Velvet.

I absentmindedly rub my hand up and down the velvet-fabric throw-pillow on my bed. Throw pillows are meant for decoration purposes on couches or girl's beds, but I keep this pillow on my bed for another reason.

It calms me; rubbing my hand up and down the intoxicating texture. It's rough when you run your fingers along it one way, and soft when you run your fingers along it another way. Just like me.

It lets me know I'm okay. That I haven't lost my mind just yet.

Today, however, it gives me no solace. I've had so many bad days, but I've convinced myself that this is by far the worst.

I continue to rub my hand on the material desperately. I start to break out in a sweat. I'm shaking. I want to scream so loud my lungs will collapse. Is it possible to scream so loud that you disappear into nothing? I wish.

My mind taunts me hurtful words. Even though I'm wearing my headphones and listening to music on full blast, I can still hear them clear as ever.

"They're right what they say about you, you know."
"Ugly, ugly, ugly."
"You're better off alone. Dead, even."
"You think you're going to make it? Give up."
"You're useless."

I throw my hands over my face and rip my headphones out of my ears. "Shut up! Shut up shut up SHUT UP!" I plead out loud. It continues. It doesn't stop. nothing will make it fucking stop.

I rummage though the drawer into my bedside table for my old contact case. I don't even use it for contacts anymore. I open the case and dump the object on my hand. The contact of the cold metal on my skin makes me shiver. I let it slide between my fingers as I eye it up carefully. It's like seeing an old friend. I have not cut in probably over a year. But this is my last resort. It will make me okay. I know it. I'm positive of it.

I aim the razor at my wrist, ready to break through the skin. All I need is a little pressure. The pain will all go away. Just one line. Any more and it will leave evidence. No one can know.

I start to add a little pressure when the sound of the vibration of my phone startles me back to reality. I shake my head as if I've woken up from a dream. I look down at the razor and my thankfully-unmarked wrist. What am I doing? I've overcame this. Imagine all the people who I promised that I'd stop. What would they think of me when they'd find out that I failed?

I put the razor back into the case and throw it back into the contents of the drawer and close it. Never again, I thought.

I check my phone and I see that I have a new text message from "Gee." I inwardly sigh.

"Come here," it said. I gulp and hesitantly reply with "can't, homework" and pressed send. He definitely won't be happy that I denied his request. But I don't care about anything at this point. Sadness engulfs me again. And I'm back to where I started; rubbing my stupid pillow. I clutch it close like a child.

The vibration of my phone tells me that Gerard must have replied. It hasn't even been 20 seconds since I responded to him. He must be fuming. I bite my lip and open it.

"Now."

I can almost hear the sternness in his voice. The kind of sternness that he only uses with me. It's demanding and rough. And I always obey. I can't not.

I get up off my bed and head towards my brother's room. It's the weekend. Mom works. The house is empty except for him and I. He goes to college on the week days and comes home on the weekends.

I walk into his room gingerly. He's sitting on his bed sketching something. It's a sight that I haven't seen in months. He looks up at me and raises his eyebrows. Oh god, are my eyes still red from crying? I look away hastily.

"You said you wanted me to come down here?" I asked quietly.

In the corner of my eye I can see him nodding as if he remembers. "Sit," he said simply, patting the bed beside him. I sit down and the bed creeks a little bit, putting sour shivers up my spine. It's a sound I'm too familiar with.

"You're drawing again," I said, trying to get all the attention off of me. He shrugs and puts his sketch pad aside. "Just sketchin'," he replies, not taking his eyes off me. He's trying to read me. I know it. He does this every time. Most of the time, it works. Well, okay, all of the time.

"What's wrong," he finally asks after much silence between us. I shrug. "Nothing," I reply. He lets out a frustrated sigh, clearly unconvinced. He knows I don't go down without making it difficult. He always does eventually pry it out of me of what's wrong,

and he has his own way of doing it.

"Lie down," he orders me softly. I have no choice but to obey. Not only because he'll end up pinning me down anyway, but because I really DON'T HAVE A CHOICE. He has me wrapped around his finger and he knows it. My brain is wired so that every order he gives me, I volunteeringly do what he says.

I slowly lie down and he adjusts himself so that his abdomen is resting on mine. He looks down at me attentively. I try to avoid his gaze. He'll have none of that. He reaches out for my hand brings it up to his lips.

"Talk to me, Mikey," he says softly into my knuckles, "Tell me what's wrong."
I sigh. "I told you, I'm fine," I get out. He shakes his head. "No you're not," he says in a sing-song voice. He nibbles gently on one of my knuckles and it makes my breathing go a little unsteady. "And how do you know?" I challenge harshly. He laughs a little at my weak attempt at intimidating him. It makes me feel pathetic.

