Passing Looks and Disappointed Faces

[Gee's P.O.V.]

I feel like a cheap whore. Really, I do, what with Frank busting in just when I had finished...uh...oh god, I was touching myself. It wasn't my fault to begin with; if he hadn't moved over me with that look in his eyes, I wouldn't have been caught in such an interesting predicament. Having tidied myself up, I had gone off in search of him to try to explain and apologize for my actions. Unfortunately, he was long gone, probably scared half to death and traumatized for the rest of his life. There was nothing more I could do but sit with my friends and wait to see if he would return.

It's been an hour and thirty-five minutes with twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight sec.-(well, you get the point) and he's still not back. Still. And his coffee has long since been cold and his fag still lying on the floor because none of us can be bothered to move it and I just can't bear to have it leave my sight. My brother wants me to eat but I can't force myself to choke down the meal when I still see that half-finished cancer stick lying just feet away from me, knowing he had used it and it was he who had caught me.

Taking another drag from my cig, trying hard to push the recent memory out of my photographic mind, I stood up, walking into the kitchen where my friends and Mikey were laughing their heads off at some joke or other. For some reason, I felt this surge of anger engulf me and I threw the cigarette at them. I told you I was insane. However, it caught their attention and instantly, there were six eyes just staring directly at me.

Chuckling slightly, Ray was the only one who spoke, "Dude, what'd you do that for?" My brother looked down at the fag, and sighing, picked it up to throw it away.

"Stop!" I yelled my voice shrill. Whoa, I sounded like a full-on girl. He dropped the fag, taking a few steps back before glaring at me, his arms in the air as if he were being arrested innocently.

"What is wrong with you, Gee?"

"Does anyone other than me care how Frank is? What if he's been kidnapped? Or run over by a flock of rabid meese-"

"It's moose."

"What?"

"The plural of moose is moose."

"Oh, who gives a shit? Run over by a flock of rabid moose-"

"Actually, it's a herd."

"Shut your mouth! What if he's lying in the gutter right now, cold and wet? What if he's been run over by a car? What if he's been attacked by a bunch of serial killers who have stolen his fucking trousers? We've got to look for him now!"

"Will you calm down, Gerard, and listen to your-fucking-self?" I shut up finally, breathing hard in my rage. Bob had stood up to his full height of six feet and a few more inches, towering over me. I pouted, though I wasn't in much of a mood to do so, staring down at the fag I had thrown at them. "Why would anyone want to steal his trousers? Furthermore, when has there ever been a herd of rabid moose around the streets of New Jersey? And why the hell do you care so much about someone you just met?"

"So you don't care about his well-being," I retorted stupidly, grabbing my extinguished cig butt to throw into his face. It was a definite mistake because next second his hands were at my shoulders and my back was against the wall, my leg awkwardly hooked around a stool's leg.

"Listen Gerard; you're getting carried away right now," Bob snarled, his face inches from mine so that I could feel his hot breath. "He's another kid and it's not like we don't care what happens to him but we barely know him. You're getting too attached to someone whose life you barely even scratched the surface on. Do you know his birthday? Where he lives? Do you know what he likes to eat or what his home life is like? You don't know shit Gee, and you're jumping to far-fetched conclusions. You can be such a dumb-ass sometimes, it amazes me. What if he's home already, safe and sound? You don't know Gerard, and you won't know until Monday if at all.

"He's not a real part of your life, not like Mikey and Ray and hopefully I am. He's a stranger to all of us right now and do you really have so much heart and trust in a stranger? Do you worry more of him than you do of us? You have been waiting there for hours and he hasn't come back; there's nothing you can do." He sighed, turning his face away for a short moment, "Gee-tard," he muttered more softly, almost endearingly, "He's nothing of yours; he may never come back." Finally, his hands left my shoulders and I simply collapsed, sliding down the wall until I got to the floor.

