Anorex-a-Gogo

I wake up the next morning to find that I had never actually fallen asleep. My eyes are dry and sore from staring at the same place on my wall for hours upon end. My body is worn out to the point where I don't even know if I can get up. My heart is numb.

I don't even pretend that I'm going to school today. When my alarm clock sounds, I let it beep for a few minutes and then pull the plug out of the wall. I open my bedside drawer and drop it in. Then I continue staring at the small dark stain on my carpet from when I spilled grape soda on it two or three years ago.

Mom finally notices that I'm not up and getting ready for school. She hasn't even seen me since yesterday morning when I left for school, I think, since I was in my room with the lights off when she finally got home last night. Now she comes in and quietly sits on my bed, leaning back against the headboard. She silently takes in my blackened eyes, split lip, bruised face and blank expression, and she wraps her arms around me. She doesn't ask me any questions, she doesn't really even talk at all. Just lays her head on top of mine, her cheek warm and soft, and just holds me. Hugs me. She smells like Dove soap and Chanel No. 5, a mixed scent so familiar I would know it anywhere.

It's at times like these that I realize just how cool my mom really is. I love the woman when she gets it.

"It's okay, baby," she murmurs into my hair. She presses me against her chest and my arms find their way around her torso. "Things will be so much better tomorrow. Just you wait and see. Things will be better."

And what can I do? I want to trust her so bad, so bad that I know I'm going to sit this day out, waiting for the sun to go down and rise again because I want to see for myself that tomorrow, everything really will be better. Because what kind of world is it where you can't trust your mother to be right? Mothers are always, unfailingly right.

So she kisses my forehead twice, gives me a reassuring squeeze, and then leaves. Probably to go into her office to listen to strangers' problems. Will she stop at all, take a break to think about her son's problems? Probably not. Because she already is so sure that things will balance themselves out by tomorrow. I wish I was that sure.

I lie around in my bed for another couple of hours or so. The house is quiet and empty and warm, and I long to go out there and be out of and away from this filthy, horrid room. Yet I can't bring myself to actually do it. I feel disgusting. Ruined. I don't want to taint the rest of the house.

Today there will be no need for the Anorex-a-Gogo. I have no appetite. Anyway, I have a feeling if I ate anything at all, I would throw it right back up. Today I can't hold anything down.

I think the worst thing, the thing that's making me feel lower than ever, is that I'm blaming it all on myself. For once, I know that it's not my fault, I know it. I did nothing wrong. I kissed Gerard, and that, by my standards isn't exactly wrong. Against my rules, but not quite wrong. But I'm blaming myself anyway. I can't help but be disappointed in myself for not fighting back. For just letting Owen use me like that. I know that deep down, I could have stopped it from happening. And not just last night, but every night he's ever taken advantage of me, every night he's ever hurt me or put me down. I could have done something. I could have fought.

But I didn't. I never did anything, I never fought him. I just tried to pretend I was Invisible.

Why not? Am I so scared of Owen that I'll just let him do whatever he wants to me? Am I really that weak?

I know I'm not. It's something else.

You're looking for an excuse.

"What?" I ask aloud. The voice sounds so clear, so close that I actually look around my room for whoever spoke. It is an achingly familiar voice, but I can't place it.

You just want a fucking excuse to Be Invisible. An excuse that you think will make it so that nobody will ever want you. Then you'll never get hurt.

"No," I gasp, "That's...that's sick."

You are sick. But you knew that already, didn't you? You're a sick boy. You don't even deserve me.

"Deserve you?" I repeat. Suddenly my stomach clenches and twists into knots as I realize who the voice belongs to. It's Gerard.
~ ~ ~

I run blindly into my bathroom and fling myself at the toilet, just in time to heave up nothing because I haven't eaten since yesterday morning when I broke down and ate two Blueberry Poptarts. I've got a bad habit for binge eating, and that makes me feel worse because I know those Poptarts are long-digested and have probably already settled on my thighs. The dry heaves make my sore body sorer as I break into a cold sweat.

