Anorex-a-Gogo

The night passes. It always does.

I hate the sun for coming up. Why can't it just stay down for me and let me die alone in the dark? While the dark is threatening and abusive, at least it is in secret. Hidden. Now the sun comes up and shines down through the window on my naked, torn-apart body, and I am exposed. There is no hiding from the sun.

Time passes. It always does. I count the seconds by how many breaths I take. I count the minutes by the constant ticking of the kitchen clock. My mother left her appointment book for today on the kitchen counter. I count the hours by her appointments for this afternoon.

Mr. Shaffer is in her office at one o' clock, whining about his abusive father.

Mr. Alba is in her office at 3:30 to see why he's tried to commit suicide six times in one month.

Mrs. Barbagello is there at 6:25 to talk sort through the issues she had in her childhood.

I peer closer at the notes my mother has scribbled in the appointment book.

Raped by her brother since she was twelve.

My heart constricts in my chest. Right now, some poor woman is sitting in my mother's office, clutching onto a used ball of tissues, and sobbing about the horrible things her brother did to her as a child. Her own goddamn brother.

There are more Owens in this world.

And suddenly, I do not feel so alone.

I am in pain. So much pain that I'm trying not to move. And I wonder, is Mrs. Barbagello in as much pain as I am? Does she still get hurt as often as I do? Are there a thousand different cuts criss-crossing the insides of her thighs from where her sadistic fuck of a brother took knife to skin?

A fuck for a soul does not seem like a fair trade-off. In fact, it seems pretty much like a one-way street to me.

This gets me thinking. I'm thinking so damn hard about what's right and what's wrong, and how you're supposed to tell people these things. Right in front of me is an example of someone who was in pain. Someone who went to get help.

I'm thinking, I'll probably never get help. I'm not that strong.

The thing is, I welcome the pain. It occurred to me in the long hours wandering around my empty house with a mind that was definitely not empty: I survived. That sort of thing should kill you, it really should. When your heart is ripping into fragments and dropping into your stomach, and then you puke that up, so you end up not having a heart left at all. Just that one tiny piece that held on, so stubbornly, beating so goddamn weakly, and you survived. Even when you know you should be dead, you're alive. And so every ounce of pain is like a small cheer of victory. You're alive, boy. You are not numb. Little boy, you are alive.

Too bad I was secretly rooting for the team that would end this miserable life.

Sometimes I get the feeling that he's trapped in his own mind.

My mother's words. How true they are. I'm slowly coming to realize that I'm being held prisoner up there. Only thing is, I'm way too afraid to leave anyway. But those words...they make me sound like one of her fucking patients. I am not a diagnosed schitzophrenic sketchy-eyed mental patient.

I am a sexually-confused and abused, emotionally-fucked, secretly violated teenage boy. I am stuck somewhere in my own backwards mind. I have a set of rules for a lonely game that I have trouble following recently.

I am lonely. I am lonely. I am lonely.

I am in the kitchen. I am in the kitchen, yet I'm not eating. Eating makes you fat. Being skinny is Salvation. When you are a skinny little bitch, you are loved. It's just that simple. When you are sitting alone in the kitchen, counting seconds and minutes and hours by your breaths and clocks and appointment books that aren't really yours, you are rotting. Your insides are rotting and rotting and wasting away.

Who's that boy who's standing after endless hours walking around the same stale fucking house? He looks like someone I know. But he's too gaunt. Too sunken in. Too haunting. He looks like a survivor. Not from the night. From Auschwitz. From the Holocaust. From domestic abuse. From rape. Who's that kid? Someone should really tell him that he's rotting away.

"You're fucking rotting away."

Was that my voice? Shit. I am that kid. You're rotting, Frankie. Simply rotting and wasting and dying inside.

Now I am the kid who talks to himself. And who ever said I wasn't crazy?

The doorbell rings. Frowning, I go to answer it. Who is interrupting my misery? Fuck you, Mystery Misery Interrupter. I hate you. Go swallow a knife. Go headbutt a bullet. Go poke a grizzly bear. Do anything. Just leave me alone.

I open the door.

Have you ever really thought about destiny? How when you're at your absolute lowest, when you've hit rock bottom, when you just can't pick yourself up off the floor one more time, destiny comes knocking on the door? Or is it opportunity? Coincidence?

