Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Arctic Flower
November 8th, 1986
He'd never really believed in God.
God was a funny little man somebody had decided to make up one day because they were feeling lonely. God was something cute, and adorable and maybe even a little pathetic. God was something disenchanted men with delusions of grandeur had taken and turned into a scary, vengeance-thirsty psychotic serial killer.
But, to him, God didn't really exist.
God didn't exist for a number of reasons, all of which included his life being pretty shit, and nobody really caring about it being so.
He smirked and let his head fall back and wondered what the fuck he was doing, and why he was doing it - mainly because he found it funny that nobody had gone looking for him yet, and he wondered if anybody except for Sam would've ever even noticed.
“So this is it.”
He said it to no one in particular, and said it because he liked the sound of it.
This is it, and he laughed at how cliché his life had just become. Cliché, like one of those old movies you watch. Cliché, like in the books.
The cliché life of a cliché boy in a cliché town, making cliché choices which match perfectly with his cliché view of everything, and, oh!, he couldn't wait to see in what cliché situation he was gonna end up because of them.
Probably, it would've been worser than before, and then he would've died a cliché death in a cliché dump with cliché hobos.
Cliché.
Cliché.
Cliché.
He shut his eyes and listened to the low throb and rumble of the truck's engine. It caught hold of his dreams, made it hard for him to stay awake. He let his brain rest as his fingers fumbled with the hem of his sleeve, as he absent-mindedly tugged on a loose string. He ignored the stirring in his limbs, the breakdown looming.
*
“Hey, boy.”
Frank furrowed his brow, turned to the side. He felt his scrawny hipbones press uncomfortably against the seat he'd curled himself into.
“Boy!”
Someone grabbed him and shook him, forced his brain to emerge from the fuzziness it had gradually slipped into.
He blinked a few times, and his mouth tasted bitter.
“We've arrived, boy. Pack your things and get off.”
The bulky, black truck driver clutched his shoulder.
Frank shook his head a few times, trying to wipe sleep out of his eyes, and cleaned his slobbered-on cheek with the back of his hand.
His entire body ached and burned.
It took him another few moments to realize where he was and what he was doing, and then his brain seemed to kick-start back into action, and Frank became once again himself: paranoid, aggressive, defensive.
He grabbed his bag and glared sideways at the other man as he jumped off, not daring to look at him directly. Since he knew he would've needed every single cent to find a place to stay in New York (even though he was pretty sure he would've died in a matter of weeks, either by overdose or some STD or another. But, he figured, it was better off to be dead than a toothless junkie crawling in his own vomit) he'd payed the man the only other way he knew, and that was turning tricks. Something he realized – not without a little bit of pride, which pleased him and somehow disgusted him at the same time – he knew surprisingly well how to do.
Frank spat on the ground as the truck drove away and cracked his knuckles before checking that his bag was intact – to his great pleasure, it was.
He blew his nose and looked around: the man had dropped him off near a small diner and he dug in his pockets for loose change. He had enough for a coffee, and maybe even something sweet to eat.
He flinched as he briefly thought of home, and a pang of guilt reminded him of Sam. But she was a strong kid, he knew she would've made it just fine without him – not that he'd ever been of much help to his sister. He still hoped she would've understood, he hoped for her not to blame him.
But those were nothing but brief thoughts, and then he shrugged them off, opened the door and stepped into the tiny restaurant's warmth.
*
He stirred his coffee after pouring a mammoth amount of sugar in it and glanced at the other people there, huddled in his hoodie, as his skin began to crawl and his insides began to beg.
He hadn't had a fix in days – he'd saved up everything he'd made one way or another for New York.
Dope had had to wait for a couple of days, and the forced detox (which he hoped was soon going to end) had started to bight in hard and not let go. He was feeling sick.
He hated dope sick.
It made him want to die.
The sleep had managed to push the addiction to the back of his mind, but soon the tremors started again, and it felt as if Frank's entire being had been emptied out, replaced with dark and twisted need.
He tried to steady his shaking hands, but the spoon clinked against the mug, and it rang unreasonably loud against his exhausted and screaming skull.
