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A/N: OH. MY. GOD. THANKYOUALLSOFREAKINGFUCKINGMUCHFORYOURUTTERLYAMAZINGREVIEWS!! Seriously, I couldn’t fucking BELIEVE it…you’re all amazing. AMAZING. I’m really sorry it’s taken me a while to update- as any of you who read Trying To Escape The Inevitable will know, I’ve been feeling really depressed lately and have been finding it hard to write. I have also been banned from the computer for the last three days by evil, evil parents, which I was so fucking angry about. But, um, yeah. Here is chapter twenty two…I hope you all enjoy! I enjoyed writing it, actually, but I don’t know if it’s good. Oh, and I should be updating TTETI in a few days…sorry it’s taken me so long :/

This chapter is for AlysonRose, who has been incredibly sweet and supportive over the past couple of weeks, and I just wanted to say how much I appreciate it- thank you (:

Chapter Twenty Two

Frank never did come back.

Well, I say never, but I guess there’s still plenty of time- I mean, it’s not like I’m reaching the end of my mortifying, exceptionally unhinged existence and am flailing dramatically around on my death bed, while waiting for that special visit from the Grim Reaper. At least, I don’t think I am. And when I say a special visit, I do not mean the type of friendly get together and chat over a cup of tea.

I mean being brutally dispatched to my next life as a sweet little snail with a pea-green swirly shell, all from one merciless sweep of Mr. Grimmy’s scythe. Or Mrs. Grimmy. I mean, who knows what sex the grim reaper is? The only people who do aren’t really in a fit state to communicate to us.

Perhaps the Grim Reaper thinks keeping his sex mysterious will make him/her more formidable, and it’s just one of those things you never get to find out.

Or perhaps he/she is actually just a hermaphrodite.

But I seriously doubt, male or female, hermaphrodite or otherwise, that the Grim Reaper would take kindly to being called ‘Grimmy’. After all, it perhaps is a little over-familiar to nickname death himself. Or herself. Or itself. Whatever.

The point is, I think he/she/it might be a tad irked. And irritating the Grim Reaper is not necessarily something wise to do if you want to remain alive.

But anyway, that’s not the point. in fact, I seem to have strayed a very long way from the point which is that, although it may feel like it, it hasn’t actually been years since Frank legged it so mysteriously from the more than slightly ridiculous drama in Jamie’s trashed bedroom. A drama which featured a very, very naked Gerard sporting an overly talkative crotch, a hysterically sobbing unicorn believer, and Satan disguised in an alarming amount of streaky orange fake tan and false eyelashes.

But hey, I guess even the devil has off-days style wise. It can’t be easy spending all day torturing people with red-hot pitchforks.

Anyway, I can maybe see why someone might wish not to be part of that situation in Satan’s bedroom if they were anywhere within the realms of sanity, but Frank still left me. After making all my little brain cells’ perverted hopes and dreams come true. He left me.

I really didn’t think Frank was that kinda guy, to just disappear without any explanation after molesting my manly parts.

But he did.

Frank Iero, the sex god with possibly multiple genitalia left me all alone.

Admittedly with an irritatingly talkative crotch. But seriously, that wasn’t much comfort. Especially seeing as it was actually my best friend.

Um, not that my crotch is my best friend. I mean, seriously, I know I’m sad in so many ways, but I’m not that sad. That is like, beyond sad. What I meant was that Ray’s voice was just coming from that area because my mobile phone happened to be placed there, and he was on the other end of it.

Uh, the other end of the phone, that is. Not the other end of my dick. Just to clarify. If he had been at the other end of my masculine parts, there would have been a lot of vomiting. And not from me.

So in other words, Frank left me alone with my best friend’s company. Well, Ray was my best friend, before he started tonguing Satan’s intestines. Now I’m not so sure what he is, other than a cat-molesting puff head.

I mean seriously, what the fuck is wrong with the dude? And he wonders why poor little Maisie snacks on the cables of the TV or bedside lamps.

