Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance
Pointless
‘Pointless (adjective)
Meaning without purpose or benefit. Having no purpose, use, or sense, or any positive or beneficial effect.’
Yeah, sounds about right. Everything about me, pathetic little Mikey Way, is pointless. Everything I say goes ignored, unless my big brother is sober enough to hear it in which case he’ll at least act like he cares even though it’s excruciatingly clear that he cares about as much as the others do; everything I do is insignificant to everyone else, unless it annoys them or pisses them off in which case I usually end up wishing that my actions had remained as important as a fly in a forest; everything I think is too fucked up to matter to anyone other than myself. So I write it all down.
You see, some people write diaries to keep themselves sane. I, on the other hand, write suicide notes.
Or rather, anti-suicide notes I guess you could call them because if I didn’t let it out onto paper then they really would be real suicide notes. Just random chicken-scratch scrawled out onto stray pieces of paper; sometimes just a sentence or so long, sometimes they go on for over five sides of A4. Recently I’ve taken to hiding them inside my pillows because it’s easier for me to keep them a secret that way, easier for me to not lose them nor find my big brother reading them.
Like he’d actually care if he did. They’re nothing but me bitching about my life, moaning about things that are likely to never change and not a single one of them doesn’t talk about one of two people. They almost always contain Gee; lamenting about how distant he’s become, about how he never draws me any pictures anymore whenever he sees me sad, about how he never hugs me when he sees I’m feeling empty and in need of someone to soothe away the long-since apathetic ache in my chest. But more importantly, about his drinking. About how he acts like a total dickhead when he’s drunk and always insists on laughing about things that really aren’t funny; like how he got kicked out of school for setting fire to one of my tormentor’s cars. An event which, although admittedly heroic on his part, cost me the only protection that I had at school.
I wrote the first of my anti-suicide notes on that day.
Monday March 23rd,
Why’d he do it? I know that he was only trying to show people not to underestimate what he’s capable of when it comes to me, that he only really did it for me, but why the fuck did he do it? Sure, burning a car down isn’t exactly normal behaviour, but I can kinda see why it would appeal to someone like Gee.
Someone who was probably stoned at the time.
The guy whose car he torched is the ringleader of the group that pick on me, that yell at me and beat me up for having a freaky older brother, for being shy, for wearing glasses, for acting different, for apparently being ‘emo’ all of the time. And that’s why Gerard did it; because he wanted to protect me. I knew I shouldn’t have told him about yesterday, when they smashed my glasses whilst they were still adorning my face, but I couldn’t not; he asked why my face was practically shredded and I just couldn’t lie to him whilst he was still sober enough to care.
But now, because of me, Gee’s been kicked out of school. I’ve cost him his best shot at a decent future and yet everyone’s blaming Gerard. That’s why everyone’s yelling, no matter what I try to tell them, they just won’t listen. As always. And because everyone’s shouting, he’s getting twice as drunk as normal and then using that to shout at me for slurred reasons that I don’t even understand.
No, I do understand. When he’s drunk he forgets to act like I’ve done nothing wrong; when he’s drunk he doesn’t feel the need to keep up the loving act of pretending to not get frustrated with me. Not that I blame him for blaming me.
If I were to die, would people stop blaming me then?
Gerard probably would. He would most likely blame himself. Especially if he reads this.
But he won’t. Because he’s probably too drunk to care if he finds me face down across the bathroom floor.
I wrote that particular note in the bathroom, it was my first note ever and I was convinced that it would be my last too. I had the painkillers all lined up and everything, I even stole a bottle of Gerard’s vodka to see if I could make them go down quicker. Apart from I never got that far because by the time I finished the note the shouting had stopped and I’d let out the majority of my emotions onto paper.
So I decided to carry on like that, just writing everything down before it could turn into suicide rather than just a suicide note. Besides, if it should ever really get to be too much, I want my loved ones, ones who probably don’t love me back, to be able to understand why should they be stupid enough to care.
The other person who I frequently mention in my stupid little notes is my best friend; a short, black-haired punk kid who is everything that my brother used to be to me but better.
I am, of course, referring to Frank Iero. Quite possibly the nicest person that has ever been idiotic enough to befriend me. Why idiotic? Because, apparently, being friends with me is almost as bad as being me.