It's strange, because I've never believed in destiny. Soulmates? Don't trust that theory. Fate? Would never give it a second glance. Paying it forward? Let some charity case go overboard with that one.

But destiny. Such a a strange word. It brings to mind the picture of stars. Standing somewhere where you can see nothing but stars and your destiny and the future just unfolding before you.

Destiny is on my doorstep when I open the door. My mind is reeling with all of these thoughts of how many places I could hang myself from in my house and would anyone care but the guy who thinks I'm his personal fuckbuddy and would my miserable life just eventually lead up to me being some Mr. Iero rocking back and forth in a plush leather seat in some sterile office, telling about my brother fucking me night after night? And then destiny is grinning with his tiny little teeth that would better suit the mouth of a child. And he is smiling with eyes of gold. And he is dropping his overnight bag as my body collides with his.

I didn't even realize that I was the one who had launched myself at him. Maybe it was relief that made me throw my body into his arms. Maybe it was how much I had fucking missed him. Maybe it was those goddamn chemicals, the same ones that are making me light-headed and high as the sky and more attracted to him than ever.

Destiny doesn't seem to mind. He catches me in his arms, nearly stumbling off of our porch, and he buries his face in my neck, inhaling deeply. For a moment I almost think this is weird, until I find myself unconsciously sniffing at his well-worn peacoat, breathing in deeply that scent of baby powder, cheap cologne, sweat, and cigarette smoke.

Watch me orgasm right there on the spot, just from inhaling that scent.

I don't even realize that he's pulled his head back a little and is staring at me with the strangest expression on his face. Like he's getting reacquainted. Hello, I'm Gerard. And you're my Frankie. And Holy Fuck, I missed you.

Do you see that boy who's staring at Destiny like he's fucking Jesus H. Christ? That's me.

Do you see those two boys kissing? That's us. We missed each other. I know this. I'm almost positive. He missed me just as much as I missed him. It's obvious in the way he won't let me go.

His lips are chapped as they moved against mine. Leave it to Gerard to wear cherry-flavored chapstick. I'm feeling like I'm being suction-cupped to his mouth, or maybe permanently sealed there. That's fine with me.

"No more art conventions," I mumble.

"No more art conventions," he agrees in a quick breath before taking my lips again. "Not without you."

I can deal with this.

"So beautiful. Just so beautiful, my Frankie," Gerard whispers in my ear. His breath tickles my neck and sends just about every hair standing on end.

I hold onto his neck tighter. "Come inside," I tell him.

"No, don't move."

So I don't. I don't move, I just cling a little tighter and let him skim his lips across my cheek. My neck. That weird little hollow between my collar bones. Sometime I open my eyes. And look over his shoulder as he bends over to kiss me again, and I see all those stars behind him. So many fucking stars, especially for New Jersey. Usually there's too many lights. Too much fucking smoggy fog clouding them all out. But not tonight. Tonight those stars are everywhere, and they're shining down on me and Gerard. I'm thinking, this really is my Destiny. He is right here, solid and real and tangible and kissing me. Right here. Right now. Right in this second, and the next, and the next. Here they are, shining and twinkling and practically screaming, "Frank, do you see that boy? That black-haired boy standing right fucking in front of you? Kiss him now! Don't you see that this could be your last chance? He's your Destiny. Better kiss him quick before it escapes you again."

I pull back, leaving his lips in midair. Gerard gives me a look that's demanding everything and nothing at all. I smile a little bit, the pain all vanished and forgotten, and I move to press my lips against his.

Destiny indeed.

* * *

"Say cheese."

I smile as the camera flash pops, momentarily blinding me and sending colored spots into my peripheral vision.

"And this camera came from where?"

"I won it," Gerard says, grinning proudly as the photo slides out the end of the camera and starts to develop on my bedspread. "In some contest."

I'm lying on the bed and he's straddling me. Just like yesterday morning, except this time my hands are free to wander up his shirt and around his back as they please. And they do just that, while he happily takes pictures of me and himself and we and us.

Mom is not home. She called to say she was staying late at her office to finish up some work. Owen is not home. I don't care where the fuck he is.

