Descending

~Everybody knows that something's wrong but nobody knows what's going on~

I wake up that morning with my brother's head tucked into the crook of my neck. My head is pouding, a hard rhythm of the alcohol I'd had previously, my stomach is unsteady, I'm sweating, and everything is slightly blurry. However, that could be because I'm not wearing my glasses. Either way, I feel horrible. What was in that drink?

Gerard's breath blows against the bareness of my neck, bringing me back slightly from my terrible hangover. It breezes against my overheated skin, cooling it, then letting it reheat before blowing on it again, driving my dizzy mind a little crazy with the sensation. His round, snowy head is nestled into me, his arm draped around me, holding me to him. Shifting a little in his sleep, his grip on my waist tightens, as if he's scared of what will happen if I let go. He used to do this when we were little kids.

Every night when was little and I had a nightmare or I was scared, he'd let me sleep in his bed. He'd cuddle me just like this - tightening his grip and snuggling into me - and he'd tell me stories and make me laugh, like brothers do. Sometimes he'd read comics to me, sometimes we'd just talk. It didn't matter, really. At such a young age, he was the most important thing in the world to me. Looking at him now, with the sunshine gracefully falling upon his features from the halfway open blinds, his eyes closed and his lips lightly parted, he looks just like the kid I used to know.

My stomach heaves inside of me, forcing all of my attention on the location of the bathroom. I shoot out of bed, throwing Gerard's arm off from around me, and run as fast as I can. Slamming the bathroom door behind me, I quickly sink to my knees as my stomach expels its contents into the toilet. The vile alcohol runs up my throat, making me shudder in complete displeasure. I only had three glasses, that drink must have been stronger than I thought. I shake and moan as my stomach heaves, forcing everything out of my body. I feel completely empty.

This is what you deserve for your pitiful attempt at getting rid of me.

I bite my lip, a sharp twinge of fear stabbing at me.

When will you finally realize how pathetic you are?

I'm not pathetic...

Look around you, Michael. You're in your brother's bathroom puking up alcohol. You're alone and you're miserable. What use are you? Why are you even still here?

The band...my brother....they need me...

The band's been on hiatus for two whole years while Gerard tried to clean up your act. There is no band. There is no anything. There is just you and me, Michael. That's all there ever is to be.

I shudder, the voice's words sinking in. It's completely...right. There isn't anything. I don't have the band, I don't have Alicia, I don't even have my fucking sanity. A tear threatens to fall from my eye, but I wipe it away with the back of my pale hand. What use is crying now?

Heavy beats sound on the closed bathroom door. "Mikey? Are you okay in there?" Gerard's sleepy voice resonates from the other side of the wall. I bite my lip. Fuck, I've woken him.

"Y-Yeah, I'm okay. Just, uh...hungover." My voice is scratchy from the regurgitated alcohol -- maybe he'll believe it.

"Are you okay?" his voice comes again, "Can I come in?"

I look around the room, seeing nothing but the whiteness of the walls, counters, even the shower curtain. As much as I would love my brother to come in and hold me, tell me everything is going to be okay like he's been doing for the past two years, I refuse to let him waste anymore time on me. I don't deserve anymore of his sympathy, anymore of his kindness. I need to learn how to be alone. It's only me and myself, anyway. "No, I'm fine."

Gerard is silent for a moment, judging the situation. "You don't sound fine. Let me in, Mikey. Please? It's just me."

I sigh. No Gee, you're wrong. It's just me. "I am fine, Gee. I'm just gonna shower. I'm alright." Before he can answer, I reach and turn on the shower, the sound of the rushing water drowning out my brother's voice. Thank God.

I stand up, flushing the alcohol down the drain and take off my shirt. I look down at the bare skin there. My stomach is scrunched in on itself, my waist far too tiny from the lack of food I've been eating. I'm just never hungry; I don't feel the need to eat. Why eat? I run a finger down my ribcage, feeling the bump of every rib and the indent where the spaces between them are. I look like a walking skeleton. Disgusting.

