Angels Aren't ***-Ups

He finds me because I’m his brother’s best friend. He finds me because he hates me and he’s interested in me all at once. He finds me in my bedroom, lying on the floor, blowing smoke rings out of my nose. That’s talented, I’m almost positive. The cigarette’s burning a hole through the carpet and into the hardwood floor underneath, so he stomps it out and stares at me. Then he stares at all the hard liquor bottles surrounding me and turns at the sound of my disgusting giggle.

Summer’s burning through my body, so I’m shirtless and pants-less, sweat dripping from my hair freely. Air-conditioning doesn’t exist. I’m poor poor poor as a hobo. He stares at me, and he stares at the wings on my back.

“I’m an angel,” I slur, giggling more, reaching for the matches and another cigarette. And then I curse, because it’s obvious that the Marlboro’s are gone, and there’s only one pitiful match sitting in the box.

And he says, “Then God’s really fucked up.” Which only makes me giggle even more. I’m giggling so hard I’m sure my lungs are about to cave in and my ribs are about to crack and shatter, and my ears are bleeding. It’s a sick sound, even to me, the drunken dumb-fuck. Because, for real, God’s fucked up. He’s more fucked up than I ever was.

And I’m still laughing, I’m laughing till I’m vomiting up shit and blood from last night and the night before that and the night before that. The acidic stench takes over the room, mixing in with the smoke and the alcohol, and I’m almost positive I’m suffocating from the smell, I’ll turn blue blue blue, so blue that it’ll be like some twisted Picasso painting, and then I’ll just kick the bucket and go six feet under.

He’s still staring at me, still confused and wondering, and covering his nose, caramel wide eyes drilling a hole into my skull while he wonders what the fuck is wrong with me.

See also: psychopathic shitdumbfuck liar.

“M-mikey,” he stutters, and it rolls off of his tongue slowly, scared. Scared of me. Poor poor poor me. And his brother comes in and takes one look and then groans. He groans and he whimpers and then he helps me sit up. Me, who’s still choking on alkaline acid vomit and laughing laughing laughing.

“What the fuck’s with the wings?” he mumbles rhetorically, and sits me on the bed. “Get a towel,” he says to his brother. Lay it over the mess, get the air freshener, blah blah blah. The words smear together in my head and the lights twist and turn all over the room. “Fuck, what’d you take, man?” he asks, panicking. “Shit fuck damn fuck,” he curses out a string, reaching for the phone, and calling somebody.

Me, I just giggle.

See also: Frank The Fuck Up.

See also: psychopath in serious need of help.

See also: the gay faggot left alone.

-
This is all about death. Everything in the hospital is all about death, bloody, tragic fucking death, we’re all dying dying; dead. I’m dying, you’re dying, the person next to you is dying, from the moment we take our first breath to the last breath.

And maybe I’m just so tired of dying.

But I was saved anyways.
And I’m so high on morphine I’m out of my mind, literally and figuratively. I’m trembling and bouncing in the bed and waiting for someone to come in so I can take it out on them. There’s something so seriously wrong with me. Pretend there’s not, however. Pretend I’m not even aware of what’s going on. Pretend pretend pretend.

See also: Liar liar pants on fire.

I’m so high on morphine that there’s little creatures with bloody glass eyes and skeletal bodies coming towards me, killing me with every growing second. They’re everywhere, crawling up my arms, legs, face, mouth, tongue, invading me, and tearing at my skin, so eager to get to the insides.

I’m so high on morphine there’s zombies everywhere in the room, groaning about getting to me, and all I do is watch in fascination, whimpering.

“Frankie.” But the bloody creatures have me, they won’t let me speak, they’re holding my mouth and ripping at my insides, making blood spurt everywhere. Oh, God, make it stop. Make it stop make it stop make it stop. “Frankie, Frankie, you’re moaning about monsters, wake up, shit! Gee, help.”

