FicWad

Nice View, Great Place to Die



Isn’t it funny how good and pure things look when the moonlight is washing them clean? How everything just looks so much more innocent and just, I don’t know, friendly? Apart from I know better, I know so much better, and that’s precisely why I can see how everything is doused in the moon’s silvery-silk waves of light. Everything, absolutely everything is just glimmering like a million shattered diamonds strewn haphazardly into the big black bin bag that is New Jersey. But even New Jersey looks somewhat magically pure with the stars looking over it like a troop of guardian angels fooling everyone into thinking that they’re worth saving. Apart from me. I know better.

I guess I might sound more than a little arrogant, assuming that I know better than everyone else and that my view must be right, but I’m not arrogant; just smart. Too smart, that’s what the school counsellor told my parents when I finally made him snap in frustration at the lanky boy with glasses who just can’t be figured out no matter how many hours of useless therapy is wasted on him. Mr Harris his name was, some plump guy with ginger hair and a thick Texan accent, not to mention the cold personality to match his ice-white skin. Yet it wasn’t his harsh, almost malevolent, personality that stopped me from letting him figure me out. If only. No, it was the fact that I haven’t even figured myself out yet, let alone be able to help anyone else to understand it.

And I guess that’s part way why I’m up here, on the roof of Belleville Pay’n’Stay Motel with one of my big brother’s cigarettes lolled half-heartedly between my brittle fingers. Fingers that were apparently made for playing the bass, as my big brother himself told me the first time that he heard me play a few shaky chords on my huge blue beauty. He told me that we could start a rock band together, him singing and me on bass, maybe with his friend Ray on lead guitar. At the time the idea had made my fourteen-year-old head spin in wonderment and my eyes sparkle at the idea of the kids who used to beat me up screaming at me for an autograph, the idea of actually being liked for once in my life by someone other than Gerard. He even let me think up the name myself, it was something stupid like “My Chemical Romance” or something, but now I’m sixteen and mature enough to understand stupid little teenagers in stupid little bands only ever wind up in one of two places; either behind the counter at the local Wal-Mart or dead.

Gerard ended up as the former, which he isn’t finding so bad as it means that he can have endless pricing gun “wars” with this kid called Frankie who he blatantly has a crush on. Which leaves me to wind up as the latter. Dead. Which, like Gerard’s alternative to being some teen rock idol, doesn’t really seem too bad. Not at all. And that’s precisely why I’m looking out on the moon-swallowed landscape of New Jersey from the top of some sleazy motel; when I go out, I want to feel the wind tickling my face and the ground moulding around my skinny body like I’ve finally found some place where I belong, so that I can feel like a soaring angel before I get claimed by the underworld for all of the stupid things that I’ve done. Stupid things that made sense at the time but are now scaring me shitless because, let’s face it, who isn’t scared of the idea of winding up in Hell?

But surely Hell must be better than this place, the place that has taught me right from wrong and how wrong is always right, especially if the wrong is being done to a freak like me. Especially if the wrong being done is a punch or a kick or a complete pounding from six guys too big and solid and strong for me to even stand the slightest chance of getting away from without a black eye or bloody nose. That’s not what hurts the most though; what hurts the most is the words, the things they call me that have grown to be true because, let’s face it, why and how could so many people lie about someone as pathetically worthless as me?

I should have worn a jacket, the ferocious nips of the night air on my pasty arms tells me that much. I mean, if I’m gonna die I want to at least give my body the courtesy of dying in comfort. Whatever non-existent heat that my cigarette was radiating soon abandons my fingers like everyone else other that Gee abandons me when a particularly harsh gust of wind wraps itself around my body, making me both shiver and teeter on the edge of the roof.

A gulp can’t help but flee from my mouth in fright as I look down; five long stories and nothing but the harsh gravel of the car park to brake my thundering fall. Will it hurt? Or will it just be like flying and then a nice, peaceful sleep for the rest of forever as opposed to the scalding glares and piercing taunts that garrotte my spirit every day? Either way, at least those bastards at school won’t be able to get the satisfaction of making me cry anymore.

It doesn’t matter if there’s anything after death or if there’s just an endless bliss of nothingness, just so long as I don’t have to be here, where everything and everyone can and will hurt me in the end.

“Hey, uh, do you mind if I join you?”

I whip my head around like fresh elastic as the sound of a semi-sheepish, semi-charismatic voice plucks me out of my thoughts. And, as stupidly contradictory as this may sound, I can’t help but be thankful for the company of this deep-voiced man whose footsteps are gently approaching from behind me because, deep down, I’m scared. More like fucking terrified. I mean, it’s not like I want to die; not really. I just don’t want to live anymore either. You could say that living has killed me inside.

