Cigarette Saints
So ***ing Sick.
He sat on the couch with his feet tucked under him, thin arms wrapped around his shoulders like angel-wings torn to the bone, looking at the dirty carpet and rocking ever so slightly side-to-side, and each ragged breath he drew in sounded like there was a sob buried deep inside his hollow chest. And “Why this?” he whispered brokenly, tucking a strand of newly-dyed chocolate-brown hair behind his ear and shivering, dark eyeliner-eyes dangerous like shattered glass as his life fell to pieces all over again.
“What did you want me to say to you?”
“Anything.” He sounded nauseous, voice low and tired. “Anything b-but… but that. Gerard, you could have told me anything but that.”
“I’m sick of lying, Mikey. I’m so fucking sick of lying.”
“What about Frank?” he hissed, hand shaking as he tried to bring a cigarette up to his lips. I realized distractedly that I couldn’t remember when he had started smoking. “You’ll tear him to fucking shreds.”
“It’s better than living this lie!”
“I’m sick, Gerard! I’m sick, and just when I finally thought I was getting better- when I finally thought the pills were working- this. Does it fucking thrill you, shattering my whole life like this, over and over again?!”
“Mikey… Mikey, please! I’m not trying to hurt you!”
“Just go away, Gee… just go,” he whispered, voice cracking, threatening to break my heart; pressing his thin hands over his ears and curling up into a tight ball on the couch cushions, eyes squeezed shut, trying to block me out. “I d-don’t understand why you have to do this to me….” He was starting to cry; my stomach muscles clenched painfully. “I j-just- G-god, what happened t-to b-being my f-fucking big brother?! W-why do you have to- t-to…” He stopped talking and broke off into exhausted sobs, burying his face in his arms. It was like he hardly had the energy for tears. “G-get the f-fuck out.”
I left him.
I left him, and we were both alone.
“What did you want me to say to you?”
“Anything.” He sounded nauseous, voice low and tired. “Anything b-but… but that. Gerard, you could have told me anything but that.”
“I’m sick of lying, Mikey. I’m so fucking sick of lying.”
“What about Frank?” he hissed, hand shaking as he tried to bring a cigarette up to his lips. I realized distractedly that I couldn’t remember when he had started smoking. “You’ll tear him to fucking shreds.”
“It’s better than living this lie!”
“I’m sick, Gerard! I’m sick, and just when I finally thought I was getting better- when I finally thought the pills were working- this. Does it fucking thrill you, shattering my whole life like this, over and over again?!”
“Mikey… Mikey, please! I’m not trying to hurt you!”
“Just go away, Gee… just go,” he whispered, voice cracking, threatening to break my heart; pressing his thin hands over his ears and curling up into a tight ball on the couch cushions, eyes squeezed shut, trying to block me out. “I d-don’t understand why you have to do this to me….” He was starting to cry; my stomach muscles clenched painfully. “I j-just- G-god, what happened t-to b-being my f-fucking big brother?! W-why do you have to- t-to…” He stopped talking and broke off into exhausted sobs, burying his face in his arms. It was like he hardly had the energy for tears. “G-get the f-fuck out.”
I left him.
I left him, and we were both alone.