When I finally stand up and glance in the mirror, I get my first real look at the physical damage that Owen left me with yesterday evening. A deep red gash, courtesy of his pocket knife, runs along my bare abdomen. There is a bite mark ringed around my left nipple where he broke the skin. I pull off my pajama pants. There are bruises all along my inner thighs, places where he grabbed at my skin so tightly that I can still see the red, finger-shaped markings. My ass is covered in dried blood because he forced himself in even though I was tense and not ready at all.

I look like a victim of rape.

With a jolt of shock like a punch, I realize that I am a victim of rape. I said no, and he did it all anyway.

I am so ashamed. I will never tell.

Dirty dirty dirty. I am unclean. Tarnished. Rotten through and through. Will I ever be clean again?

I turn on the shower, ignoring the cold water tab altogether. I want the water as hot as it will go. It still isn't hot enough. I want it to blister, I want it to scald away everything I've done.

Wincing as the searing water pelts down on my bare back, I grip onto the built-in towel rack and try not to cry out. But finally I sink down toe the cool floor tiles and hug my knees to my chest, the water hot as hell and burning my flesh. Yet I am far from being cleansed. Just red as a lobster and sobbing like a baby. And the steam is so thick and humid I could choke. God, I wish I would just choke.
~ ~ ~

The rest of the day is an unsteady haze. One minute I'm lying on the floor of my shower, crying and dying. The next I am back in bed, naked, my burnt skin wetting my sheets, but I don't care. Then my mother comes in, but I'm back in pajama pants I don't remember putting on, lying on damp sheets underneath a damp comforter.

"How are you feeling?" she asks.

"I'm not." Did I really just say that out loud?

"Are you okay?" she asks.

"No."

"What happened yesterday?" she asks.

"I don't want to talk, Ma."

"Okay. You'll call for me if you need anything, right?" she asks.

"Sure."

"By the way, your friend Mikey is downstairs. What do you want me to tell him?" she asks.

"Tell him to go."

"Don't you want to talk to him?" she asks.

"No."

"Why not?" she asks.

"Please, Ma."

It's too bad she asks all the wrong questions.
~ ~ ~

She sent Mikey up anyway, and then left the room with a guilty, apologetic smile. Thanks, Ma.

"Frankie, what happened to you?" is his first question.

I'm sitting up in my sodden bed. It's uncomfortable, but I can't be bothered to change the sheets. "I got beat up," I mumble. I know I'm being vague and I shouldn't be pissed at him for worrying, it was my mom who sent him up.

"Dude, that's fucked up. Is that why you weren't at school today and yesterday afternoon?"

Rule #5: Trust no on, right? Fuck it. Where have my so-called rules gotten me lately? No place good.

"No, that's not why," I reply honestly, because me getting beat up by a bunch of homophobic dumbfucks is not the reason I spent the better part of the day curled up in fetal position.

Bless Mikey Way for not pressing dead-end issues. He asks me no more questions about my absence and appearance, but goes on instead trying to make me laugh with jokes and silly anecdotes from school. I swear I could kiss that kid for trying so hard. And for his sake, I hope he can't tell that my laughs are fake and hollow.

"Oh, and by the way, Mr. Stokes asked me to give you this," Mikey says, pulling a crumpled not out of his back pocket. The edges are stapled shut, so I can tell he hasn't tried reading it or anything. But he's giving me a weird look, like he's trying to make sense of why Stokes would send a note for me.

For the next ten minutes I try to laugh along and smile, even though it really hurts, because I've come to realize that Mikey really wants to be my friend and he's a sweet kid, and he deserves a hell of a lot better treatment than I've ever given him.

But like the rest of me, these laughs and smiles are fake. Fake Frank, just like always.

Finally Mikey leaves. I offered him a half-hearted invitation to stay for dinner, but he declined. I think he knew I was only trying to be polite.

Mr. Stokes' note is sitting at the end of my bed. It's rumpled from being in Mikey's pocket all day, so I attempt to smooth it out. Why the fuck did he staple it so many times? This man must be paranoid.

When I get it open, I smooth out the paper some more, trying my hardest to get out each and every crease. I don't know why I want it to be flat so badly, but I think it has to do more with distracting myself than actually wanting it to be unrumpled. Mom's talked about it before with her psychiatrist friends, she explained it as trying to stall from yourself or something like that. I finally laugh at myself for making such a big deal out of a note, and I try to focus on the words written in tiny cursive letters.