But that voice! So deep and soft both at the same time, like he’s scared too but trying to sound brave because of me, because of meek little Mikey Way. It sounded friendly as well, as though he wants to join me and have my company, right here on the edge of the motel roof. Oh God, I hope he’s not one of those anti-suicide religious types who’ll try to guilt trip me out of this. Does he even know what I am/was planning on doing before the sun can banish the moon’s calming rays with it’s garish mask of joy?

Before I can formulate an answer, he’s stood next to me with his own cigarette in hand and melted-chocolate eyes gazing at me intently as though I’m something more than the school punching bag, as though I actually matter to someone; to him. I can’t help but stare back as though I’m an astronomer and he’s the stars, well, his soft smile certainly does shine brighter than anything I’ve seen on this Earth. As do his eyes, eyes that are carefully windowed by the thick black lines of liquid eyeliner that I so often get beaten up for, but on him it looks breath-taking; like frames around two of the greatest masterpieces ever to be painted by God’s intricate brush of creation. Then there’s the rest of him, the slightly tanned skin, the short yet toned body, the black oil-slick of hair that makes my hands just want to wander through it and see if it’s as soft as it appears to be from less than a metre away. Oh, and lips that make me want to melt inside at how delicate and pillowy they look, just like they need to be given a hug from my own.

All in all, this boy, most likely no older than Gerard, is extremely fanciable. Or would be if I thought I could ever stand a chance with someone so sinfully angelic looking, if I thought his smile is guarantee that he won’t turn on me at any given second like so many people have.

“I’m Pete, what’s your name, Kid?” He asks, the hint of a chuckle in his voice as he steals his gleaming eyes away just as they’re about to meet with my own starving ones.

“M-Mikey,” I stammer with all the shyness of a new-born chick, unsure of the correct answer because I’ve been called so many other things that it’s hard to recall my real name from amongst the ugly catcalls that everyone has given me. “My name’s Mikey.”

Pete throws his cigarette nonchalantly off the edge of the building, the both of us following it with our eyes as it spirals down and the burning ember at the end gets extinguished upon impact with the all-consuming ground beneath. Just like it’d consume my inner burning ember if I were to jump. He looks back to me, his smirk forming into a gentle smile, the kind of smile that Grandmas use on tiny little children; all encouragement and captivation at whatever pointless babble is being spewed into the atmosphere. Apart from the smile doesn’t seem all that patronizing on Pete’s velvet lips, just friendly and about as enticing as a piping hot cocoa on a cold Christmas Eve. It’s the kind of smile that screams trust and safety and everything else that I haven’t felt in a long time.

No. This is just my desperate mind trying to save itself from what I know can’t be prevented; my death. There’s no way Pete can deliver all of that from just one smile and, if he can, it can’t be sincere because, let’s be honest, who’d ever want to be nice to a worthless little weirdo like me? Nobody. Exactly. Let alone someone as good-looking and as potentially popular as he blatantly is.

“Nice to meet you, Mikey.” He holds a firm, surprisingly long, arm hand out to me, his eyes igniting with pleasure as I let him grab my own and shake it as though meeting me on the rough of some dilapidated motel is the greatest thing to happen in the history of ever. When he finally drops my hand I can’t help but smile a little; it’s nice to have a hand hungry for my own instead of reaching out to hit me, not to mention the apparent contagiousness of his own inexplicable joy. “Nice night, isn’t it? Tad chilly though.”

I shrug, unable to find my words for the beautiful boy who is the only thing stopping me from plummeting through the ground and deep down straight to hell. And, rather strangely, I can’t say that I mind. If anything, my heart seems somewhat lighter now that he’s here talking to me, acting like I matter because, to him at least, I think that I just might. I don’t get why though, not that it matters. All that matters is that Pete seems to think that I do and that it feels so indescribably wonderful that the why is almost irrelevant to me right now.

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

I shrug, he giggles like I’ve said some great joke and, all of a sudden, for the first time in years, I find myself giggling along with him. Because he isn’t forcing me to be his friend like Gerard sometimes does, he isn’t acting like he knows me like all of the therapists do and he sure as fuck isn’t beating me up like everyone who else who takes the time to acknowledge my pitiful existence.

“That’s just fine by me, Sweetie.” A tiny electric shock shoots through my ears and into my brain as his enticing voice refers to me in such a way; in a way that would make me think he might just be flirting with me if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m me and he’s him, an ugly little fly and a stunning angel. “You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to. Doesn’t mean that I’m about to stop.”

His smile twists into a smirk and, although his voice is laced with charm and dripping with kindness, I can’t help the uneasy feeling that settles in the pit of my growling, unfed stomach, like a thousand bats wrestling it out in my gut. But at the same time as making me feel slightly nauseous, everything within me is aching for Pete to keep talking, to keep me from jumping and to keep filling my thoughts with the symphony of his intelligent-sounding voice. A voice that I don’t want to ever not hear again because it just fills me with this kind of feeling that tells me that everything will be alright as long as this boy is stood by my side.