Okay, how did I get onto the subject of feline sexual abuse? I was trying to talk about Frank’s devastating departure. God, my brain actually rambles even more than I thought it did. No wonder I so often lose the plot and am chased by medics in white coats brandishing large, extremely sharp needles.

Well, I guess that was just once.

During a doctors appointment for the flu vaccination.

And I guess the doctors weren’t really chasing me. I was just quivering on a little plastic seat.

So in other words, no, I have never been hounded by angry doctors in white coats. Yet. If my sanity continues to deteriorate at this rate, I’m pretty sure that will change.

Anyway, moving on and back to the abandoned point that Frank Iero, the god of all hot yumminess, has remained distressingly absent since the slightly embarrassing little scene in Satan’s lair. And I must admit, I am a tad distraught.

It has been exactly eight fucking days, thirteen goddamn hours and thirty nine moose pooping minutes since Frank skedaddled in such a gentlemanly manner from the horrific situation in Jamie’s room. And of course, also my overly talkative crotch, a fuming Hitler pretending to be my stepsister, and a violently sobbing and suicidal and distraught younger brother.

Fun stuff. But of course, being the lovely, caring person I am, I didn’t turn my phone off and put Ray out of his misery. I didn’t attempt to calm Jamie down before she spontaneously combusted or went up in smoke and returned to her home planet of hell.

I didn’t even comfort poor little Mikey.

Instead, I threw myself onto the bed and started to sob in an embarrassingly girly manner because the sheets still smelt of Frank’s mango shampoo. And it reminded me and all my little hormonally unhinged teenage brain cells of the feel of his warm, firm lips and hot, mango and tobacco flavoured tongue, the feel of his hands on my back and his breath flowing unevenly into my needy mouth. I could even remember how silky soft and smooth his careless, dyed-black floppy mowhawk felt when I ran my hands through it.

And in that moment, splatted, fully naked, on Satan’s bed where a sex god had made all my messed up little dreams come true, I cried like I’d never cried before.

I cried even more than the horrible, traumatic day as a seven year old when I accidentally trampled my beloved bunny rabbit, Flopsy, to death with my brand new steel toe-capped Doc Martens.

I cried like I was breaking into a thousand tiny little pieces.

It’s been over a week, and I haven’t moved. Well, I’ve moved from Jamie’s bed- she wasn’t exactly happy about having a distraught, extremely naked stepbrother lying on her bed to sniffle all over the sheets where he’d just been sucked off (magically) by her sex god of a boyfriend.

But I haven’t moved from my own (sadly mango-scentless) bed all week. In fact, I’ve been lying in almost exactly the same position of a suicidal splat for the past eight days, spending most of the hours staring sadly at the wall and imagining what it would be like if I met Frank in my next life as a snail and things got all awkward, or wondering if I should go kill myself or something, but simultaneously not really wanting to be bothered.

So this is my life now.

I sleep.

I cry hysterically like a mentally unhinged caterpillar.

I act like a pathetic, lovesick teenager. Which of course, I am. In fact, I’m not sure I could actually become more clichéd.

And I replay the incidents of Jamie’s bed over and over and over again.

Uh, not the bed specifically- more what happened on it. As far as I know, her bed does not give people blowjobs. Or smell amazing. Or have a wonderful, knee melting smile. Or have beautiful olive green eyes. Or find my clumsiness endearing. Or-

Oh god, I can’t bear this. I want to drown in my own tears like the overly dramatic, pathetic, clichéd teenager I am.

I didn’t think it hurt this much to be ditched so heartlessly.

Then again, I’ve never really had my heart broken before. I tend to break other people’s. Well, when I say other people, I mean that Glen Danzig lookalike on holiday last year. And when I say break his heart, I mean his legs. Both of them.

But seriously, who knew it actually hurt this much? It’s actually even worse than it seems in those trashy rom-com movies.

I want to go and stick my head in the toaster and let Mikey electrocute me. I’ve never hated my existence like this before.

All I want is Frank and that wonderful tongue of his. I can’t think about anything else, and I know that no one and nothing else will be able to drag me from my overly dramatic depression and constant thoughts of wondering how easy it would be to remove your life with a pillow and duvet.