Whenever you get lonely, discouraged, or scared, just remember one thing. You are Frank Iero.

They were obviously words written to make me feel better.

Bullshit. Being Frank Iero is nothing to be proud of.

I pull my damp pillow over my face and dream of having the courage to smother myself.
~ ~ ~

Somehow I managed to drift off into some sort of restless slumber. I had closed my eyes briefly, my lids drooping as I watched rain drizzle down my window, and then suddenly voices woke me up.

"He's right in here....I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?" It was my mother's voice coming down the hall.

"Gerard," the other voice replied, a little raspy from all the cigarettes he smokes.

My heart gave a jump with something that was akin to happiness, but then rapidly turned into wild fear. I couldn't see Gerard, couldn't let him see me like this. Couldn't let Owen see him. I wanted to puke just thinking about what Owen would do if he found out Gerard was here.

That worried me too. Gerard and Owen. I mean, Gerard had seen Owen command me to get out of the car, had witnessed and heard and smelled my fear. He would know. Somehow he would see right through me.

I slammed my eyes shut again and turned to face the wall just as the door opened. My mother was asking Gerard how he knew me. I could hear the pure curiosity in her voice, wondering if this was how she would finally figure out whether or not her son was gay. I was tense just thinking about it.

"We're..." There was a pregnant pause from Gerard. "..friends. We're friends. I'm Mikey's brother," he finally replied.

Then my door shut again and silence filled my room. I strained my ears to hear their voices again, retreating from my door. Maybe they had actually believed that I was asleep. I almost opened my eyes again, but then I heard a sigh and the sound of a messenger bag being dropped to the floor. Gerard sat down in the desk chair that his brother had been occupying about an hour and a half earlier. And then all was quiet again, though now I knew better that he was still in the room.

"Jesus, Frankie, what did he do to you?" Gerard whispered. I guess he thought I couldn't hear him, me feigning sleep. He reached forward to brush my hair out of my face, bringing along his smell of baby powder, cigarettes, and cheap cologne. I tried to breath in as inconspicuously as possible, each tense never loosening up as they filled with that scent. God, he was like a fucking drug that made me high as a kite.

"I should never have let you get out of the car," he sighs.

This is where I'm stuck. How did he possibly know? He couldn't see Owen's inflicted physical damage, that was all covered up with my blankets. To him, I couldn't look physically any worse for wear than I did yesterday. Same bandaged hand with stitches lurking beneath. Same broken face, although the cuts were scabbing and the swelling in my lip had gone down. So how could he tell? What could he see that my mom and Mikey and even I had missed?

Long minutes go by where I'm trying hard to look naturally asleep and Gerard's just sitting there, brushing my hair with his thin fingers and watching me "sleep." This calms me way the fuck down like you wouldn't believe, and I actually find it hard to stay awake. That safe feeling I'd felt when he'd held me in the hall at school yesterday--was it really only yesterday? It felt like years ago now--was slowly infiltrating my room like a warm blanket. The soft rain pattering down on the roof was almost like a lullaby...

That was when I heard the singing. Soft, so soft I could barely hear it. Some song I was sure I'd never heard before, softly in my ear. And fuck, it made me want to cry. Gerard--blunt, sarcastic Gerard--was singing. For me. Or the "sleeping" me, I guess, since I'm sure he'd never do it if I were awake. I strain my ears to catch every word of his precious voice.

And then it suddenly stopped, and I realized precisely two things:

1) I"m smiling like a damn fool and

2) My eyes are wide open, staring straight into Gerard's.

I mean, how the fuck did I miss that?

It's too late to close my eyes again, I would just look stupid if I tried. Our eyes are quite literally locked, so there's no going back now. So I do the even stupider thing and just continue staring at him and smiling. My eyes start to water, so I blink rapidly a couple of times.

He grins. "I win."

"What?" I ask in a mixture of surprise and confusion.

"You blinked, I win."

It takes me a second to digest what he's saying, but then my mouth drops open as I realize what he means. "No fair!" I protest, "I wasn't aware it was a contest!"