He's nothing of yours; he may never come back. He's nothing...nothing of yours. I shook my head, trying to get the words out of my mind; I couldn't stand them. Finally, I simply upped and left, walking like a zombie through the house, somehow stumbling down the stairs, sitting myself in front of my closet. You don't know, Gerard. I didn't know. I didn't know anything about him. Slowly, I began sifting through my CDs, stacking them up in the neat little piles they should have been in. Out of some sort of manic urge, I stacked them up in alphabetical artist order before arranging the stacks of artists in chronological release of each disc. It was inevitable that I would finally reach the Smashing Pumpkins pile; I had been reluctant to reach this one.

Deciding I would get back to it, I continued on from the rest of the S's all the way to the Z's. Sighing, I finally got to work on organizing the stack. I never finished. Just beginning, I grabbed the 7" vinyl of Ava Adore and I ceased my insane organization, looking over the cover fixedly, running my hand over the edges. I stood up, placing it on a table, walking away to my bed singing softly under my breath:

"Today is the greatest day I've ever known
Can't live for tomorrow
Tomorrow's much too long
I'll burn my eyes out
Before I get out

I wanted more than life could ever grant me
Bored by the chore of saving face..."

I couldn't continue and so I trailed off, humming the rest of the song as I lay face-down on my bed. I was surprised I hadn't been interrupted yet; maybe they thought I had come to my senses and was busy with something or other. I didn't care, really. Pink ribbon scars that never forget...Bored finally by my inactivity, I forced myself to stand, walking back up the stairs, pausing mid-way to look down at my room. It was huge, to be completely honest, stretching to nearly half the length of the house; it was like having an apartment for my own. At the far end wall, to the right if you are going down the rickety wooden stairs, there stretches my closet with the neatly organized CDs. On the opposite wall, meters away, is my bed which is pushed into the corner for maximum comfort. There are assorted armchairs, a couch and a few small tables scattered throughout which were mostly acquired at garage sales or from my parents when they were going to throw out furniture.

Opposite to my bed, on the wall to the left of the staircase (again, this is when you face the room) stands my bookshelves and a desk I managed to salvage. Next to it stands an overflowing wastepaper basket (I've really got to remember to take out the trash...). And finally, the walls are plastered with numerous band flyers I somehow managed to get my paws upon, including a rare autographed the Cure flyer. Don't ask me how I got that one; let's just say it cost me a hell of a lot of trouble and a scar. Oh, and there is a small window-like pane situated over the couch which has led to many escapes to parties and booze. Ah yes, my trusty little pane.

Shaking my head at my own thoughts, I continue on up the stairs, wondering if they have moved from the kitchen yet. As I had thought, they hadn't and I took advantage of their ignorance of my presence to begin belting out the lyrics to Lullaby:

"On candy-striped legs
The spider-man comes
Softly through the shadow of the evening sun
Slipping past the windows of the blissfully dead
Looking for the victim shivering in bed.

Searching out fear in the gathering gloom and
Suddenly!
A movement in the corner of the room!
And there is nothing I can do
When I realize with fright
That the spider-man is having me for dinner tonight!"

I move along with the lyrics, slinking through the room, ghosting my hands over their faces, leaning in to whisper the lyrics in their ears before suddenly turning away to the next person. They do nothing more than stare before continuing on their conversation when I finally finish with "And the spider-man is always hungry..." I pout, disappointed; it was a lot more fun when they got angry at my outbursts of song. Now I had to deal with their ignoring my very theatrics; it was quite frustrating. I had to do something. Unfortunately, I could think of no song other than one that could get on their nerves. Either way, I sang it.

"I know a song that gets on everybody's nerves
Everybody's nerves, everybody's nerves
I know a song that gets on everybody's nerves
And this is how it goes."

And I kept repeating that until finally I was whapped in the head by the dishrag. Now, getting whapped in the head isn't necessarily fun but it was entertaining to see their faces twisted in anger and annoyance. With a grin, realizing my job was done, I skipped away, flipping them the bird happily. I could feel them rolling their eyes behind me, probably happy I wasn't going to begin another round of rousing lyrics. Grabbing my beat-up leather jacket hanging by the door I announce my departure. The reply is a harmony of voices yelling for me to leave them alone. I grin, stepping out into the crisp New Jersey air. My job was successfully done.