God, I’m stupid. I’ve barely know the guy for twenty minutes and I’m already sounding like I’m in love with him. Perhaps I am. Or perhaps it’s just that nobody’s been this nice to me in a long time and therefor it just feels like love.

So I just nod at him to continue, our eyes locking as though holding some sort of silent conversation that makes the both of us smile for reasons that I just don’t understand. For reasons that have something to do with the way that our eyes seem to be magnets, making us stand closer and closer together in the enchanting spotlight of silver that the moon is beaming directly to us. But just as the iceberg tips of our noses are about to touch, he lets out a somewhat charming shot of laughter that makes me go all fuzzy inside and goes back to looking out at the stars.

“You really are quite adorable, Sweetie. And kinda eager for a guy who doesn’t speak much.” My face burns a bright crimson at his teasing words, words that make me want to run and hide because he’s making fun of me, just like everyone else. “Hey, hey, I didn’t mean it in a nasty way, Mikey. I was only kidding, y’know, being a friend.” The smirk dissolves back into his relaxed little smile and every bit of my insides melts away into bliss because I know that wasn’t being mean to me.

Because I know that he’s just being a friend.

Hang on. Friend? Does he really want to be friends with an introverted little creep like me?

“No need to look so surprised, Sweetie. You look like you need a friend and I sure as hell want to be friends with someone as sweet-looking as you so it makes sense, y’know. Not to mention how lonely it gets working behind reception in a motel that couldn’t get any deader if it tried.” He heaves a huge sigh, the air around his luscious lips taking on an almost smoke-like affect. “You must be frozen, Mikey, out here in nothing but a t-shirt and jeans.”

Once more, because I have the personality of a dead slug on a hot day, I shrug, not wanting to admit that I can’t even feel my arms anymore because the night-wind has eaten away at them for the past four hours. It’s not like Pete should care anyway, I’m just some kid he found on the roof of his work during his cigarette break.

“I’m alright.” I try to offer him a small smile of reassurance, only to see that, for the first time tonight, he’s frowning down at me in response to my answer.

A frown that screams pity and sympathy and sorrow. Because, even though I don’t know how, I’ve made Pete, my first friend in years, sad.

“No, Mikey. You’re not.” He sighs again and reaches out a hand to tentatively stroke my arm, recoiling immediately when he feels the temperature. “Here, take my jacket.”

Without giving me a chance to protest he wraps me up like a new-born on it’s first outing into the body-heated fabric of his blue zip-up hoodie. Not that I would have protested in the first place, it’s far too warm and inviting for that. And it smells of Pete, of everything that’s keeping me alive right now. So I just let him zip it up for me, don’t even flinch when he cups my chin as he gets to the top and carefully rubs his thumb over my bruised jaw line. I just latch my eyes onto his to see a kind of desperation within those profound irises that makes me want to just hug him through fear of him turning out like me. Worthless. Pathetic. Useless. Unwanted.

Suicidal.

“You’re still not alright, Sweetie.” I squint at him, tilting my head to the side in confusion so as to tell him to carry on. “I’m not stupid; I know exactly what a teenager like you would be doing on a roof in the middle of the night, Sweetie. I know you were gonna jump.”

Before I can jump away from him in both shock and shame, I feel a pair of arms envelope me and pull me tightly into the warm chest of my saviour, right so I can hear the therapeutic pounding of his heart telling me that I’m not alone because he’s right here with me. Because Pete, my perfect stranger, has saved my life and won’t be abandoning me any time soon.

And that, for some reason outside of my understanding, just makes me breakdown; makes me burst into the tears that I have been refusing to shed for a long, long time. Too long. But I’m letting them all out now and I think that I might just get why. It’s because Pete wants to listen to me, wants to make me feel better and I want to let him; I want to be his and I want him to be mine.

I half expect him to shush me, to tell me to be quiet and that everything will be fine even though the rest of the world is telling me that it isn’t and never will be.

Instead he just cradles me close and presses a soft peck on my forehead, right between my eyes, making me giggle amidst my sobs.

“Let it all out, Sweetie. Letting it all out is better than letting it win. And letting me be here for you is even better than that.”

And to that there’s only one thing that I can think of to say.

“Thank you, Pete. I think you just saved my life.”

“Anytime, Sweetie, anytime and anything.”




A/N: Thank you very much for reading and I’m sorry if it isn’t great; I haven’t written anything for ages, and it was kinda hard to get back into the swing of things again. Thanks for reading and please let me know what you think! :)