Frank swallowed, and as the pressure grew in the back of his neck, he felt his tongue grow heavy.
A fix, a fix, he needed a fix.
But a fix wasn't coming anytime soon, he knew that, and the thought scared him more than he wished to admit. He payed as quick as he could as the bile started to claw its way back up his throat and ignored the funny looks the cashier gave him.
The familiar pain in every inch of his body, the familiar need, the sickness, the sweat, the tremors.
It all screamed addict.
It all screamed dead man walking.
He managed to drag himself for a few feet before feeling the vomit seep past his teeth and he emptied his stomach on the side of the curb, hissing and spitting and cursing under his breath, hair sticking against his sweaty face, panic filling him.
He knew he either got a fix, or he died.
Maybe, just maybe, he had one in his bag. He reached for it.
There was no bag.
Frank felt his brain begin to plummet as everything bursted into panic around him and that combined with the pain and sweat made it so he vomited, twice, again against the pavement and cursed himself for leaving without a backup fix, cursed himself for having no money on him, and for being a complete failure, an utter disappointment to himself, and his friends, and whatever piece of crap he was supposed to call a family.
He was shaking so violently not even his brain could think anymore, and soon enough, as he shut his eyes and leaned his face against the warm wall of some building, he also became completely devoid of any feeling that wasn't purely physical.
He felt like laughing, but couldn't bring himself to do so because for some reason nothing mattered until he got his fix, but no bag meant no money, and no money meant no fix.
It wasn't supposed to work that way, everything felt horribly off key and horribly out of tune, and amidst the panic and pain he tried to gain a little consciousness back. He dug his nails into himself, and the pain made it so he was lucid enough to notice someone had grabbed him.
But the voice was far and muffled, covered up by the migraine's never ending monotone buzz.
It took him a few heartbeats for him to hear it completely.
“You left this—you left this at the diner.”
The stranger – a forty year old-ish, well built guy - was clutching what Frank was pleased to recognize was his bag.
He swallowed and grabbed it from him, holding it up to his chest and sinking to the ground with relief.
“You okay, kiddo?” the stranger asked.
Frank's mind flared up long enough for him to stop the tremor as waves of cramps took over his already pained stomach.
He moaned unintentionally and tried to mask his pain.
“I'm fine.”
Fear of strangers, ever present.
“You sure?”
“Yes. Yes, I'm fucking sure.”
He managed to wobble back on his feet and snarled at the other man. He didn't need any help. He'd literally grown up on his own – broken household, broken dreams – taking care of Sam and of himself the best way he could. Dope had been nothing but a distraction, and maybe something more.
An escape route. A salvation.
It had seeped inside his bones and poisoned him, comfortable numbness that erased the very own notion of himself, something he hated so much.
Dope had dragged him down, dope had forced him to escape. He and Sam had sworn to each other to leave together, but she was still too young to set out on her own, and he knew he was no longer a valid support for her. He'd chickened out and broken the promise.
And now he was crumpled inside of himself, unable to move because his blood felt empty, horribly horribly empty without heroin, without his sweet White Lady.
“No need for help?”
“I don't need your fucking help.” he hissed back.
The other man's eyes hardened, but he didn't seem mad. Frank was alert nonetheless, ready to fight, or run, or both.
He took a few steps back.
“No need for a place to sleep? Food, maybe?”
“Mommy taught me not to talk to strangers.”
“I don't want to hurt you.”
“I'm fine.”
He no longer could tell wether his hands were shaking for the cold or for the need that was clawing at every inch of his body. He didn't care, because all he wanted was his money and what his money could get him.
The boy glared at the man and, when he realized that he was telling the truth, that he had no intention to hurt him (even though a tiny part of his head was still screaming to watch his back) he started to tentatively walk away.
“My name's Gerard, by the way.” the other called out.
Frank kept on walking, finding it already extremely hard to go in a straight line, to put one unstable foot in front of the other.
He knew he was going to be sick again.
“I work at NYU if you need me. English lit.”
“I don't care.”
But he did. For some inexplicable reason, deep down, knowing that that man was maybe a potential friend did matter to Frank.