His grin grows even wider if possible and he chuckles with delight. "Well, that's obviously your own fault for not being more observant," he replies, not even trying to disguise his obvious glee at my reaction.

Trust it to Gerard Way to turn a serious moment into a fucking Staring Contest.

I fold my arms and pout, not even trying to at least pull myself up into a more dignified position. I'm going to stay lying down, this is my fucking room, and Gerard will just have to deal with that.

Apparently he thinks so too. Except his way of "dealing" is by lying down right beside me on the bed so that he's quite level with me, face to face. And damn it, still grinning.

"Gerard," I hiss, glancing nervously at my closed door, "What if my mom tries to check in or something?"

"Call me Gee."

"Does it matter?"

"To me it does."

I sigh and roll my eyes. "Fine then, Gee[/], what--"

"No, not like that."

I glare at him. "What this time?"

"Not like that," he repeats.

"Like what?"

"Don't say it sarcastically. Say it like you like me."

I blush. "Honestly, I don't see why--"

"C'mon, like you like me."

My face goes all splotchy, I'm sure. I sputter around with my words, all of them coming out as garbled, embarrassed nonsense.

He raises his eyebrows. "You do like me, don't you?"

I glare at him again before reluctantly nodding my head. Because God knows it's the truth. Except that I don't believe in God, so karma knows it's the truth. And karma will chop off my balls if I lie to Gerard.

"So call me Gee," he simpers. I know he's giving me a hard time. He knows I know it. He likes it that way.

I gulp back my embarrassment, though it's painted in red all over my burning face. "What if my mom comes in,...Gee?"

He grins again, the bastard, looking all triumphant as he gets more comfortable on my pillow. "She won't," he replies, his voice confident.

"And how do you know that?"

"I doubt she'll want to interrupt. She thinks I'm your boyfriend."

Oh, how I want to wipe that smug grin from his perfect face. But I'm too busy choking on air. "What?" I gasp, sputtering like a madman, "You told her that?"

"No. But I saw the way she looked at me when I told her I'd come to see you. She winked at me, Pansy," he says, looking quite proud of himself. "Why, doesn't she know you're gay?"

I shut my mouth and close my eyes. Oh, fuck, here it comes...

"She doesn't?" he shouts gleefully. Obviously he's finding my supreme embarrassment oh-so-amusing. I, on the other hand, am failing to see the hilarity of it. "Oh, Pansy, don't tell me you're still in the closet! I mean, look at you!" he cackles.

My eyes shoot open. "What do yo mean, 'look at you'?" I ask. Now I'm all worried. I'm not one of those raging, in-your-face, way-too-obvious guys, am I? I don't think I am, but now I'm not so sure.

Gerard continues to crack up as I bitterly scowl. Finally he says, "Don't be so offended, Frankie, but I knew you were gay the very first time Mikey brought you home. Why do you think I tried so hard to get you to talk to me?"

"So, you seduce all the young gay boys then, do you?" I spit at him.

He looks at me seriously, sees that I'm actually mad, and at least attempts to pass off his last few laughs as coughs. Real fucking noble of him too. "I'm sorry," he apologizes, and I'm surprised at his rapid change from joker so sincerity. "I just...well, I knew you were gay, Frankie. It isn't really all that obvious, but I knew it."

I'm still annoyed and self-conscious. I make a point of ignoring his apology and turn back to the wall.

Then his face is hovering over mine and he kisses me. Before I can even register what's happening, my hands tangle themselves in his hair with a will of their own. A soft moan builds in my throat and I try hard to suppress it. And then he's pulling away."

"I'm really sorry if I offended you," he says in a child-like voice. I can tell he's actually regretting laughing at me at all, that he's begging for my forgiveness. "You just always seemed to me like the kind of guy who wouldn't hide that sort of thing."

I literally almost snort at this...almost. Me, world champion at Being Invisible, not hiding a part of myself? Now that's laughable.

But I don't laugh because he's looking sincere and guilty and I don't want to see him feel bad. Well, I kind of want him to feel bad, but I'd rather kiss him instead.

And like I said, a kiss is never just a kiss. So when I smile a little and lean up to connect my lips with his again, what I'm really saying is, "I forgive you, Gee."