"Well," he starts, "For one, you never do your homework. Mom bitches at you for not doing it all the time." He kisses lightly at my wrists and trails seductively down my forearm, up to my shoulder. He nips it lightly, and my breathing hitches. "Second," he breathes in my ear, "you wouldn't pass up doing me for doing homework." He works his lips from my shoulder over to my neck and doesn't hesitate when he goes directly to my weak spot. I moan encouragingly and bite my lip to stop. He laughs a little into the crook of my neck. He's enjoying this a little too much.

I don't exactly know how it got to this. From being his stupid little brother and avoiding and hating each other, to kisses and desperate hands and lips. It happened so quickly. He started college. I saw him a lot less. I thought I was happy considering I fucking hated him. I hated him, right? Of course I did. But I missed him. I hated him so much that I missed him.

One day I lost it. I completely snapped out on him, calling him every name I could think of. First thing I remember screaming at him and the next I'm on fucking top of him kissing the hell out of him until I'm begging for air. He didn't stop me. We went far. Too far. All the way. I've been a slave to his touch and lips since.

While to others this relationship we have is sick and twisted and disgusting considering we're brothers, to us, this is healthy. Normal, even. When I'm scared and I lose myself the way I am now, he always finds me. With his fingertips, lips, and tongue and teeth. I want to kick myself for even considering cutting earlier. I was so close to doing it. I would be a scratching post if it weren't for Gerard. Or possibly hanging from a rope. He's saved me so many times it almost makes me feel guilty.

He continues kissing my neck warmly and runs his hands up my shirt. His hands are cold against my hot skin. the contact immediately makes me arch back and exhale sharply in pleasure. He smiles triumphantly. This is exactly what he wants. When he goes to take my shirt off, though, I hesitate. He looks at me confusingly. I never hesitate. Well, sometimes, but not really this far in. Usually I would be a rag doll to him at this point. The taunting voices are threatening to come back again. I try to calm down.

When he finally gets my shirt off, my arms immediately go over my chest and stomach. This confuses him even more. There's nothing he hasn't seen of me before. "Why..why are you hiding yourself from me?" he whispers. I shake my head. Suddenly, his eyes widen. My turn to be confused. "You aren't cutting again, are you?" he asks darkly. Before I can even attempt to explain myself, he rips my arms off my chest and stomach and into the air and inspects for cuts. When he finds nothing, he sighs, relieved.

"Why are you hiding yourself from me?" he asks again, getting more and more irritated from the answers that I'm not giving him.

'Shake your fucking head' was all that my brain was telling me to do. The voices in my head are back, now, screaming tauntingly.

"Mikey, WHAT'S WRONG," Gerard screams.
"Just LEAVE IT!" I plead.
"Obviously I'm NOT going to fucking leave it Mikes so FUCKING TELL ME!"

Something in me breaks. "People at school are always making fun of me, okay?!"
His eyes widen. He definitely wasn't expecting that. Leaving HIM speechless was a rare occasion as it was, so I continued.
"They..they call me ugly. And stupid. And useless. Do you want me to fucking continue on with he fucking list?! I'm surprised you even want to touch me!"

Tears are slowly spilling over my eyes. I feel so stupid. 7-year-olds come home crying that they're being made fun of, definitely not a highschooler. They're right. I am pathetic.

Gerard stars at me horrified for a little while, and finally speaks.
"What makes you think that they have a say in what YOU are? Unless their name is Gerard Way, they don't fucking mean anything! They're irrelevant! Mikey, Look at me!"
He lifts up my chin. "If they can't see how beautiful you are like I do, fuck them! They don't mean SHIT! They're going to grow up and amount to NOTHING. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

Beautiful. I let the word flow through my brain a couple of times. Me? Beautiful? He has never called me that before. No one ever has. The word coming out of his mouth alone makes my toes curl and my stomach churn. The voices stop completely. All I hear is Gerard's elevated breathing and my heart beating through my ears.

"You..you think I'm beautiful?" I ask quietly. His eyes look into mine and it takes him a while until he nods slowly, and says out loud "Yeah, I do." He says it so quiet. As if he's telling me a secret. It might as well be a secret. A secret only him and I will know. I lift my hand and pull his face towards mine.

All secrets are sealed with a kiss.

Hearing what he said to me makes me want to give him so much more. And I'm going to do just that. I surrender to him, not that there's too much of a fight in the beginning.

In a way, this keeps me sane. Like cutting, once I start, I don't stop. Can't ever stop. Only afterwards I'm not left with cuts that turns into scars. I'm left with sweat, hickeys, and invisible marks where he touched or left kisses. I run my fingers over them sometimes. It calms me. It lets me know I'm okay. That I haven't lost my mind just yet.

Just like velvet.