“Fuck, Mikey, what the hell am I supposed to do?” he murmurs and comes over. He puts his hands on my wrists and shakes. The stupid monsters don’t let me open my eyes, they’re keeping them closed. “Frankie, Frankie, come on…” he mumbles. “Remember the wings? They’re still on, sort of. Come on, Frankie, stop thinking abut the monsters.”

“I-is he gonna be okay?” Mikey lets the words tumble out and I just know he’s biting his nails. Gerard takes in a sharp breath and the grip on my wrists goes tighter tighter tighter.

“Shit, Mikey, ask a doctor that fucking question, yeah?” So I groan. I groan because the monsters are suddenly dissolving, and my eyelids feel lighter and lighter with every growing second.

“Frankie,” Mikey says, Frankie can you hear me?

No shit Sherlock.

“Oh, God, you gave us a frigging heart attack, you dickhead.”

See also: Frank the Fuck-Up.

“What did you take? What the fuck did you take?” That question isn’t worthy of an answer. That question isn’t even worthy of a look. Just plain and simple ignorance. What were you thinking, he’s asking, what was going through your mind, do you have any idea how much fucking trouble you could’ve been in? He keeps talking, keeps stuttering over questions that will never be answered, and I keep my eyes closed, I keep his voice blocked out.

“Mikes, Christ, back off,” he mumbles. Mikey shuts up, and sits back down, and then I open my eyes. The light burns my retinas and makes my stomach turn; I keep them open anyways. He glares at me, and suddenly his glare burns even more than the lights.

“Jesus Christ Frankie, you look sick,” he fusses, and the glare washes away. He gets up and starts folding my clothes, folding the blanket, fluffing the pillow.

“You’re acting like my mother,” Gerard says in a snarky tone, leaning from one foot to another, shoving his hands into his pockets, and licking his lips. Mikey just mumbles, “our mother,” and then sits back down.

“T-the doctor, he says you can go home, tomorrow,” he says, “As long as the bump on your head goes down some. Fuck, you hit hard, Frankie, I thought you were gonna die.” The glassy look in his eyes makes me want to fall asleep and forget.

“Talk about guilt trip,” Gerard says.

See also: You deserve it.

“Frankie, you fell… when you passed out, y-you fell; I didn’t know what to do, because you were passed out and getting sick and, and throwing up blood. Th-they had to pump your stomach, it was – it was so fucking scary, and harsh. They said you were filled with all this bad shit, like pills and.. and alcohol, Christ, Frankie, why?” he keeps rambling, but I’m starting to get tired, so I close my eyes and turn away.

“Hey, Gerard?” I slur. “You were right.”

“… right? Frankie, what do you mean?”

“God… G-God, he’s r-really fucked u-up…”

-
They let me out of the hospital the next morning, with a load of Vicodin and some OxyContin; for pain, they say. But Mikey snatches it out of my hands and shoves it into his pockets, telling me that he’ll be the monitor of where it goes. In the end, I say, “Just flush it down the fucking toilet, yeah?” and Gerard just helps me out to his car.

“Shit, Frankie, your legs are jell-o,” he says, and shoves me into the passenger seat.

“It’s the morphine,” I reply, searching his glove box, nosily. And I grin.

See also: psychopathic predator grin that scares little children.

When we reach the apartment, I stumble into my room and strip down again, it’s so fucking hot in here. The ceiling fan whirs above me, and I lie on the floor, picking at crumbs and paper, smoking cigarette after cigarette while Mikey and his brother talk. It’s so obvious I wasn’t invited into the conversation; that it’s about me. Frank The Fuck-Up.

“Frankie, you should really take those off,” Mikey mutters, coming in.

“I like them,” I say. They add a nice touch. They make me look special. They glimmer with glitter in the sunlight.

“They’re papier-mâché,” he retorts. “Christ.” And then he walks out, shaking his head.

-

He finds me because he’s looking for me. He finds me because he’s actually interested in me; I’m drawing patterns that don’t exist on the ceiling, trying to get rid of the heat, and he sits down on the bed next to me, messing with the cheap sheets, waiting for me to say something. Finally, I say, “Do you like these wings?” and he just looks at me and shrugs.

“They’re nice.”

“Mikey thinks I’m crazy,” I state.

“Mikey thinks you’re a drunk,” he mutters, running fingers through his hair. His messes with his sunglasses and his cigarettes. I giggle again, still tracing patterns. With luck, maybe I’ll have created my own mental image of the Mona Lisa.

See also: the mentalist.

“Hey, F-Frankie?”

Here it comes. I already know. I know everything that’s about to come, only, I don’t know the answers. “A-aren’t you scared?”

“Of what?” Obviously, I was wrong, because this takes me totally off fucking track and my heart starts beating faster, so fast I think it’s bouncing up and pounding against my ribcage, and my lungs start to get sore.

“Messing up? Ending up dead? F-fuck, Frankie, y-you almost died!”

Almost. Not quite. Just an inch away. A sliver of sunlight that I kept reaching for, but fell instead. Almost. Not quite, though.

“S-sure,” I stutter. S-sure I want to stay here. S-sure I want to be insane for the rest of my life, s-sure I want to be stuck here on Earth with all of Hell’s evil spawns that glare at me and tear at me until I’m lying bleeding on the ground and people are laughing with all their might at me. S-sure I don’t mind being fucked up. Frank the Fuck-up. Frank the Fuck-up. F-frank t-the f-f-fuck u-up.

This is hell. This is nothing more than pure utter hell, sitting here with the fan whirring above me and Gerard’s topaz eyes burning into me, and my retinas searing with what seems like acid tears, even though they’re not – they can’t be. But they’re burning just as much as those fucking eyes. This is blood red autumn leaves burning into pale paper-skin and leaving little burnt out prints of the leaves that scab over and scar.

So Gerard gets up and walks out of the room again, for just a few seconds. And then he comes back in and he hands me the bottle, and he pulls out another bottle, and he smiles, and he says, “Cheers,” and we drink and drink and drink and drink until everything is one big smear again, and I’m so clumsy the wings have fallen onto the floor. He giggles.

“Y-you’re no angeeeel.”

I giggle and shake my head, and I look at him through blurry vision, “I w-want to b-be.” Giggles again. We’re so trashed. He’s sitting on the bed, eyes streaked with tiny blood-red lines, pupils dilated. The lights are all turned out and the windows are open. Three different cigarettes are burning in the ashtray, one on the carpet, burning a tiny hole through the carpet eagerly. “Angel’s a-aren’t f-f-fuck ups.”

“Sure they a-are,” he mumbles. “If t-they’re as pretty as you.”

He finds my lips because he’s interested in me. He finds the hem of my shirt because he needs me. He finds my belt and my jeans because he’s curious. He finds my tongue because he’s rebellious.

See also: hungry and alone.

“Fuck, Frankie, shitfuckmotherfucker,” he slurs, lips finding my neck.

Everyone’s fucked up. Everyone in this entire fucking house, everyone on this entire fucking street, everyone in this entire fucking world; all fucked up. That’s why I’m letting him kiss me – why I’m letting him fuck my while I do all the perfect noises in all the perfect spots and all the perfect moves.

If you’re perfect you can be an angel. If you’re perfect, people will love you, they’ll care about you and not let you die and they’ll want you to be okay. If you’re perfect all of the sonofabitches in this ideal idea you have in your head; they care. They fucking care.

If you’re perfect you can be an angel.

He finds my pillow and he finds my blanket and he finds me again. And he whispers in the most fucked up way, he says it so easily, so drunkenly that the hole in my heart burns bigger, wider, faster. “I t-think I like y-you.”

See also: Gerard the Fuck-Up.

See also: Mental. Insane. Crazystupidfuckedscrewedmental.

-
I find them because Mikey’s terrible at hiding things. I find them because my bones are jumpy and my fingers are trembling and my blood runs cold cold cold in my body, and I just fucking need something to get rid of it. Make it go away. Stop it. Pretend pretend pretend I’m okay. I find them because I’m looking for them.