But for now, he still hadn't realized it.
He'd never really believed in God.
God was a funny little man somebody had decided to make up one day because they were feeling lonely. God was something cute, and adorable and maybe even a little pathetic. God was something disenchanted men with delusions of grandeur had taken and turned into a scary, vengeance-thirsty psychotic serial killer.
But, to him, God didn't really exist.
God didn't exist for a number of reasons, all of which included his life being pretty shit, and nobody really caring about it being so.
He smirked and let his head fall back and wondered what the fuck he was doing, and why he was doing it - mainly because he found it funny that nobody had gone looking for him yet, and he wondered if anybody except for Sam would've ever even noticed.
“So this is it.”
He said it to no one in particular, and said it because he liked the sound of it.
This is it, and he laughed at how cliché his life had just become. Cliché, like one of those old movies you watch. Cliché, like in the books.
The cliché life of a cliché boy in a cliché town, making cliché choices which match perfectly with his cliché view of everything, and, oh!, he couldn't wait to see in what cliché situation he was gonna end up because of them.
Probably, it would've been worser than before, and then he would've died a cliché death in a cliché dump with cliché hobos.
Cliché.
Cliché.
Cliché.
He shut his eyes and listened to the low throb and rumble of the truck's engine. It caught hold of his dreams, made it hard for him to stay awake. He let his brain rest as his fingers fumbled with the hem of his sleeve, as he absent-mindedly tugged on a loose string. He ignored the stirring in his limbs, the breakdown looming.
*
“Hey, boy.”
Frank furrowed his brow, turned to the side. He felt his scrawny hipbones press uncomfortably against the seat he'd curled himself into.
“Boy!”
Someone grabbed him and shook him, forced his brain to emerge from the fuzziness it had gradually slipped into.
He blinked a few times, and his mouth tasted bitter.
“We've arrived, boy. Pack your things and get off.”
The bulky, black truck driver clutched his shoulder.
Frank shook his head a few times, trying to wipe sleep out of his eyes, and cleaned his slobbered-on cheek with the back of his hand.
His entire body ached and burned.
It took him another few moments to realize where he was and what he was doing, and then his brain seemed to kick-start back into action, and Frank became once again himself: paranoid, aggressive, defensive.
He grabbed his bag and glared sideways at the other man as he jumped off, not daring to look at him directly. Since he knew he would've needed every single cent to find a place to stay in New York (even though he was pretty sure he would've died in a matter of weeks, either by overdose or some STD or another. But, he figured, it was better off to be dead than a toothless junkie crawling in his own vomit) he'd payed the man the only other way he knew, and that was turning tricks. Something he realized – not without a little bit of pride, which pleased him and somehow disgusted him at the same time – he knew surprisingly well how to do.
Frank spat on the ground as the truck drove away and cracked his knuckles before checking that his bag was intact – to his great pleasure, it was.
He blew his nose and looked around: the man had dropped him off near a small diner and he dug in his pockets for loose change. He had enough for a coffee, and maybe even something sweet to eat.
He flinched as he briefly thought of home, and a pang of guilt reminded him of Sam. But she was a strong kid, he knew she would've made it just fine without him – not that he'd ever been of much help to his sister. He still hoped she would've understood, he hoped for her not to blame him.
But those were nothing but brief thoughts, and then he shrugged them off, opened the door and stepped into the tiny restaurant's warmth.
*
He stirred his coffee after pouring a mammoth amount of sugar in it and glanced at the other people there, huddled in his hoodie, as his skin began to crawl and his insides began to beg.
He hadn't had a fix in days – he'd saved up everything he'd made one way or another for New York.
Dope had had to wait for a couple of days, and the forced detox (which he hoped was soon going to end) had started to bight in hard and not let go. He was feeling sick.
He hated dope sick.
It made him want to die.
The sleep had managed to push the addiction to the back of his mind, but soon the tremors started again, and it felt as if Frank's entire being had been emptied out, replaced with dark and twisted need.
He tried to steady his shaking hands, but the spoon clinked against the mug, and it rang unreasonably loud against his exhausted and screaming skull.