I can remember Frank’s first day at Belleville High; it was a day that both fixed my heart and broke it at the same time. Fixed it because I was the first person he spoke to, the first person to receive his impish grin of benevolent cheeriness, the first person he asked to be his friend. Broke it because he got shouted at for hanging around with me, got laughed at for wearing the same Blink-182 t-shirt as me, got nearly beaten up for stepping out of line when a certain carless quarterback started kicking the shit out of my ribs. Frank joined the week after Gerard left, kind of like Fate was deciding to be nice and make up for snatching my big brother from me, so I was getting pretty desperate for someone to hang around with. It turned out that he moved schools because of previous bullying problems, problems which resulted in him flipping out and doing some serious damage to people I would like to beat up myself for picking on someone as genuinely lovely as my best friend.
If he’s so wonderful, you’re probably wondering why he’s frequently featured in my anti-suicide notes. Because, me being the ungrateful bastard that I am, I am no longer content with just being his best friend. I know it sounds stupid, that nobody as stunningly amazing as my enigmatic best friend could ever feel that way about someone as different to him. He’s as confident as someone as beautiful as him should be; I’m about as introverted as a new born having it’s first scarring encounter with a shopping-mall Santa Claus. He’s able to accomplish every task set; I always end up failing like the worthless little creep that I am. He’s even more beautiful than a brand new Gibson guitar, the kind that he can play with perfect expertise; I’m twice as ugly as the face of Death and, no matter how much I practice, I always end up faltering whenever I play my own instrument in front of anyone.
He could quite easily be one of the most popular kids in the school due to his good-looks and sweet charm, but isn’t because I’m dragging him down; I am the most hated person in the school because I drag everyone down.
I can still remember the first time I realised that I was in love with my best friend, a best friend who can’t ever love me back because that just wouldn’t be fair on him, it was in one of my anti-suicide notes. I was feeling all confused and like a storm was thundering down in my heart, a storm that I couldn’t decide whether I loathed or loved, so I let it all out in one of my notes.
Wednesday May 16th, Note No. 21
I don’t know what to do. I want this strange feeling to go away. I don’t even know what this feeling is; it’s like it’s hopeful and hopeless, like it’s full of glee but somehow sorrowful at the same time. Like I’m yearning for something that I know I can never have.
Frankie. This feeling’s for Frankie. And I think that it might just be love.
Apart from why the fuck would anyone ever want to love someone like me?
Exactly. I’m better off dead.
That was one of my shorter notes, the kind that actually gets to the point rather than just moaning about things that probably shouldn’t even bother me. But this shouldn’t bother me either; it’s just the way things are and, at fifteen, I should be mature enough to accept that.
Can a cat accept the fact that their owners really rather wouldn’t be greeted with disembowelled, dead mice every morning? Can a damned soul accept their fate without griping about it? Can Satan accept that he shall never be allowed to love a beautiful angel?
Exactly.
Over the past eight months, I’ve managed to accumulate around one hundred and seventy notes, each one starting with the intentions of being my last, and about eighty percent of those are about my, obviously, unrequited feelings for my awesome best friend. The other twenty percent are about Gee and how far we’ve drifted from one another.
And they can never know. Never know because it’ll probably freak Frankie out and either upset or infuriate Gerard, depending on what he’s been drinking. Sometimes I write the shittiest things about my poor big brother, things that I hate myself for thinking but cannot deny their truth.
Thursday September 9th, Note No. 103
I fucking hate my brother! All he ever does is get drunk or sleep or act like an asshole. He just told me that I need to do something with my life, that I need to stop moping and sort myself out. He told me exactly what I think of him. I’m sorry, but he’s eighteen, he has no job, does nothing with his time other than drink away his allowance (as wells as some of mine too) and then he has the nerve to get on at me about my lack of enthusiasm for life!
Fucking prick.
So I started yelling at him. Told him exactly what he is; a stupid drunk who is about as much use as silk plectrum. Although I said it in a much crueller way than that. So he started shouting, started shaking me by the shoulders and telling me not to end up like him. Before bursting into tears and running down to his cave of a bedroom.
I made my big brother cry. He made me cry too, but I deserved it. He didn’t. He was just trying to help.
He’d be a lot happier if I wasn’t here soaking up the joy he used to have. He’d be happier if I were dead. Just like everyone else would be.
If Gerard ever found Note No. 103 I think that he’d most likely start crying again, crying because of me. Same as Frank with the note I’ve written today; on his birthday.