They’re sitting in the way way back of the medicine cabinet in Mikey’s bathroom, and he’s downstairs in the living room watching some shitty college football game. I’m so paranoid he’ll walk in at any given second I don’t pay attention to how many I’m shoving into my mouth just that I know, fuck, they’re a lot.

I’m not an angel.

Angels aren’t fuck ups.

Angels don’t mess everything up. Angels aren’t med-whores.

I find them and I swallow them and then I run, like the bloody glass-eyed monsters are after me again, threatening to invade me again. And I close my door and I lock it and I turn around; Gerard’s awake. He’s staring at me, topaz eyes drilling into me, the faint look of a hangover crossing his lips briefly. “Fuck, I’m still wasted; you’re still wasted,” he’s whispering.

And I smirk.

Angels don’t smile like that, I bet you. They don’t smile like they’re predators, they don’t smile like they’re high on ecstasy and heroin and crack and a bunch of shit. They’re not med-whores. “N-not wasted,” there’s a look on my face, I see it in the mirrors, I’m so fucked over.

Fuckedoverfuckedupfuckeddown.

“H-high,” I stutter. “S-so f-funuckingh-high.”

He blinks and blinks for a minute straight, none of it registering in his mind; he’s still so drunk. “Angels don’t get high,” he slurs, lying down. “Y-you can’t get high.”

I’m laughing again, on my knees, sobbing, laughing, shaking, vomiting. Mikey must’ve heard the noise because he comes up and he screams, screams so loud, swears, grabs my shoulders and shakes me so hard. “Fucking idiot – Jesus Christ Frankie, you’re such a fucking idiot, such a fucking mess. Where did you find them? How many did you take? Gee – Gee, what’d he take; f-fuck, Frank, fuck.”

“A-angels are better,” I choke out, as he drags my broken body onto the mattress and tears my stained shirt off, throwing it somewhere across the room, throwing sheets over my body. “They’re p-perfect.”

“Fuck, shut up, Frank, shut up.”

“Angels – t-they, fucking… t-they’re fffucking c-cared about, Mikey.”

“What the hell! What the freaking hell! Holy shit, Frankie, holy shit, y-you’re fucking cared about. F-frank, you’re so messed up.”

And then everything’s black.

-
“Gee! You just… You just let him get wasted again! Like he… like he needs more frigging alcohol, just… what the hell, Ger? What the hell?”

“Y-you don’t see it, Mikey. Shit, I mean, j-just, look at him.”

“I am! I see an alcoholic! One who needs some serious help, and you’re obviously not it.”

“He’s broken! Mikey – Mikes, fuck! Look at him, he’s broken. All he w-wants, all he n-needs, and he c-can’t have it.”

“What? What the fuck does he want that he can’t have, Ger? He could have everything, if he honestly tried! Don’t you see how messed up he is, don’t you see the addiction? Or are you just seeing the body; the easy pleasure?”

“Don’t assume things – shit, Mikey.”

“How many times last night, Gerard, when you were piss drunk, how many times?” I open my eyes in time just to see him shudder, his glowing eyes float up towards the ceiling, like he’s asking for help, like he’s asking someone to just suddenly end our growing growing growing tragedy.

See also: help us. Help me.

“T-there… i-it was, I m-mean, Jesus, M-Mikey, you’re making me s-sound like some horrible person. L-like I did it on purpose; Mikey, I didn’t – we didn’t-“

“You just need to get out, Gerard. Before you ruin every other thing. You’re a perfect road to destruction.”

“D-destruction? Mikey I d-didn’t do anything; G-god!”

“Wha’happened?” I whisper, shutting both of them up. Mikey whirls around and Gerard backs up.

Like he’s scared of me. I am a monster, a self-destructing, world-destructing monster; I’ll destroy him, make him bleed and dry out. Monsters are like that. Mikey’s eyes are burning with something I’m unsure of, but all the sudden, he’s dragging me up, slamming me against the wall, the bureau shaking like there’s an earthquake. He’s cutting off my air, making my lungs and heart swell. “Do you know what you could have done? Are you entirely fucking crazy, Frank? You just got out of the fucking hospital.”