I just want it all to stop hurting.

I sigh heavily and burrow sadly further under the cover of my duvet, sniffling pitifully and wiping my nose attractively on the bed sheets. I should have known it was all too good to be true.

I mean, he’s a sex god, and I’m…well, a homosexual dingbat with serious co-ordination issues and an alarming lack of control over my tongue.

I guess it was just never meant to be.

This realisation far from comforts me. In fact, it only makes me feel like my brain cells are chain-sawing my chest in half and clawing my heart to pieces.

Except my brain cells are dead.

They died as soon as they realised Frank wasn’t coming back. They all started hanging their unhinged little selves or overdosing on pills or throwing javelins through each other. Little emos.

I’m also not sure where they got the javelins from.

But it’s actually quite tragic. I always thought I’d be skipping for joy the day those pink-knicker wearing little fuckers went the way of all flesh, but it actually feels horribly empty inside my head without their squealing and their lunacy and scuttling down excitably towards my baby-making bits for parties.

May the little morons rest in peace.

“Gee,” someone says gently, interrupting my reminiscent train of thought and prodding me through the duvet I’m hidden under with a long, bony finger.

I whimper and pull the duvet further over me, just wanting to be left to stew in my own suicidal thoughts and remorse for the death of my brain cells. Poor little dears. They only wanted to be loved.

Well, licked.

Sickos.

“Gee!” the person prods me again and I whine and burrow further still under my duvet, refusing to face a Frank-less world.

Much to my distress, my duvet is peeled harshly off and bright sunlight blinds my sleep deprived, bloodshot eyes.

“Meef,” I whimper, blinking rapidly and squinting into the sunlight as I scrabble and flail around wildly for my duvet to hide under again.

See, I really am destined to be a snail- it would be so much easier to hide from the world if I had a shell of my own sitting conveniently on my back, rather than having to make do with a black duvet.

“Morning sunshine,” Mikey says brightly, smiling at my disgruntled expression and screwed up face similar to something having just been prised unwillingly out from under a stone.

“Give. Me. My. Duvet,” I growl threateningly, glaring furiously at Mikey and keeping my eyes screwed half shut against the horrible brightness of the sun. Ugh, what’s the point in being so god damn bright?!

Seriously, the sun is just too happy for its own good. Self-satisfied shiny fucker. It’ll get what it deserves some day.

“Sorry, Gee,” Mikey says in much too cheerful a tone for my liking, holding my duvet out of reach.

“Give it to me. Now,” I snarl furiously, because I am a Gerard and I want my duvet and I want it now.

“Nope,” Mikey beams.

I reach out and snatch the front of his unnaturally clean Iron Maiden t-shirt. Mikey squeaks, looking more than slightly alarmed at the fact there is currently a scowling, emotionally unhinged and extremely unwashed Gerard clinging to his front. A very angry Gerard might I add. Because the Gerard wants his duvet and he wants it now. If he can’t have Frank, the duvet will have to do.

I am also not really very sure why I have suddenly started speaking in third person. I guess having your heart carelessly broken does do strange things to the head.

But I still want my duvet. Not because it has mango-scented hair or a magical tongue or anything like that, but because it is comfort that there is at least something in the world that doesn’t mind being wrapped round me.

Oh god, I am sadder than the saddest saddo in the valley of saddest sad saddos. So yes, pretty god damn sad.

You said sad quite a lot there, didn’t you?

Shut up, Brian.

DID YOU JUST CALL ME BRIAN?! AGAIN?!

Yes, actually. I can call you Brian if I want. You’re my brain. So go away, yeah?

I think you might be in a little bit of a pickle without me.

I don’t even like pickles, you imbecilic fuckface. You should know that- you control all that shit, don’t you?

A metaphorical pickle, you penisnostril!

That’s not a nice word, Brian. And what the hell is a metaphorical pickle? Do you get metaphorical gherkins?

Ooh, I like gherkins!

Me too!

