‹ Prequel: Skin and Bones
Status: Hiatus
Eat My Heart Out
Call
I wake up by a ringing. I roll over and groan, trying to tell the noise to go away, but it doesn't. It continues to ring, resonating through my ears and making my head ache worse than it did when I woke up 2 hours ago.
I get out of bed, drag my feet across my room and grab the cordless phone my mom insisted I'd have down in my room, just in case. I guess this is the kind of case she had in mind – the kind of case where karma bites me in the ass, but doesn't convince me to change.
“Hello?” I grumble. I hope to fuck whoever is calling has a good fucking reason for waking me up from a perfectly good, heavy, drunken slumber.
“Hello, Mr. Way?”
“Yes?” I snarl.
“Hello, this is-” I stop listening. She keeps talking, telling me her name and why she's calling. Frank and Mikey's names are mentioned in her ramble, but I only hear the end of her rant – not the reason.
“Should we just send them home?” I hold back a laugh. Oh, the irony. Should the school – I think I heard the word school somewhere – send home my loving brother and lovely boyfriend? Should the school send home the clueless and the anorexic? Should the school send them home to me – Mr. Way, himself.
“Sure,” I slur, smiling to myself at the irony. Let the fucked up come to me. Don't stop them. They belong to me.
“Alright,” she says hesitantly. I wonder if she's just reluctant to let hem go, or reluctant to send them here. Obviously, she just heard the slur in my voice. She's a grown woman: she can put two and two together and get a result that somewhat adds up to the right answer.
Only, the right answer isn't what we're looking for here.
I shake my head. I make no sense. I need a beer.
“Goodbye, Mr. Way.”
I just hang up. No need to be polite. Every need to get a beer.
I stumble into the kitchen and open the fridge. The bottles in the door clink against each other. The sounds are so innocent. I know they're nothing but sodas, ketchup and dressing. Even the blood-red ketchup is innocent to me, compared to the beer that's currently “hiding” behind the cheese.
It's not “hiding” at all.
I crack open the can and gulp down some of the bitter liquid. I shake my head as the bitterness bites at my tongue and throat. I can tell my body feels that it's too early to drink beer, but the can is open now. If I don't drink it, it'll go lazy and warm and fucking disgusting, and that would be a crime against beer. It needs to be drunk.
I need to be drunk.
I get out of bed, drag my feet across my room and grab the cordless phone my mom insisted I'd have down in my room, just in case. I guess this is the kind of case she had in mind – the kind of case where karma bites me in the ass, but doesn't convince me to change.
“Hello?” I grumble. I hope to fuck whoever is calling has a good fucking reason for waking me up from a perfectly good, heavy, drunken slumber.
“Hello, Mr. Way?”
“Yes?” I snarl.
“Hello, this is-” I stop listening. She keeps talking, telling me her name and why she's calling. Frank and Mikey's names are mentioned in her ramble, but I only hear the end of her rant – not the reason.
“Should we just send them home?” I hold back a laugh. Oh, the irony. Should the school – I think I heard the word school somewhere – send home my loving brother and lovely boyfriend? Should the school send home the clueless and the anorexic? Should the school send them home to me – Mr. Way, himself.
“Sure,” I slur, smiling to myself at the irony. Let the fucked up come to me. Don't stop them. They belong to me.
“Alright,” she says hesitantly. I wonder if she's just reluctant to let hem go, or reluctant to send them here. Obviously, she just heard the slur in my voice. She's a grown woman: she can put two and two together and get a result that somewhat adds up to the right answer.
Only, the right answer isn't what we're looking for here.
I shake my head. I make no sense. I need a beer.
“Goodbye, Mr. Way.”
I just hang up. No need to be polite. Every need to get a beer.
I stumble into the kitchen and open the fridge. The bottles in the door clink against each other. The sounds are so innocent. I know they're nothing but sodas, ketchup and dressing. Even the blood-red ketchup is innocent to me, compared to the beer that's currently “hiding” behind the cheese.
It's not “hiding” at all.
I crack open the can and gulp down some of the bitter liquid. I shake my head as the bitterness bites at my tongue and throat. I can tell my body feels that it's too early to drink beer, but the can is open now. If I don't drink it, it'll go lazy and warm and fucking disgusting, and that would be a crime against beer. It needs to be drunk.
I need to be drunk.
♠ ♠ ♠
I wrote something!!I already had this pre-written, but I've written something more!
I'm proud!
I know it might seem a little irresposible for the Ways to have alcohol in the house, but oh well. I don't remember if Donna and Donald know about Gerard's past drinking... Do they?