FicWad

Utter disgust. Every time I look at this dump, I want to gag and kick someone. My mom’s apartment consisted of two floors. It had one pair of cracked, broken and chipping concrete stairs. The shingles and the siding were peeling off of the building. The whole place smelled like urine and trash. The whole was like a port-o-jon in the middle of Summer; stunk like shit and covered in spray paint of tits and dicks.

I sighed and walked up the stairs. I went to the seventh room on the left, room number 27. The place wasn’t much better than the outside, but at least it had too bedrooms.

My mom, Linda, heard the creak of the door and spoke up, “Frank, is that you? Hi baby!”

I grunted and walked to my room, slamming the door behind me. I was hoping it could cut off the shrill voice that came from the small kitchen, but failed.

“What did you get, baby? Why didn’t you take my car?”

I grunted even louder. “Fuck off, Linda.”
I could hear a loud sigh from the kitchen and the shuffling of sad feet to her bedroom. I threw the guitar on my bed, and flopped onto the floor. God, I was so tired. I didn’t get any sleep, and it’s not like I would tonight, anyway. I would be frightened of having my nose bleed in the middle of the hallway because I got socked in the face, just like Thursday.

Rolling over on my side, I opened the drawer on the side of my broken, black desk. I dug out the cigarettes from the bottom and found the faded yellow lighter. I sparked the end of it and filled my lungs with the sweet, sweet ash. It tasted clean, like I had just stepped out of a new shower or gotten my hair re-dyed. I rested it between the part in my lips, just to the right of my lip ring, and deeply inhaled. I’ve been told by my mom since I was 14 that smoking would make me get lung cancer. Fuck cancer, nicotine tastes fucking amazing.

My phone buzzed in my back pocket. I practically jumped out of my underwear, it scared me so much. I sighed and rolled onto my stomach so I could dig my phone out of my pocket. I clicked the middle button, and a message appeared. Three missed ones, to be exact. I scrolled through all three;

“Faggot.”

“Hey dipshit, you appearing tomorrow, or are you staying home again to slit your wrists?”

“You spelled your name wrong. It should be spelled “Cutter Slut”.”

I’m not usually one to cry. Crying makes me feel weak. Ha, who am I kidding. I cry every day when I get home from school, every time I get shoved against the lockers, every time I feel the kiss of a razor blade. I AM weak. Frank Iero is spelled “Little Lion Man”.