me? Maybe if I wasn’t so pathetic and weak then I wouldn’t need saving; if I hadn’t acted like some sort of drama queen just because Gee was trying to look after me, then I wouldn’t even be out here. Out where every shadow could be that guy from down the alley that night I met Frank, could be waiting to hurt me like Gerard hurt Pete, or yell at me like Frank yelled at Gerard, or rape me like the guy from before tried to, or kill me like I tried to kill myself.

I want my Pete; I want my boyfriend. I want him to hug me and make me feel all safe, like he’ll never let anything hurt me again no matter how much I deserve it. But I let Gerard hurt him and now he probably doesn’t want me. Just like Gerard probably doesn’t want me.

That should hurt, knowing that Gerard thinks all of those things about me, and it really fucking does, burns my soul like a flame-thrower burning down an unsuspecting orphanage, but it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it normally would. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think I could feel any worse right now if Satan were to spring up in front of me and start beating the living shit out of me, but I can’t help but feel a certain amount of apathy about this. Partly because I know he’s only being honest.

Mostly because Pete told me that I don’t need Gerard, made me feel like I’m loved and important without Gerard’s input; made me realise that I have him and he’s the only person that I need because he really does love me.

But what if he doesn’t? Gerard’s not a liar, he only wants what’s best for me and he said that Pete doesn’t love me; Gerard has no reason to lie and he’s my big brother, he’s always right. Just like he’s right about how I always ruin everything; how I stop him and Frankie from going out together in the evening because he doesn’t think I should be left alone. It’s as though he expects me to try to kill myself again at the drop of a hat. I think that’s what hurts the most; he doesn’t trust me anymore, thinks that I’m still just as fucked up as I was a few months ago, that I haven’t gotten any better. And I’ve been trying so hard to be a better person, to be the sort of little brother that him and Frankie deserve. But no matter how hard I try, it always comes back to this; to him shouting at me and making me realise how I just haven’t tried hard enough.

I tried my hardest and it wasn’t good enough; will never be good enough because I’m just not a good person.

Fan-fucking-tastic. I think I just felt rain stab into my skin, skin that Pete was embracing a few hours ago.

Yeah, it’s definitely starting to rain. I should probably go find somewhere to shelter, maybe even head home? No. I’m being selfish again; if I go back I’ll just make Gerard angry again. Make Frank angry with Gerard for being angry with me, even if Gee is just telling me what he really thinks; is just letting me know what I’m doing wrong so that I can be better.

Maybe I could go to Pete’s?

No. Pete’s was where I was planning on going to in first place, but I just couldn’t bring myself to knock on his front door. Not after I was a terrible boyfriend and let him get hurt like the stupid little coward that I am.

I can’t carry on walking, my legs feel like they’re on fire; like my body is finally giving up on it’s pathetic controller. My head really fucking hurts, it’s pounding like it’s trying to beat me up for being such a shitty boyfriend, best friend and little brother; it feels like Misfit’s tearing my head up like she tears up the paper every morning. My tummy feels like it’s about to cave in on itself, or explode up through my throat; kind of like it’s furious at me for being so selfish. I can’t breathe; I’m choking on my failed gasps for oxygen and gagging on the strangled sobs that are clawing out of my mouth.

I can’t even stay upright.

So I collapse unceremoniously onto the hard pavement, my back against the wall of some grotty old building. I can’t do this anymore; I need to sleep, need to just doze off and wait for my parents to awaken me so I can go to be with them. I really do feel exhausted, like everything’s being drained out of me through my half-shut and sleep-stained eyes.

Should I really fall asleep here; on the pavement of some street in Belleville, in the freezing cold and feeling like I’m about to just blackout anyway?

It’s probably not the best idea that I’ve ever had, I’ll be lucky (or unlucky, depending on what way my mind is deciding to process things) if I ever wake up again if I go to sleep here; but I don’t have any choice. I don’t think I can even stand myself back up again, let alone walk to shelter. I can’t phone Gee or Frankie to pick me up because they’re both angry and probably hate me like I hate me for making them row with each other. I can’t phone Pete because I got him hurt, got him punched and bruised and bloody, so even if he doesn’t hate me for letting that happen then I can’t phone him because I know that I really don’t deserve his help.

Maybe I will just go to sleep here, slumped against the slimy wall of what I think might be the ninety-nine cents store, go to sleep and just not wake up.

Is it even possible for someone to die of loneliness? I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure that people can die from the cold and from exhaustion and from starvation; it’s called dying from exposure, isn’t it?

Here we go again; me being a melodramatic little bitch. Making a big fuss about something that’s not even important in the grand scheme of things. If I’m cold then that’s my own fault for being moronic enough to not grab a jacket on my way out. If I’m exhausted then that’s my fault for having nightmares almost every time I fall asleep. If I’m starved then that’s my fault for never being hungry enough to eat. If I die out here tonight then it’s my own fault for being the cowardly, scarred, weak, mute little emo-slut that nobody would ever want to save from dying all alone on the damp pavement.