Well isn’t that a coincidence, you psychological dipshit.

You-

“Gee? GEE!” Mikey’s voice snaps me out of my questionably sane argument with my own brain. I blink and look up, slightly disorientated, still fuming from Brian’s-

STOP CALLING ME BRIAN! Or I will DESTROY YOUR LIFE.

My life is already destroyed-

And that’s my fault, is-

“What is wrong with you?” Mikey says despairingly, trying to prise me from where I’m still clinging to his t-shirt in a slightly crazed fashion. “Your eyes keep rotating in this really weird way. I think you need a therapist, Gee.”

“I don’t need a therapist, I just need my duvet,” I snap.

“Gee, I’m not going to give you the duvet.”

“Then I’ll go and steal yours.”

“No you won’t.”

“Oh yes I will, you little unicorn humper.”

“No, really, I don’t think you’d want to,” Mikey says grimly. “I had a slightly moist dream last night involving Melissa.” As he utters the name, his voice goes all dreamy, and his gaze slides out of focus.

Seconds later, a little gobbet of drool lands on my head from his vacant mouth.

“Ewww!” I yelp, wiping the top of my skull on Mikey’s top. “Get a grip over your saliva, poopface! And who in the name of cat rape is Melissa?!”

“You can talk,” Mikey says snippily, apparently reverting from his daydream. “You have less control over your saliva than your manly parts, and that’s fucking saying something. And Melissa…” his voice goes all gooey again, and more saliva lands gracefully on my unwashed scalp. “Melissa and I are like Romeo and Juliet. She’s the one, Gee. She’s a god.”

“You’re gay?” I blink.

Mikey stares at me as if I’m actually dumber than him. “Where the hell did you get that from?”

“You said she was a god. God is male. A goddess is female. Don’t you pay any attention in religious studies?! And what happened to Tillie? I thought she was ‘the one’, you unicorn worshipping manwhore,” I growl. “And can you please give me my god damn duvet?!”

“Gee, I said she was a she. And that she’s called Melissa- how many guys do you get that are called Melissa?!” Mikey frowns, completely ignoring my request for my beloved little duvet.

“Well, there was that dude with the extra toe and the lesbian parents who ran the health food store-”

“Shut up. I also compared us to Romeo and Juliet, who, so far as I know, are not a gay couple! And incidentally, how the fuck do you know what sex god is?” Mikey points out sceptically.

“I pay attention in R.S lessons,” I say huffily. “Now give me my duvet.”

“Gerard, some religions believe that god is male, but others-”

“Shut up, you little philosophical know-it-all and GIVE ME MY MEESECRAPPING DUVET!!” I snarl, yanking at Mikey’s t-shirt for impact.

“Meese?” Mikey raises his eyebrows.

“Y’know, the plural of ‘moose’,” I roll my eyes heavily. “Duh. I thought you were clever.”

“The plural is moosi, Gee,” Mikey says snootily. “Don’t you know ANYTHING?”

“Yes, I do actually.”

“Oh, and what do you know then, Mr. Dribbler?”

“I know that I WANT MY DUVET! It’s all I’ve got left, Mikey!” I snarl, tugging furiously at Mikey’s shirt. “And I really don’t think you can call me Mr. Dribbler after drooling over me just cause you said the name ‘Melissa’.”

Right on cue, another little droplet of sibling drool is deposited on my head.

“Uggh!” I cry, pulling my head away, but still keeping a firm hold on Mikey’s t-shirt. “Stop it, you little fucker.”

“What, will it mess up your lovely washed hair?” Mikey snorts incredulously.

“Are you making fun of the grease levels of my scalp?”

“You could say that.”

“Okay, I have just had my HEART broken, and you’re telling me I need to wash my hair?!” I yelp. “Where the fuck are your priorities?! And where’s my duvet?” I add, somewhat panicky and I’m pretty sure my eyes are starting to do that weird revolving thing again.

“Gerard,” Mikey’s voice is suddenly more gentle, and he sits down tentatively beside me, and starting to stroke my eyelids for some reason. “You really need to stop rotating your eyes like that. It makes you look like you need to be in a locked ward. Calm down. Breathe.”