He tosses the camera onto my pillows and leans down to kiss me, sliding into the position we've been in for the past couple of hours. Straddle, kiss, lay on top of me, kiss, move to my side, kiss, take some pictures, straddle, kiss, etc. We kiss for a few long moments until my breathing gets way too heavy and he forces himself away from me. Good thing he's in control, because I'm long gone. I'm in a haze, not quite thinking of anything but how good his lips feel on mine.

"Frankie," he whispers, laying his head on my stomach.

I sigh as he then moves back up to kiss me again. Round two goes on for about five minutes before he pulls back again. This time he doesn't look in my eyes, he strays down to my jeans.

"Um, you need a tampon or something?" he asks.

What the fuck?

I follow his eyes down to my thigh, where a patch of crimson is slowly spreading across the denim. And Gerard's jeans have absorbed it too.

Oh shit. The cuts on my thighs have opened from the friction and rubbing together and the material scratching on my legs. And are now bleeding. All over my crotch and thighs.

I sort of push him off of me and roll off the bed, blindly getting up to run to the bathroom. But as soon as I stand up I feel a few more of the cuts reopen, and I stagger from the first wave of pain. It makes me fall to the carpet.

"Frankie, shit, man," Gerard says, dropping to his knees beside me. I'm trying to get up off the floor, my face flushing all sorts of red and my jeans look like they're pouring blood. I'm all kinds of gory.

He pushes my shoulders back down to the floor. "Hey, stay down. What's going on?"

My mind only focuses on one thing, and that's getting away from him. I don't care what I have to do to get out of his grasp. I scratch, I claw, I kick, which only upsets my cuts even more. I think I may have even slapped his face once. But he refuses to let me go.

"Frankie, what the fuck is going on? Why are you bleeding?"

And like the pansy I am...I start to cry. And not just silent tears that make my face sticky and dribble down into my ears. No, I fucking start to bawl and scream and throw a temper tantrum like a little five-year-old. I seriously go all out.

But it does the job. Gerard's face goes all soft and worried and he leans down to kiss me, just to stop me from making so much noise. I don't care that I'm acting insane. I am insane. With a capital 'I'.

Somehow he manages to hold my face still so that I'm forced to stare directly into his eyes, while all those inhuman noises are still ripping out of my throat. And he sort of hypnotizes me with those molten pools of gold, and I'm still whimpering, but now I'm not moving.

"Tell me," he whispers with so much emotion in his voice that I just can't do it. I can't lie anymore.

Tears are rolling down my cheeks and some are going in my mouth while others are dripping onto the carpet. And he's holding me down with such force that I couldn't move anyway. And he wants me to trust him. He's begging me to trust him. I want to trust him.

"He's not my brother," I choke out in a hoarse voice.

His eyes widen. "What?"

"Owen. He's not my real brother. He's...he's adopted."

And just like that, everything in me breaks down into a zillion little pieces. It's out. Finally, God, it's out.

"Holy fuck."

Those are the only words he says, but I know he understands. He reads into my words and knows exactly what I mean.

"Frankie...why didn't you ever tell me?" His voice cracks in an uncharacteristic bout of emotion, and he looks like maybe he'll cry, or maybe he'll go commit a murder. I can hear the anger simmering behind his question.

I cling to his shirt, afraid that the moment I let go he'll be gone. Who could ever want to waste his time on such a filthy piece of shit like me? If I let go, he'll be gone. And then what will I be? Would I even exist?

"Because," I gasp, "You wouldn't want me. You don't want someone like me. I'm not...clean."

Oh, it hurts. My heart is compacting into this bloody pulp. And it hurts. It hurts so bad, thinking that he'll just get up and walk away now.

"You won't want me," I sob. "I'm so dirty, and...I just didn't want you to hate me."

"Fuck! Hate you? Frankie, I don't fucking hate you!"

What?

"It's not your fault. It's not your fucking fault. I knew it, I fucking knew that I should never leave you alone with him. Something always felt wrong. How could you think I wouldn't want you?"

His eyes are tearing up and his face is getting red. "Frankie...Jesus, I want you. And I want to keep you from getting hurt."

And he promised that to me once, and it didn't work. But I'm not listening to that part. He wants me...Thank God, he wants me.

* * *