Like an Angel

Black winged angel come to me,
Release my soul from this misery.

"What exactly are you accusing me of?" he snarled.

"I-I'm not accusing you. I'm just asking." The younger one stared at his hands. "Don't get so defensive."

"Well, how the hell am I supposed to react when you accuse me of having a fucking eating disorder?! Ecstatic?" His eyes flashed maliciously.

"I love you. I just want you to be okay. Gerard, please--"

"Get out!" The dark haired man continued to yell until his brother left the room in tears. He stumbled to the hotel door and secured the lock, sliding against the door until he was on the floor. "Eating disorder?" he whispered to himself, burying his head in his hands.

A disorder meant something was wrong, out of control. Gerard stood up and walked to the bed, wiping the papers full of lyrics and depressing sketches onto the floor with his arm. "I'm not out of control." he whispered to himself. "I know exactly what I'm doing."

He turned and walked into the bathroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair stringy and hanging in his face. He pulled his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, throwing it angrily at the door. His fingertips traced his rib cage, his collarbone, the hip bones showing above his jeans.

It was never enough to be able to touch bones through papery flesh, to be able to count his ribs one by one, to slowly resemble one of the starving children you see in commercials. Without even turning toward the toilet, he shoved two fingers down his throat and vomited into the sink. The dinner he hadn't eaten came up in a mixture of bile and blood.

'Complete control? You're a fucking wreck, Way.'

'I could stop anytime I wanted.'

'Why don't you?'

"I DON'T WANT TO!" Gerard screamed at his reflection. His fists hit the counter as he choked on tears, grimacing at the taste of vomit still in his mouth. Disgusted, he turned on the sink and filled a glass with water.

He looked at himself in the mirror, at the bones jutting out from his flesh. I'm so fucked up. He closed his eyes. But I'm beautiful, right? Like an angel? Like a dark angel with black feathers on its wings, too much eyeliner, and too much emotion. I'm a dark angel. I'll fly away from this.

There was a knocking on the hotel room door. Gerard opened his eyes, slowly setting down his glass and crossing the room. He looked through the peephole, closing his eyes when he saw his brother. This time the knocking was louder and much more forceful. "Gerard, open the fucking door!"

Gerard shook his head, though Mikey couldn't see him. He backed away from the door all too quickly, falling backward over his suitcase. He cried out as his head connected with the side of the dresser. He opened his eyes and slowly waited for the room to come back into focus.

It felt . . . amazing. At that moment Gerard couldn't care how sick he was. Pain was the ultimate high. Gerard hadn't been able to start doing drugs or drinking again. Somehow he felt that was worse than what he was doing.

As if in a feverish sort of trance, Gerard grabbed one of the sketches he had thrown on the floor, the beautiful dark angel he imagined himself as and laid it on the bed. He ran to the bathroom and returned with a razor blade, which he pressed to his finger, inhaling sharply when the blood flooded to the surface of his pale skin.

Gerard traced the outline of the angels wings with his finger, smiling maniacally at the blood smeared on the page. "You're so beautiful." he whispered . . . to the paper? To himself? He open another cut when the blood seemed to cease in his index finger.

After the angel's wings were coated in blood, Gerard grabbed another picture from the floor, this one two lovers with wings embracing on a couch. And that was how they found him, painting pictures with blood and whispering about beauty. He didn't even hear the adjoining door open, didn't move when he heard Mikey's gasp.

He didn't even move until his brother pulled the paper away from him, staring up at Gerard with eyes widened in fear and horror. Neither of them spoke when Mikey pulled Gerard into the bathroom and washed his fingers, pressing a towel against them to stop the bleeding.

"You're sick, Gerard." Mikey said softly, breaking the silence. "You need help."

"I'm not sick." Gerard said, no anger in his voice this time. Now his voice was fanatical. "I'm not sick. It's so beautiful, Mikey. You don't understand. The blood's beautiful. The pain's beautiful. I'm beautiful. I'm a beautiful dark angel with feathers on my wings."

"Gerard, stop it." Mikey snapped, tears running down his cheeks. "You're sick. You don't know what you're saying."

Gerard's hazel eyes faltered as he stared at his brother. The malice had returned. "I'm happy. Don't you see that?! Why do you hate me so much that you don't want me to be happy?"

"I don't hate you, Gerard!" Mikey yelled, his voice shaking. "I love you so much. It kills me watching you go through this, not even realizing how sick you are. Everyday I wake up wondering if you're going to still be breathing. I love you, Gerard, but no one should ever have to worry like that. You need help."

Mikey buried his face in his hands and started crying, sliding down the wall until he was sitting on the floor. Gerard spared his brother a glance before he looked in the mirror. He was beautiful . . . wasn't he?

You ruin everything you touch. Yourself, Bert, those stupid drawings, your brother. You're not an angel, you're just a sorry excuse for a human being. You're hideous. Look at yourself with those circles under your eyes, those cuts on your fingers, your bones sticking out as if you were a Holocaust victim. You're disgusting. There's nothing good about what you are. You're a sin, a walking blaspheme.

Gerard's bottom lip trembled as his vision cleared. The papery skin he had worked so hard to obtain reminded him of a paper doll, something that could be destroyed in two seconds over an open flame. Wings would rather wilt that spring from his shoulders.

Gerard turned and looked at his brother through the tears forming in his eyes. You should hug him, say something. Cliché endings are cliché only because they make everyone happy.

Instead Gerard walked softly from the bathroom to the bed strewed with the bloody masterpieces of his infested mind. He knelt on the floor, staring at them. He would pick one up and stare at it until he thought he might vomit without the aid of his fingers. Then he would pick up the next and do the same thing.

And that was how Mikey found him, fingers running over dried blood and charcoal, tears running down a pale face. "Gerard?"

"I'm sorry." the older one whispered, his eyes closing for a moment.

Mikey knelt behind Gerard, wrapping his arms around his brother's frail form. "I know you are." He helped Gerard to his feet and brushed the dark hair from his face. "You are beautiful." he said. "But you'd be even more beautiful if you were happy again." He pressed his lips to Gerard's forehead, smiling when his brother's arms wrapped around his neck.

"I love you." Gerard whispered, his voice cracking as he started crying again.

Mikey ran a hand through Gerard's hair, the other one rubbing the warm skin of his brother's back. His lips remained pressed to Gerard's forehead. "I love you too, angel. I love you, too."