FicWad

*So, I fixed the chapters. It turns out, I skipped the third chapter. So, if you haven't already, go back and read the third chapter because it's different now. Hopefully, the story-line will make more sense. Thanks to RockMusic for pointing it out.



I just looked at him... Until he yelled at me to pay attention to the road. I don’t know why it was so shocking. Mikey was gay; you’d think I’d have a better sense of who’s gay and who isn’t. Frank was red, completely red. I chuckled and rubbed at my temples.

“Fuck high school, will you get me a beer?”

“No, I most definitely will not get you a fucking beer,” he snorted, “at least, not until I want us to die in a car crash.”

“C’mon, just one. That’s not even enough to impair my judgment.” I pleaded.

“But enough to get rid of that migraine, right?” I looked at him, leaned up against the window, looking at me like I was some kind of fucking crossword puzzle.

“That means it’s enough to do something. So, you’re not getting a beer, but I’ll get you some ibuprofen.” He pulled a bottle out of his pocket and threw it at me. I popped the cap off and swallowed four.

“So, Frank...” I tossed the bottle into the back-seat, “What are you running from?”

I watched as he picked at his shirt for a moment, pulling thread out of the seams. “I’m running from perfection.” he eventually murmured.

I cocked my eyebrow as I asked, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He rolled his eyes at me and started ranting. “It fucking means that I’m tired of the cookie-cutter life that my parents have built for me. I’m tired of my perfect little house and my perfect little future that has been planned out for me. I mean, what the fuck am I going to do sitting behind a desk all day? Or studying law? All I want to do is be free, but it’s like they mind-fucked me into thinking that life was only worth the money that I make and the mistakes that I don’t make. No, I want to be a fuck-up, I want to be broke. I just don’t want to live in a pretty little diamond cage anymore.”

Huffing, he sat back in his seat and pulled out another cigarette. I said nothing, but stared, kind of paying attention to the road. Here he was, wishing he’d be me. What would he do if he knew my story? Idolise me? No, that’s fucking ridiculous. This kid didn’t know what he wanted. If he really knew, he’d shoot himself in the head... Or maybe I’m just being overly-dramatic.

But damn, not what you’d expect from him. I was expecting bad home-life, not great home-life. Here I sat, quite normal looking besides the fact that I reek of beer. Thick black hair, dull green eyes, average clothes, very inconspicuous for a fucking murderer. Then, there was him with weird-ass hair, a nose and lip piercing, and a bright red tie. Our situations should be reversed. They would be if everything was what it seemed.

We pulled off an exit and into the lot of some ratty motel. Frank looked excited for some remarkably strange reason.

“Welcome to Amsterdam.” I muttered as we both clambered out of the Trans. I grabbed my bag and beer, and Frank lugged his bags out of the trunk. The front-desk attendant was chewing on a toothpick, greasy hair slicked back, and staring at what looked like a hooker that was lounging on a torn sofa.

“What do you have available?” I asked resting my head on the desk. The attendant stared down at me, chewing away at his toothpick. His small black eyes darted between Frank and me.

“One room, queen-bed. Pretty full.” As he muttered the last two words, his eyes slid over to the hooker.

“Whatever, we’ll take it.”

He grabbed my arm as I made to walk away.

“Gotta pay now, fifty-two bucks.” he said, a sly grin revealing yellowing, cracked teeth.

I wrenched my arm away and threw some cash down. He handed me the key and went back to his perverted staring. It was obvious where my money was going.

The room wasn’t much better than the attendant. A table was leaning against the wall and the bed had springs so old you could feel every single one digging into your body when you laid down. The bathroom had a cracked mirror and a matching cracked sink. The shower/bath had a nice mildew ring, and somebody’s left-over vomit filled the toilet. Frank, not use to this degree of filthiness, wrinkled his face in disgust.

“You’re the one running from perfection.” I taunted.

He shoved me out of the bathroom. “Non-perfection doesn’t mean living like an animal.”

We both washed up. Frank cleaned the toilet while I examined the bed for left-over piss, shit, or cum. When we were both satisfied, we climbed into bed. I pulled my pants off; Frank took off his shirt.

Facing opposite directions, we laid in the itchy, disgusting sheets.

“Good night, darling.” I sang.

“Fuck off.”

I snorted and drifted off to sleep.

I've never dreamed much, but when I do, you can guarantee I’ll remember it. My step-dad, Jim, had found me. He hadn’t died when I shot him. He found me with a shovel in his hands and basked my face in with blow, after blow, after blow. There was so much fucking blood.

It splattered in my eyes, tinting my vision red.

“Gerard.”

His black eyes shined, ready to end it.

“Gerard!”

I bolted upright in bed. Someone was yelling at me.

“Gerard, get up and get dressed so we can go.” I looked around, confused for a moment, covered in sweat from the dream.

Then, my eyes settled on him. Glasses falling down the bridge of his nose, dark brown hair ruffled all over the place, hazel eyes young and innocent.

“Mikey?”