I can’t even see the stars; the sky is all clouded over like some greater force has decided that I don’t deserve the visual warmth that only the stars can provide. Or maybe my eyes are just too blurred by dizziness and pain and loneliness to be able to see the beacons of hope that are meant to guide lost souls home.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket, stirring me slightly from the half-sleep that I’ve started to drift into like a volcano slipping into dormancy. I manage to somehow find the strength to fumble haphazardly with my jean pockets to pull out my old, worn and cracked Nokia.

Text from: Bass buddy

Should I read it? I want to, but if I do I’ll die knowing one of two things; either that he really does hate me for allowing him to get hurt, or that he really does love me and I could have spent the rest of my life encased in his secure arms, his nose nuzzling into my neck like a gently curious horse nuzzling an injured little foal. Neither will make this being frozen stiff and crippled by both hunger and tiredness feel any better; either way will make me die with tears leaking out of my eyes.

But maybe he does really love me; maybe if he does he won’t mind me calling him for help. Maybe this text will save my life. Or just seal my fate; just let me die of exposure all by myself and with nobody caring or holding me tight.

I’ve got to read it. My slowing heart will never forgive me if I don’t.

Heya, Sugar.

I’m real sorry if I upset you or scared you earlier, Sugar. I know I should’ve texted sooner but I wasn’t sure if you wanted to hear from me or not, I understand if you hate me for losing it like that in front of you. I was just being stupid and I really am sorry, Sugar.

I wanna see you, Sugar. Tonight. So I can apologize properly to my beautiful boyfriend. If you still want to be my boyfriend? You'll always be beautiful, though.

Ring me so I know when/where to pick you up. If you want me to. You don’t have to. It's completely up to you, Sugar.

Pete xxxxxxx

Oh no. I made him feel bad.

But he still wants me, wants to see me tonight. Tonight as in this night right now, the one that’s about to make me pass out because I’ve let my body become as weak as my mind. He told me to ring him. I can’t not; he’s my best chance of getting warmed up again; of being able to not die alone on the side of the street for reasons that are entirely my own fault.

Before I know it my shaky fingers have dialled his number, a number that I couldn’t forget if I tried.

“Sugar, is that you?”

He sounds like he’s been crying. Maybe I should just hang up, make it so that he has no reason to cry. No. I need to cheer him up. I need to not stutter, just for him; for my lovely boyfriend.

Not that I ever will need to stutter with him again.

But before I can speak, a scared little sob escapes my trembling lips.

“Sugar, what is it? Are you alright?” His panicked voice rushes down the phone, sounding like he wants to be able to make my tears stop and hold me close.

He doesn’t sound like he’s using me or mad at me or anything less than concerned.

“Pete, I…” I wince at how strained and barely noticeable my voice is; I’m definitely not alright, I’m sick. Really sick. As in I’ll die if I stay out here like this. “Pete, I don’t feel too good.”

“Mikey, you sound really bad. Where are you, Sugar? Are you still at home, does your brother or Frank know that you’re not well?”

I let out a little cry at that; at the idea of my brother caring at all if I’m sick. He might act like he cares, but it’s only because he’s nice enough to pretend and only lets it show whenever I’m really bad. Just like today.

“No… I’m not at home. I’m outside and it’s cold and dark and, and I’m scared, Pete. I don’t wanna die alone!”

Way to sound like the desperate, pathetic little creep that you are, Mikes; well done on making a complete dick of yourself!

“Sugar, calm down. It’s alright, you’re not gonna die alone or at all any time soon. Tell me where you are, I’m coming to get you.” He sounds really frightened, like the idea of me like I am right now actually scares him. Yet at the same time he also sounds sure of himself; like hearing me in need is enough to make him compose himself just so he can help me, like the thought of me hurt makes him yearn to take it all away.

Maybe it really does. Because he really does love me.

“Ninety-nine cents store.”

By now I can scarcely get those brief words out of my constricting throat. I really need him, need to be warm and secure and able to sleep safely.

“Sugar, that’s miles from your house! You must have been out there for hours in the cold, you poor thing.” He sniffles slightly down the phone, making me want to be in his arms not just for my own happiness, but for his too. “Sit tight, Sugar, I’m just off to go break the speed limit.”

“Pete, I’m tired… real tired.” I slur down the phone, my words falling out with no real thought behind them and no reason other than not wanting Pete to hang up on me.

“Shit.” He mumbles before swallowing and clearing his throat as though readying himself to say the most important thing ever. “Mikey Way, whatever you do, don’t sleep.” He pauses, whether in thought or for effect I’m not sure. “Not until you can sleep in my arms. Promise?”

“Promise.”

But I think, as the cold swamps me in the noise of him hanging up, that this might just be a promise that I have to break.








A/N: I’m so sorry that this chapter is, for lack of a truer word, crap. I hope it makes some sort of sense and isn’t as boring as it feels to me to be. Thank you very much for reading and please review so that I know how to improve. :)