I sigh heavily, closing my apparently insanely rotating eyes. “I really don’t care anymore, Mikes,” I mumble sadly. “What are you doing here, anyway? Can’t you just give me my duvet and leave me to die?”

Mikey sighs heavily, stroking my hair. “Gee, you really need to get up.”

“Why?” I sigh dramatically. “What’s the point?”

“Well…” Mikey sounds as though he’s struggling slightly. “It’ll make you feel better. And quite frankly, you need to take-”

Mikey breaks off looking horrified as I burst violently into tears, showering his freshly washed t-shirt with tears and dribble. Because yes, I am one of those attractive criers.

I’m actually past caring- usually, I’d never, in a billion years, let my evil younger sibling see my cry, because it would result in him ridiculing me for eternity. But now, as I sob uncontrollably like a premenstrual teenage girl, I just can’t seem to help it. Because I want Frank. I want him like I’ve never wanted anything before.

I want him even more than coffee.

Apparently I’ve been taken over by a new set of overly emotional brain cells that make me hysterically cry at the smallest trigger. And really, I’m not liking these ones so much. The old, squealy, perverted pink-knicker ones were so much more fun.

Well, until they all committed suicide. And I guess they did spend most of their sick-minded little lives trying to ruin mine.

But still, they were a lot more fun than these depressing losers.

“What’s wrong now?” Mikey groans, half-heartedly trying to prise my snivelling form from his favourite t-shirt. And failing, need I add. There’s nothing wrong with my grip.

“…Y-y-you..” I break off, wailing unattractively.

“I what?! All I said was that you needed to get up and quite frankly that you-”

“F-f-f-f-frank-l-ly,” I sob, shaking my head in despair. “You s-said F-Frank.”

“Oh god, pull yourself together, you gothic dingbat,” Mikey sighs heavily, and shoves me off him so as I flop back onto my side on the mattress, still sniffling. “Tillie was using me, but I got over it, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but you’re just weird,” I snap, wiping my eyes on the pillow. “It can’t have been true love.”

“And what would you know about true love?” Mikey raises his eyebrows. “You just got sucked off by a random dude who was dating someone else. I wouldn’t call that love, Gee.”

I dissolve into tears again. “B-but…he had such a lovely tongue,” I sniff.

“There’ll be other tongues, Gee.”

“Not like his! It tasted like mangoes and it was all warm and-”

“Information overload, fuckface. I’m sorry you got ditched, but seriously dude, you weren’t even dating him. My girlfriend was using me to get back at the love of her life, in the process getting me to fall hopelessly head over heels for her and then heartlessly dumping me so as I wanted to take a stroll across a motorway at rush hour,” Mikey points out gently, sitting down beside me on the bed.

I sniff pitifully, and Mikey rolls his eyes.

“Dude, just get over it,” he says, patting me on the back. “There’ll be other Franks, yeah?”

I sigh morosely, and lean into his arms, still snivelling.

Mikey gags slightly. “Gee,” he chokes, pushing me away. “No offence dude, but fucking hell, you really, really need to take a fucking shower.”

I pout and wipe my nose on my brother. “Mikes, I’m heartbroken and you’re telling me to shower?”

“If you want the rest of the world to remain alive, yes,” Mikey splutters, getting up off the bed. “No offence.”

“Oh, why should I be offended?” I growl. “I’ve just been dumped and now you’re telling me I stink!”

“Gee, you can’t be dumped when you weren’t even in a relationship. And you don’t just stink dude, you fucking reek. You actually smell worse than Jamie that time we put mouldy stilton in her moisturiser bottle and it went all rancid with her fake tan when she went and sunbathed and it all glued itself to her body.”

My lip quivers.

“Oh god,” Mikey sighs in exasperation. “Man up, dude! You’re acting like a thirteen year old girl realising that Robert Pattinson doesn’t actually want to procreate with them. Stop crying!”

My lip quivers even more.