Saturday October 31st, Note No. 173
It’s Frankie’s fifteenth birthday today. I’ve got him some new plectrums for his guitar with the Misfits logo on them and a super-rare collector’s edition Watchmen comic book. I saved up for ages to be able to afford that, even hid my money from Gerard and ignored his little mewls begging me for it.
But it doesn’t feel like I’ve gotten him enough. Because no matter what I get him, it’ll never be enough in comparison to all that he’s given me. He’s given me a friend, someone to believe in, someone to long for.
Someone to long for and never have in the way I want him. Because he’s my best friend and I draw the line at ruining his life like I’ve ruined mine; he gets bullied enough for being my best friend, imagine how bad it would be for him if he became my boyfriend. Not that he’d ever say yes.
Why would he? Why would anyone want to kiss a freak like me, someone pitiful enough to be hated by everyone (family included), other than Frankie? Sometimes I wish that he hates me too, that would make it a lot easier to hide my huge, ridiculous crush. And make the sting of everyone else’s hate duller. Because with Frankie being my friend, actually liking me, it makes everyone else’s hate more prominent; more painful.
But I’ve got to at least try to not act all depressed and miserable today. For Frankie.
The one person who might just care if the heart that he unknowingly holds in his hands were to stop beating.
“Heya, Mikes! Whatcha reading?” An energetic voice drills through my morose little silence; a voice that makes my heart race amidst it’s longing to stop.
I snap my head up from the shaking piece of white paper in my quaking hands, to see the birthday boy himself stood in my bedroom doorway; eyes wide with excitement and lips pulled into a huge grin at coming to see me on his birthday. A birthday he should be spending with people more worthy of his time. As I look up I realise the vital mistake that I’ve made; I’ve been reading through my notes, hands shaking and heart breaking, with tears trickling down my cheeks at the stupid thoughts I’ve jotted down onto paper. Tears are traipsing down my face even though I’m willing them with all of my mite to stop; it’s Frankie’s birthday, he doesn’t want to see me crying.
My lungs feel weighted down by the small gasp that leaves his lips; perfectly reddened lips adorned with a small silver ring, a ring that I can’t help but wonder how it would feel pressed against my own pale, thin lips. His eyes ignite with concern, his honey-hazel orbs glowing with a strong, sincere sympathy that I’ve never before seen. No, I have seen it; just never had it directed towards me.
And I like it, like the way that with his caring gaze he can make me feel alive again, make me feel important enough in those beautiful eyes to be worthy of life.
Yet at the same time I hate it, hate the way that his lips are drooping in a nervously worried frown at seeing his best friend crying like some sort of baby when he should be happy, should be smiling because it’s his birthday.
“Mikes, what’s wrong? What is it?” His voice drifts softly into my ears like a chorus of graceful ballerinas and he takes a seat next to me on my bed, thus making a gust strong enough to wash a few of my notes from my lap. He wraps an arm around me and sighs as I try to smile up at him, fixing me with a look that says it could be the end of the world and he’d still care more about the fact that I’m sniffling like a motherfucking coward than the importance of the day. “Are you alright, did you and Gerard have another fight again?”
His words are tinged with fury this time; once he came over whilst Gerard was having a go at me for something that I didn’t do, that he had done whilst drunk, and I was giving just as good back. Apart from my idea of fighting back revolves around me whispering harsh insults under my breath, not swearing at my brother like he was swearing and yelling at me. Frankie had been less than happy to say the least, and actually had a go at Gerard on my behalf and made him apologize to me. Angry Frank is definitely someone to be feared if he can make Gerard Way apologize. Not that Gerard apologizing to me is an alien concept, far from it, it’s just that he usually only apologizes on his own terms and when he truly believes that he was in the wrong rather than me. I don’t know what Frank said (he’d sent me to my bedroom to calm down at the time) to Gerard, but when he came into my room to say sorry he’d been close to tears for making me cry; had actually cared for the first time in a long time, like Frankie made him see how much his words wound me. After that Frank had come into my room, asking if Gerard is always like that and then just held me contritely as all I could do was let out a strangled sob in response.
Yeah, he’s seen me at my lowest points, but I don’t want even him finding out about my notes. Not least because half of them are whining on about how he’ll never be mine.
“No, it’s nothing, Frankie. Don’t worry about it.” He looks at me with parent-like eyes, all persuasive and longing to understand, but I just smile meekly up at him in response. “Happy birthday.”
“No, it’s not happy. Not if you aren’t. What’s made you cry? Is it something to do with these bits of paper, what are they anyway?”
Before I can stop him, he’s picked up the one from today (Note No. 173) and has scanned it with his wide, hurt-looking eyes. Eyes that were happy before I brought him down like the selfish bastard that I am.
“This is the biggest load of bullshit that I’ve ever read.” He throws it to the floor, eyes shining with a tight film of tears that loosens slightly as he pulls me closer into him. “You are not a freak, I’d love any present that you get me purely because it’s you that bought it and you are not hated; even if you are, who gives a shit? I like you, don’t I?”
I nod against him, semi-frightened of his seemingly angry words. But he doesn’t sound like he’s angry with me, more like angry with himself.
“I like you and as long as you have me you can’t be hated because I love you.”
Wait. He loves me? As in actual I-want-to-kiss-you kind of love? No, he can’t do; nice things like that never happen to horrible little losers like me. But he just said those fabled three words that hang in every teenager’s lovesick mind; he said ‘I love you’. I want so badly to believe him, but I know Frankie well enough that he’d say that out of pity, out of a longing to stop the tears of someone he sees as his best friend. I know him well enough to know that he’d say that just to make me happy; yet I also know that his eyes are beseeching me to believe him, to trust his sincere, breathless whisper of heartfelt and loving intimacy.
“I love you too.”
He leans to peck my cheek and his lips leave a scattering of rose petals on my, usually pale, cheek in the form of an elated blush. My heart’s beating faster than ever, beating and really fucking pleased to be; my breathing is all relaxed though, like just being under Frankie’s arm means that nothing can ever get me down again and, therefore, I can never bring Frankie down ever again.
“Wish me a happy birthday again.”
“Happy birthday.”
“No, it’s not happy; it’s perfect. Because you are. And you are mine.”
I think I need to buy myself a diary because I don’t feel so pointless anymore. I feel loved. Loved by Frank Iero.
And that in itself is more than enough to give my life a point.
A/N: So, this is what happens when I’m home ill from school; crap that should probably never be read by anyone. Sorry if it seems rushed at the end, I’m not great with dialogue. Thank you very much for taking the time to read and please review! :)
‘Pointless (adjective)
Meaning without purpose or benefit. Having no purpose, use, or sense, or any positive or beneficial effect.’
Yeah, sounds about right. Everything about me, pathetic little Mikey Way, is pointless. Everything I say goes ignored, unless my big brother is sober enough to hear it in which case he’ll at least act like he cares even though it’s excruciatingly clear that he cares about as much as the others do; everything I do is insignificant to everyone else, unless it annoys them or pisses them off in which case I usually end up wishing that my actions had remained as important as a fly in a forest; everything I think is too fucked up to matter to anyone other than myself. So I write it all down.
You see, some people write diaries to keep themselves sane. I, on the other hand, write suicide notes.
Or rather, anti-suicide notes I guess you could call them because if I didn’t let it out onto paper then they really would be real suicide notes. Just random chicken-scratch scrawled out onto stray pieces of paper; sometimes just a sentence or so long, sometimes they go on for over five sides of A4. Recently I’ve taken to hiding them inside my pillows because it’s easier for me to keep them a secret that way, easier for me to not lose them nor find my big brother reading them.
Like he’d actually care if he did. They’re nothing but me bitching about my life, moaning about things that are likely to never change and not a single one of them doesn’t talk about one of two people. They almost always contain Gee; lamenting about how distant he’s become, about how he never draws me any pictures anymore whenever he sees me sad, about how he never hugs me when he sees I’m feeling empty and in need of someone to soothe away the long-since apathetic ache in my chest. But more importantly, about his drinking. About how he acts like a total dickhead when he’s drunk and always insists on laughing about things that really aren’t funny; like how he got kicked out of school for setting fire to one of my tormentor’s cars. An event which, although admittedly heroic on his part, cost me the only protection that I had at school.
I wrote the first of my anti-suicide notes on that day.
Monday March 23rd,
Why’d he do it? I know that he was only trying to show people not to underestimate what he’s capable of when it comes to me, that he only really did it for me, but why the fuck did he do it? Sure, burning a car down isn’t exactly normal behaviour, but I can kinda see why it would appeal to someone like Gee.
Someone who was probably stoned at the time.
The guy whose car he torched is the ringleader of the group that pick on me, that yell at me and beat me up for having a freaky older brother, for being shy, for wearing glasses, for acting different, for apparently being ‘emo’ all of the time. And that’s why Gerard did it; because he wanted to protect me. I knew I shouldn’t have told him about yesterday, when they smashed my glasses whilst they were still adorning my face, but I couldn’t not; he asked why my face was practically shredded and I just couldn’t lie to him whilst he was still sober enough to care.
But now, because of me, Gee’s been kicked out of school. I’ve cost him his best shot at a decent future and yet everyone’s blaming Gerard. That’s why everyone’s yelling, no matter what I try to tell them, they just won’t listen. As always. And because everyone’s shouting, he’s getting twice as drunk as normal and then using that to shout at me for slurred reasons that I don’t even understand.
No, I do understand. When he’s drunk he forgets to act like I’ve done nothing wrong; when he’s drunk he doesn’t feel the need to keep up the loving act of pretending to not get frustrated with me. Not that I blame him for blaming me.
If I were to die, would people stop blaming me then?
Gerard probably would. He would most likely blame himself. Especially if he reads this.
But he won’t. Because he’s probably too drunk to care if he finds me face down across the bathroom floor.
I wrote that particular note in the bathroom, it was my first note ever and I was convinced that it would be my last too. I had the painkillers all lined up and everything, I even stole a bottle of Gerard’s vodka to see if I could make them go down quicker. Apart from I never got that far because by the time I finished the note the shouting had stopped and I’d let out the majority of my emotions onto paper.
So I decided to carry on like that, just writing everything down before it could turn into suicide rather than just a suicide note. Besides, if it should ever really get to be too much, I want my loved ones, ones who probably don’t love me back, to be able to understand why should they be stupid enough to care.
The other person who I frequently mention in my stupid little notes is my best friend; a short, black-haired punk kid who is everything that my brother used to be to me but better.
I am, of course, referring to Frank Iero. Quite possibly the nicest person that has ever been idiotic enough to befriend me. Why idiotic? Because, apparently, being friends with me is almost as bad as being me.
I can remember Frank’s first day at Belleville High; it was a day that both fixed my heart and broke it at the same time. Fixed it because I was the first person he spoke to, the first person to receive his impish grin of benevolent cheeriness, the first person he asked to be his friend. Broke it because he got shouted at for hanging around with me, got laughed at for wearing the same Blink-182 t-shirt as me, got nearly beaten up for stepping out of line when a certain carless quarterback started kicking the shit out of my ribs. Frank joined the week after Gerard left, kind of like Fate was deciding to be nice and make up for snatching my big brother from me, so I was getting pretty desperate for someone to hang around with. It turned out that he moved schools because of previous bullying problems, problems which resulted in him flipping out and doing some serious damage to people I would like to beat up myself for picking on someone as genuinely lovely as my best friend.
If he’s so wonderful, you’re probably wondering why he’s frequently featured in my anti-suicide notes. Because, me being the ungrateful bastard that I am, I am no longer content with just being his best friend. I know it sounds stupid, that nobody as stunningly amazing as my enigmatic best friend could ever feel that way about someone as different to him. He’s as confident as someone as beautiful as him should be; I’m about as introverted as a new born having it’s first scarring encounter with a shopping-mall Santa Claus. He’s able to accomplish every task set; I always end up failing like the worthless little creep that I am. He’s even more beautiful than a brand new Gibson guitar, the kind that he can play with perfect expertise; I’m twice as ugly as the face of Death and, no matter how much I practice, I always end up faltering whenever I play my own instrument in front of anyone.
He could quite easily be one of the most popular kids in the school due to his good-looks and sweet charm, but isn’t because I’m dragging him down; I am the most hated person in the school because I drag everyone down.
I can still remember the first time I realised that I was in love with my best friend, a best friend who can’t ever love me back because that just wouldn’t be fair on him, it was in one of my anti-suicide notes. I was feeling all confused and like a storm was thundering down in my heart, a storm that I couldn’t decide whether I loathed or loved, so I let it all out in one of my notes.
Wednesday May 16th, Note No. 21
I don’t know what to do. I want this strange feeling to go away. I don’t even know what this feeling is; it’s like it’s hopeful and hopeless, like it’s full of glee but somehow sorrowful at the same time. Like I’m yearning for something that I know I can never have.
Frankie. This feeling’s for Frankie. And I think that it might just be love.
Apart from why the fuck would anyone ever want to love someone like me?
Exactly. I’m better off dead.
That was one of my shorter notes, the kind that actually gets to the point rather than just moaning about things that probably shouldn’t even bother me. But this shouldn’t bother me either; it’s just the way things are and, at fifteen, I should be mature enough to accept that.
Can a cat accept the fact that their owners really rather wouldn’t be greeted with disembowelled, dead mice every morning? Can a damned soul accept their fate without griping about it? Can Satan accept that he shall never be allowed to love a beautiful angel?
Exactly.
Over the past eight months, I’ve managed to accumulate around one hundred and seventy notes, each one starting with the intentions of being my last, and about eighty percent of those are about my, obviously, unrequited feelings for my awesome best friend. The other twenty percent are about Gee and how far we’ve drifted from one another.
And they can never know. Never know because it’ll probably freak Frankie out and either upset or infuriate Gerard, depending on what he’s been drinking. Sometimes I write the shittiest things about my poor big brother, things that I hate myself for thinking but cannot deny their truth.
Thursday September 9th, Note No. 103
I fucking hate my brother! All he ever does is get drunk or sleep or act like an asshole. He just told me that I need to do something with my life, that I need to stop moping and sort myself out. He told me exactly what I think of him. I’m sorry, but he’s eighteen, he has no job, does nothing with his time other than drink away his allowance (as wells as some of mine too) and then he has the nerve to get on at me about my lack of enthusiasm for life!
Fucking prick.
So I started yelling at him. Told him exactly what he is; a stupid drunk who is about as much use as silk plectrum. Although I said it in a much crueller way than that. So he started shouting, started shaking me by the shoulders and telling me not to end up like him. Before bursting into tears and running down to his cave of a bedroom.
I made my big brother cry. He made me cry too, but I deserved it. He didn’t. He was just trying to help.
He’d be a lot happier if I wasn’t here soaking up the joy he used to have. He’d be happier if I were dead. Just like everyone else would be.
If Gerard ever found Note No. 103 I think that he’d most likely start crying again, crying because of me. Same as Frank with the note I’ve written today; on his birthday.
Saturday October 31st, Note No. 173
It’s Frankie’s fifteenth birthday today. I’ve got him some new plectrums for his guitar with the Misfits logo on them and a super-rare collector’s edition Watchmen comic book. I saved up for ages to be able to afford that, even hid my money from Gerard and ignored his little mewls begging me for it.
But it doesn’t feel like I’ve gotten him enough. Because no matter what I get him, it’ll never be enough in comparison to all that he’s given me. He’s given me a friend, someone to believe in, someone to long for.
Someone to long for and never have in the way I want him. Because he’s my best friend and I draw the line at ruining his life like I’ve ruined mine; he gets bullied enough for being my best friend, imagine how bad it would be for him if he became my boyfriend. Not that he’d ever say yes.
Why would he? Why would anyone want to kiss a freak like me, someone pitiful enough to be hated by everyone (family included), other than Frankie? Sometimes I wish that he hates me too, that would make it a lot easier to hide my huge, ridiculous crush. And make the sting of everyone else’s hate duller. Because with Frankie being my friend, actually liking me, it makes everyone else’s hate more prominent; more painful.
But I’ve got to at least try to not act all depressed and miserable today. For Frankie.
The one person who might just care if the heart that he unknowingly holds in his hands were to stop beating.
“Heya, Mikes! Whatcha reading?” An energetic voice drills through my morose little silence; a voice that makes my heart race amidst it’s longing to stop.
I snap my head up from the shaking piece of white paper in my quaking hands, to see the birthday boy himself stood in my bedroom doorway; eyes wide with excitement and lips pulled into a huge grin at coming to see me on his birthday. A birthday he should be spending with people more worthy of his time. As I look up I realise the vital mistake that I’ve made; I’ve been reading through my notes, hands shaking and heart breaking, with tears trickling down my cheeks at the stupid thoughts I’ve jotted down onto paper. Tears are traipsing down my face even though I’m willing them with all of my mite to stop; it’s Frankie’s birthday, he doesn’t want to see me crying.
My lungs feel weighted down by the small gasp that leaves his lips; perfectly reddened lips adorned with a small silver ring, a ring that I can’t help but wonder how it would feel pressed against my own pale, thin lips. His eyes ignite with concern, his honey-hazel orbs glowing with a strong, sincere sympathy that I’ve never before seen. No, I have seen it; just never had it directed towards me.
And I like it, like the way that with his caring gaze he can make me feel alive again, make me feel important enough in those beautiful eyes to be worthy of life.
Yet at the same time I hate it, hate the way that his lips are drooping in a nervously worried frown at seeing his best friend crying like some sort of baby when he should be happy, should be smiling because it’s his birthday.
“Mikes, what’s wrong? What is it?” His voice drifts softly into my ears like a chorus of graceful ballerinas and he takes a seat next to me on my bed, thus making a gust strong enough to wash a few of my notes from my lap. He wraps an arm around me and sighs as I try to smile up at him, fixing me with a look that says it could be the end of the world and he’d still care more about the fact that I’m sniffling like a motherfucking coward than the importance of the day. “Are you alright, did you and Gerard have another fight again?”
His words are tinged with fury this time; once he came over whilst Gerard was having a go at me for something that I didn’t do, that he had done whilst drunk, and I was giving just as good back. Apart from my idea of fighting back revolves around me whispering harsh insults under my breath, not swearing at my brother like he was swearing and yelling at me. Frankie had been less than happy to say the least, and actually had a go at Gerard on my behalf and made him apologize to me. Angry Frank is definitely someone to be feared if he can make Gerard Way apologize. Not that Gerard apologizing to me is an alien concept, far from it, it’s just that he usually only apologizes on his own terms and when he truly believes that he was in the wrong rather than me. I don’t know what Frank said (he’d sent me to my bedroom to calm down at the time) to Gerard, but when he came into my room to say sorry he’d been close to tears for making me cry; had actually cared for the first time in a long time, like Frankie made him see how much his words wound me. After that Frank had come into my room, asking if Gerard is always like that and then just held me contritely as all I could do was let out a strangled sob in response.
Yeah, he’s seen me at my lowest points, but I don’t want even him finding out about my notes. Not least because half of them are whining on about how he’ll never be mine.
“No, it’s nothing, Frankie. Don’t worry about it.” He looks at me with parent-like eyes, all persuasive and longing to understand, but I just smile meekly up at him in response. “Happy birthday.”
“No, it’s not happy. Not if you aren’t. What’s made you cry? Is it something to do with these bits of paper, what are they anyway?”
Before I can stop him, he’s picked up the one from today (Note No. 173) and has scanned it with his wide, hurt-looking eyes. Eyes that were happy before I brought him down like the selfish bastard that I am.
“This is the biggest load of bullshit that I’ve ever read.” He throws it to the floor, eyes shining with a tight film of tears that loosens slightly as he pulls me closer into him. “You are not a freak, I’d love any present that you get me purely because it’s you that bought it and you are not hated; even if you are, who gives a shit? I like you, don’t I?”
I nod against him, semi-frightened of his seemingly angry words. But he doesn’t sound like he’s angry with me, more like angry with himself.
“I like you and as long as you have me you can’t be hated because I love you.”
Wait. He loves me? As in actual I-want-to-kiss-you kind of love? No, he can’t do; nice things like that never happen to horrible little losers like me. But he just said those fabled three words that hang in every teenager’s lovesick mind; he said ‘I love you’. I want so badly to believe him, but I know Frankie well enough that he’d say that out of pity, out of a longing to stop the tears of someone he sees as his best friend. I know him well enough to know that he’d say that just to make me happy; yet I also know that his eyes are beseeching me to believe him, to trust his sincere, breathless whisper of heartfelt and loving intimacy.
“I love you too.”
He leans to peck my cheek and his lips leave a scattering of rose petals on my, usually pale, cheek in the form of an elated blush. My heart’s beating faster than ever, beating and really fucking pleased to be; my breathing is all relaxed though, like just being under Frankie’s arm means that nothing can ever get me down again and, therefore, I can never bring Frankie down ever again.
“Wish me a happy birthday again.”
“Happy birthday.”
“No, it’s not happy; it’s perfect. Because you are. And you are mine.”
I think I need to buy myself a diary because I don’t feel so pointless anymore. I feel loved. Loved by Frank Iero.
And that in itself is more than enough to give my life a point.
A/N: So, this is what happens when I’m home ill from school; crap that should probably never be read by anyone. Sorry if it seems rushed at the end, I’m not great with dialogue. Thank you very much for taking the time to read and please review! :)
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