Frank swallowed, and as the pressure grew in the back of his neck, he felt his tongue grow heavy.
A fix, a fix, he needed a fix.
But a fix wasn't coming anytime soon, he knew that, and the thought scared him more than he wished to admit. He payed as quick as he could as the bile started to claw its way back up his throat and ignored the funny looks the cashier gave him.
The familiar pain in every inch of his body, the familiar need, the sickness, the sweat, the tremors.
It all screamed addict.
It all screamed dead man walking.
He managed to drag himself for a few feet before feeling the vomit seep past his teeth and he emptied his stomach on the side of the curb, hissing and spitting and cursing under his breath, hair sticking against his sweaty face, panic filling him.
He knew he either got a fix, or he died.
Maybe, just maybe, he had one in his bag. He reached for it.
There was no bag.
Frank felt his brain begin to plummet as everything bursted into panic around him and that combined with the pain and sweat made it so he vomited, twice, again against the pavement and cursed himself for leaving without a backup fix, cursed himself for having no money on him, and for being a complete failure, an utter disappointment to himself, and his friends, and whatever piece of crap he was supposed to call a family.
He was shaking so violently not even his brain could think anymore, and soon enough, as he shut his eyes and leaned his face against the warm wall of some building, he also became completely devoid of any feeling that wasn't purely physical.
He felt like laughing, but couldn't bring himself to do so because for some reason nothing mattered until he got his fix, but no bag meant no money, and no money meant no fix.
It wasn't supposed to work that way, everything felt horribly off key and horribly out of tune, and amidst the panic and pain he tried to gain a little consciousness back. He dug his nails into himself, and the pain made it so he was lucid enough to notice someone had grabbed him.
But the voice was far and muffled, covered up by the migraine's never ending monotone buzz.
It took him a few heartbeats for him to hear it completely.
“You left this—you left this at the diner.”
The stranger – a forty year old-ish, well built guy - was clutching what Frank was pleased to recognize was his bag.
He swallowed and grabbed it from him, holding it up to his chest and sinking to the ground with relief.
“You okay, kiddo?” the stranger asked.
Frank's mind flared up long enough for him to stop the tremor as waves of cramps took over his already pained stomach.
He moaned unintentionally and tried to mask his pain.
“I'm fine.”
Fear of strangers, ever present.
“You sure?”
“Yes. Yes, I'm fucking sure.”
He managed to wobble back on his feet and snarled at the other man. He didn't need any help. He'd literally grown up on his own – broken household, broken dreams – taking care of Sam and of himself the best way he could. Dope had been nothing but a distraction, and maybe something more.
An escape route. A salvation.
It had seeped inside his bones and poisoned him, comfortable numbness that erased the very own notion of himself, something he hated so much.
Dope had dragged him down, dope had forced him to escape. He and Sam had sworn to each other to leave together, but she was still too young to set out on her own, and he knew he was no longer a valid support for her. He'd chickened out and broken the promise.
And now he was crumpled inside of himself, unable to move because his blood felt empty, horribly horribly empty without heroin, without his sweet White Lady.
“No need for help?”
“I don't need your fucking help.” he hissed back.
The other man's eyes hardened, but he didn't seem mad. Frank was alert nonetheless, ready to fight, or run, or both.
He took a few steps back.
“No need for a place to sleep? Food, maybe?”
“Mommy taught me not to talk to strangers.”
“I don't want to hurt you.”
“I'm fine.”
He no longer could tell wether his hands were shaking for the cold or for the need that was clawing at every inch of his body. He didn't care, because all he wanted was his money and what his money could get him.
The boy glared at the man and, when he realized that he was telling the truth, that he had no intention to hurt him (even though a tiny part of his head was still screaming to watch his back) he started to tentatively walk away.
“My name's Gerard, by the way.” the other called out.
Frank kept on walking, finding it already extremely hard to go in a straight line, to put one unstable foot in front of the other.
He knew he was going to be sick again.
“I work at NYU if you need me. English lit.”
“I don't care.”
But he did. For some inexplicable reason, deep down, knowing that that man was maybe a potential friend did matter to Frank.
But for now, he still hadn't realized it.
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