Live with it. You always were, Michael.

I know.

Slowly, I shed my jeans, not having changed into pyjamas last night. Even though I really, really don't want to, I look down again, seeing my skinny legs, the skin clinging to the bones as if for dear life. My knees are prominent, showing in a sickly way. I must be horrifying. When did this happen?

The steam from the shower hits me and I step inside, feeling the overheated water burn my skin on impact. The water is so hot that it hurts, I can feel the flesh actually slow roasting on my body. I look at the dial, still embalmed in the scalding water. It's turned to the hottest setting. For some reason, I don't feel the need to change it.

I stand there, burning. I'm not really quite sure how long; maybe minutes, maybe even an hour. All I'm aware of is the heat. The charring, boiling water that cascades down my aching, throbbing, blazing skin, leaving a path of fire as it trails down into the drain. It hurts, it hurts so badly, but I love it. I love it so much. Maybe if I burn, it'll blaze away everything wrong with me. Maybe I will be perfect.

Don't even get your hopes up. What a laugh that is.

Would she come back? If I were perfect? Maybe. She left because I wasn't perfect. I wasn't everything she wanted, I wasn't what she needed, and she found someone who was and ran away with him. He has my beautiful black angel. Could she come back if I were perfect again?

You were never perfect! She never loved you, Michael, she never cared! How could she love someone as tainted and ugly as you; someone as broken? She couldn't and she left you. That's the reality of it. You are pitiful.

My head falls, looking down at the floor as tears well up in my eyes at the unwanted memories. I bite my lip hard, drawing blood that pools in the corners of my mouth as tears fall down along with the water from the shower head. The scene replays in my mind. Her on him, her smiling at him, her leaving with him.

The one night I attempted suicide.

But that is a memory I will never tell.

A shock of silver catches my eyes through the watery tears. I blink as I sniffle, clearing my vision and seeing the silver as a razor. Time stops dead for a few seconds. Could I?

I wait. No voice. No conscience. No Gerard. Nothing holding me back.

I reach for the precious metal blade, grabbing it by the handle. The hand razor sparkles in the dim light of the shower, an almost manic glint. Adrenaline pulses through my veins. I'm actually going to do this. I place the head of the razor on my left arm, just below my wrist. My blood beats against the smooth metal in tune to my pulse.

I stop again, waiting. I feel nothing. I feel no regret. Nothing.

Perfect.

As quickly as I can, I press down and swipe the razor. It leaves four even, long bloody cuts on my wrist, one cut from each of the individual razors on the hand held razor. Blood as red as my now burned skin collects on the surface of the cuts, bubbling together and racing down my arm, dripping onto the floor of the shower and turning the water bright pink. A sharp pain comes from each of the slices, but it's pleasureful, almost a sensual pain. A half scream, half moan escapes my bloodied lips, a moan for pleasure and help.

Almost robotically, I put the razor to my skin and slice again, and again, and again. I can't stop! The pain, fuck the pain! The sixteen new cuts on my arm sting and splutter with pain, dripping blood and burning from the volcanic water coming from the shower. There's so much blood. It's everywhere. It's gushing now, down my arms, onto my torso, into the water. I feel faint, and a louder moan escapes me. The pain is so bad, but the pleasure is so good. I'm going to die today.

I can just barely hear a rampant pounding on the door. "Mikey!! Mikey!! Open the door! Mikey, are you okay?! Why are you screaming?" I'm screaming? "Mikey! Open up, please for the love of God, let me in!"

I can't answer. I can't move or think. There's too much blood on the floor and not enough in my body. With a sharp sway, my eyes roll back into my head and I fall, half of my body landing outside the shower, my spine curving over the tiny wall of the tub, and half of me inside. Light fades into darkness and my skin burns and bleeds. I'm dead.