Mikey’s starting to look scared. “Gerard, he was just a guy. No need to get all suicidal or anything. I mean, there’ll be other dudes to spontaneously lick and make a complete idiot of yourself in front of.”

My lip is now like a pneumatic drill on speed.

“Stop that quivering, you moron,” Mikey snaps, like the kind, caring brother he is. Mind you, I guess I did fail to comfort him when he was wailing into Satan’s arms.

“He…he was the only guy I’ve ever really liked, Mikes,” I tremble, biting my quivering lip and ducking my head. “I thought I’d never get someone like him.”

“Neither did I,” Mikey agrees fervently.

I look up and scowl. “What?”

“Well, the dude is like, sex on legs. And he could probably date anyone. Yet he went for you,” Mikey shakes his head disbelievingly. “I just don’t get it.”

“Wow, you really know how to cheer someone up, don’t you?” I snap crossly, getting up and going over to my dresser. “First you steal the only thing left in the world that meant something to me, then you drool on me and yell at me for crying, and now you’re implying I’m a moron that’s totally out of everyone’s league.”

“Gee, it was a duvet,” Mikey sighs. “And I only took it cause you won’t feel better unless you actually get up and stop thinking about Jamie’s boyfriend.”

“…He’s still going out with Jamie?!” I yelp, whirling round.

Mikey swallows. “Um,”

“Oh god,” I choke, all my new depressing little brain cells starting to wail and hack manically at their little wrists with black scissors. Suicidal little fuck ups.

“Well, I don’t actually know,” Mikey adds quickly. “But I haven’t heard that they’re over. Jamie’s still with Ray as well, though. Who’s coming over later, by the way.”

I stop breaking down. “Ray?”

“Yeah, the one with the hair bigger than the Amazonian rainforest, y’know?” Mikey rolls his eyes. “Your best friend.”

“I don’t want to see him,” I mumble. “I just want my duvet. Please, Mikey?”

“Sorry, Gee,” Mikey says sadly, heading for the door. “It’s for your own good.”

I sigh heavily, and stand up on my tip toes to start taking down the giant Kurt Cobain poster that’s pinned up over my desk. “Fine,” I say monotonously.

“If it’s any consolation,” Mikey says in an uncharacteristically gentle voice, pausing in the doorway. “I don’t understand why Frank did a runner. I think he really liked you, Gee. He looked at you like…well, like you looked at him.”

“Yeah, well I shouldn’t have bothered, should I?” I say bitterly, pulling the poster down fully and starting towards my bed huffily. “It’s all useless now. I might as well have tried to get with Ray’s cat.”

“Does he really snog it?” Mikey asks.

I shrug. “I dunno. Ray’s a weird dude.”

“Yeah- he’s dating Jamie.”

“Frank dated Jamie,” I mumble in a very small voice, ducking my head again.

Mikey sighs. “There’s still time, Gee. But for now, you need to get on with your life. Or you’ll go crazy. Well, crazier. You were never exactly sane, were you?”

I don’t reply, just flop down onto my bed and pull the Kurt Cobain poster over me, shutting out my eyes and blocking out the world.

“…Uh, speaking of crazy-” Mikey starts, but then breaks off. “Never mind. Cheer up, hey Gerard? It’s not the same without you tripping over everything all the time.” Mikey murmurs.

Moments later, I hear the door close softly shut behind him, and I’m left alone.

All alone with a bunch of self-harming, suicidal lunatics inside my head.

Alone and heartbroken and curled up pathetically under a poster, wondering if I’ll ever have my traitorous little knees melted by one of Frank Iero’s smiles again.



Soo…Feedback? Sorry- I’m pretty sure that this is the most depressing chapter in this story, but it kinda needed to be like that…I hope it wasn’t too bad, cause I feel like shit. Hopefully it was still funny-ish…or at least not completely horrible! :L
Two chapters to go, I think…and lots about to happen! R&R if you want to know what happens xD thanks so much for reading and sticking with this story. I fucking love you all.

CosmicZombie xo

P.S. I really will update soon- I've already started on the next chapter (: