Anorex-a-Gogo

Rule #5: never trust anyone. You don't put your confidence in any person, no matter what. Because nine times out of ten that person will break that confidence.

By the time Monday morning rolls around, I've convinced myself that I have broken each and every rule of Be Invisible. This weekend I gained two pounds, putting me at 124. I talked to Gerard and Mikey without thinking--a lot. I argued with myself a million times that what I'd felt for Gerard was just hallucination from not having eaten much for a while. I pretty much put every emotion on the line in that small examination room. And most of all, I trusted Gerard completely. I didn't want to, but I did. This was probably my biggest mistake of all.

And I know that eventually this will all come around to bite me in the ass. This is too much for karma to leave alone.

After everything that passed between Gerard and me, even if it was just a holding of hands in the Emergency Room, I'm afraid. I'm afraid that maybe he held a little more than my hand. He holds my trust, my confidence. He holds my expectations.

As someone who is supposed to Be Invisible, I'm not allowed any expectations. When you have expectations for someone, you put yourself out there for the chance to be let down. So overall, it's best to just not give anyone that chance at all.

Harder said than done.

So on Monday morning when I get to school, I'm feeling much lower than usual. I slouch from class to class feeling hungry and angry and confused as all fuck. Worst of all, I'm disappointed. I'm disappointed in Gerard for doing something to make me feel again, and then for just going on like it never happened. Mostly I'm just disappointed in myself for thinking anything ever could happen.

Mikey's tried to grab my attention multiple times across the hallways and classrooms. I ignore him because that's what I do. Since when have I ever wanted any extra attention?

After a painful conversation about how hard it is to be a teenager and fitting in and finding my place with Mr. Stokes, I run off to the nurse's office and plead sickness. I have been feeling a little shitty since yesterday, though it could be for a multitude of reasons. My stint in the rain, my various sore body parts from the ER, or maybe just my bad mood weighing me down. I'm prone to sickness, always have been, so none of yesterday was probably a good idea.

By the time my mom arrives to pick me up from the nurse's office, I've worked myself up into a fever and a bit of a cold sweat. I'm feeling pretty nauseous too. Mom helps me out to the car and does all of that sweet motherly stuff, like smoothing my hair and kissing my forehead, that guys only seem to appreciate when they're weak and want to be taken care of. I remember what the doctor said yesterday, about how I should call him if I began to feel like this because it might be a negative reaction to the tetanus shot, but there's no way in hell I'm going back to the hospital. My mother doesn't even know I was there, since I went straight to bed upon returning from Mikey's, and today I've cleverly hidden the bandages underneath a pair of gloves with the fingers all missing.

Mom can't take me home because it's too far from her psychiatric office, and she has an appointment with one of her patients in ten minutes. So I end up popping Aspirins and Jolly Ranchers on a couch in her office for the next five hours or so as wackjob after wackjob comes in, each prepared with their own sob story.

I try to sleep off my crappy feelings, but it's hard to while I can hear Mom asking, "And how do you feel about that?" each time her patient finishes a part of their story. Soon I find myself imagining myself in Random Nutcase's place.

"Well, Mom, yesterday I cut my hand open trying to keep myself from eating because I plan on staying Invisible for the rest of my life, and you can't be fat when you're invisible."

"And how do you feel about that?"

"I feel hungry, because I haven't eaten since. As for my hand, it hurts like a bitch. But at the ER, Mikey's brother Gerard held my hand."

"And how do you feel about that?"

"Disgusted. Gerard doesn't want anything to do with me, but I can't help but want to be with him. It hurts to want that. I must be masochistic."

"And how do you feel about that?"

"Badly. I've broken all of the rules. I won't get away with that. Karma will get me back for that. But even knowing that, I still want Gerard to want me. He won't ever want me, I'm too messed up. I'm numb. I'm a sick fuck."

"And how do you feel about that?"

"I want to die, Ma."

"Honey? Frank, sweetie, how do you feel?" Mom softly asks me, shaking my shoulder.

I open my eyes and I'm on her couch still. Her last patient is gone. It's time to go home. My daydream plays itself over again in my mind. So much I'd never tell her. I'd never tell anyone.

How do I feel?

Sick
Angry.
Hungry.
Sad.
Depressed.
Suicidal.
Homicidal.
Genocidal.
Alone.
Bored.
Numb.
Confused.

How do I feel?

"I feel okay," I reply.
* * *

Monday night, and I'm in bed. Mom let me slip by without dinner because I'm "sick". I don't understand it. She spends all day analyzing stranger's problems and helping sort them out. How is it that she's blind to the problems in her own family?

Monday night I'm praying for numbness. Owen is touching me, and I can feel it. I can feel his hands, cold as ice. I can feel each hot breath on my skin. I can feel him growing, readying himself for release. It's been years since I've felt what he does to me.

I feel him tremble as he closes in on his breaking point.

A tear slips out of my eye because I can feel him and it hurts, it hurts worse than anything. Like he's trying to tear me in half. I don't want to feel anymore. I want to be numb again.

This is all Gerard's fault. If he hadn't held my hand, hadn't been so damn nice and helpful, hadn't cared about me. If he hadn't made me feel things...I never though I'd actually want to be numb.

But because I can feel, I feel everything. Through the pain and my tears, a part of me realizes that somewhere in there, it feels good. It feels great. It makes me want to scream out, it makes me feel so good.

And then I open my eyes and realize that it's Owen wiping himself off with an old t-shirt. It's Owen who grins before slipping out of my room. It's Owen who leaves me panting and sobbing in bed, sticky with my own semen. Owen, not Gerard.

I throw up all over my sheets.
* * *

I knew it. I knew karma would punish me for my mistakes and poor judgment. I knew I had it coming.

Most of the time I can get away with Being Invisible. I have no friends, I have no expectations. I have no life. Easy.

But every once in a while, someone notices me, and then I can't Be Invisible. Then I can only pray that it won't hurt me too much.

I return dutifully to school on Tuesday, feeling lower than ever. I feel disgusting. Unclean. Dirty. I know I'm a sick fuck. I know that. I've got to be the biggest freak on Earth. I'm serious, I wish I could die.

"Hey, faggot!"

I don't turn around. Seriously, who answers to that? Even the guys who are like, completely flaming about their sexuality wouldn't turn around at that name. Because you just don't think about it like that. Not when you're gay.

"Hey, fag! I'm talking to you!"

Like I didn't know that. This hallway is empty except for me and the group of about five or six guys who are following me. They're all the big macho type, the kind that strut around showing off their muscles and talking shamelessly about girls they've fucked...twice. The kind that secretly go home each night and watch Oprah with their Mom.

I'm Invisible. I'm Invisible. I'm Invisible.

I'm suddenly lifted off my feet as one guy lifts me a few inches and slams me against a string of lockers in the hallway. I cringe as my head snaps back into the cold metal, making my vision fill with black spots. A combination lock digs uncomfortably into my back.

"I'm talking to you," the angry guy who has me pressed against the lockers hisses. His breath is hot on my face.

"How cliche' " I mutter, rolling my eyes.

He slams me into the metal again, harder this time. I didn't even realize I'd said that out loud until my head smacks against the corner of a locker and my whole vision goes black in a cloud of pain for a few moments.

"Keep your mouth shut, Iero."

This plan suits me fine. Rule #2: Don't talk. Rule #3: Never ever argue. Consider these rules, warnings really, heeded.

"I don't like punks like you," the guy spits. I don't recognize him, but three or four of the other guys are friends of Owen's. It's ironic really. These guys beat me up for being a fag while Owen continues to fuck other guys on the sly. I could almost laugh.

I know I'm fucked when a chuckle slips out from my lips. The guy's eyes go black and his sick grin twists into a frown. Guys like him detest being laughed at.

For some reason, his fist connecting with my jaw just makes me laugh even harder. I don't know why. Maybe I'm finally cracking.

Further angered, the guy jumps me and forces me to the dirty floor. He pummels me with his fists repeatedly. He kicks me in the stomach, in the head. I'm in so much pain, but all I can do is laugh. I can hear my gasping cackles in the background of his frustrated grunts.

I'm laughing so much that tears are pouring down my face. It's all just fucking funny. My life is a joke. Why shouldn't I laugh?

The guy socks me in the cheek, and my head snaps to the side. Suddenly I see that Gerard is watching this entire scene. He's leaning inconspicuously up against a wall, his hands jammed in his pockets, just watching. A frown tugs at his lips. A blow to my stomach makes me cough up blood, but I can still hear myself cackling. I sound hysterical. It's frightening really, but I can only laugh harder. Our eyes meet, and Gerard's look is of pity. Pure pity.

I laugh so hard my stomach muscles clench. Gerard, worried about me? No fucking way. He doesn't want anything to do with me. He's a nice guy.

He just stares.

Every punch dealt makes me die a little. I'm wasting away inside. It hurts. It's hilarious.

The guy is panting from exertion. He staggers to his feet and grins at me in a satisfied way. "You deserved it, faggot," he gasps, then spits on my broken face. In the next minute they're all gone.

My eyes are still on Gerard's, and I'm still cracking up. I did deserve it. I deserved it all for getting my hopes up and for feeling good for something that's so, so sick. It's fucking funny how karma can kill you.

I can feel my chest heaving with uncontrollable gasps of inappropriate laughter. My face is wet with blood and sweat and tears and spit. The metallic smell of my own blood makes me nauseous, but I'm laughing to hard to care. Every muscle in my body aches from laughing, but I just can't stop.

Gerard isn't laughing. He slowly walks over, his hands still in his pockets. He sits just inches from where I'm curled up on my side, laughing hysterically. It's almost shrieking. And then suddenly it isn't laughter anymore. My chest heaves with sobs that erupt from my broken body like earthquakes. Tears continue to roll down my face, and they blur out my vision almost completely. I curl up into a tighter ball and cry raggedly, gasping for breath. I hurt all over. But Gerard doesn't look away, so I don't either.

Everything is all so funny, but I can't laugh anymore. I can only cry because I deserve much much worse than a brutal beating. I deserve a lifetime of Gerard's pitying stares. That's worse than any kick to the gut.

It seems like it takes hours for my wretched sobs to fade out, replaced by these horrid gasping noises that make me sound like I'm really dying. Maybe I am.

Once I've stopped crying so hard, Gerard lifts my head and puts it in his lap. He strokes my hair and lets me bleed all over his skinny jeans. I know I'm getting blood and tears and snot all over him, but he doesn't seem to notice. Or maybe he just doesn't care. My good hand clings to the back of his t-shirt as my small body trembles with exhaustion.

I want to Be Invisible. But more than that, I want him to see me. I want him and only him to see me as I really am.

A weak, disgusting coward.