And through my constant choking, I laugh, because, for real, he’s right.

See also: Insanity.

“Mikes – Mikey – shit, Michael, let him go!” Gerard’s pulling at Mikey’s bony pale wrists until his veins are suddenly turning bluer, and bruises are already developing intricately on his skin. “Mikey,” he’s shrieking, “You’re gonna kill him, G-god, let him go, Mikey!” And the Mikey drops me to the floor and I’m on all fours breathing hard, Gerard next to me.

Mikey’s trembling. “Shit…. Holy shit, Frank, fix it.”

What he’s asking, I’m not entirely sure of.

-
Gerard takes me to the bathroom where I throw some of the meds up. The he turns the shower on and lets it run cold, shoving me in, clothes and all. I’m shivering and he just stands there watching. His eyes are glazed over with frustration. “G-Gerard?”

He doesn’t respond, so I continue talking. “D-did you t-think I’m crazy?”

All the sudden his eyes are wide and his mouth dropped open. “Frankie, shit, no.” I laugh, but it sounds like nails scraping a chalkboard again, even to my ears.

“D-don’t lie, Ger.”

“I’m not.”

See also: terrible fucking liar.

We just shut up, the both of us, and he turns the shower off. “You should get dressed.”

“You hate me.”

And then he looks up at me sharply, surprised, confused, and trying to figure out how to lie. Everybody hates everybody. Everybody hates the fuck-ups. Everybody everybody everybody. Angels can’t be hated.

“N-no, Frankie, no, I don’t,” he protests, bringing his nimble fingers up to my face and letting them run over every tiny disgusting detail, cheekbones, lips, hollow closed eyes. “I-I d-don’t fucking h-hate you, Frankie,” he chokes. “I j-just hate what you a-are.”

“What am I?” I whisper.

“B-broken.”

And then he kisses me again, softly. “I don’t hate you,” he whispers, stronger, more convincing. Like the more he repeats it, the more I’ll believe it. “I don’t.”

“I-if I’m d-dead, maybe I’ll… m-maybe I’ll b-be and angel, Ger. M-maybe I’ll get lucky a-and I’ll be an angel.”

“F-Frankie, don’t.”

“I-if I’m dead, then you’ll c-care about me; r-really care about me, l-like you used to. Y-you used to care, r-remember, Ger? You u-used to love me, y-you used to c-care.” I’m choking on vomit again, standing over the toilet, acid tears dripping from my face and onto the floor. And for one slow-motion carefully dying second, everything goes silent.

I’ve never before believed in true silence but just this one second is proof enough, when he’s so speechless the air, blood flow, the earth, it all stops.

I wanna feel a car crash.

“S-shit, Frankie…” he stutters.

I wanna feel a capsize.

“I-it’s not t-true, I c-care about you; I care about y-you now!”

I wanna feel the bombs drop the earth stop.
“N-no you don’t!” Somebody’s shrieking, but I’m not sure if it’s me or him or the bloody glass-eyed monsters, the ones that are out to get me all over again. I’m asking them for just five more seconds, but they’re getting nearer and nearer and nearer and breathing’s getting harder and hard. “Y-you l-left me for him. You don’t c-care. Last night; it w-wasn’t about caring, Gerard! Y-you just wanted s-somebody easy, ch-cheap .T-that’s all I am to you! W-what do I have to do, Ger? W-whatdoihavetodo to make you l-love me?!”

“Oh, G-god, Frankie,” he’s shaking, backing up into the wall, trembling. “Oh god, I d-didn’t do this. I d-didn’t.”

I laugh. I laugh because, for real, he’s in denial. “Y-yes you did.” Yes you did. You screwed everything in the entire world up. Me and love and faith and hope and all of it. “I w-want you to love me, G-ger, I want y-you to honestly love me. B-but that was never what i-it was. I-it wasn’t r-reciprocated.”

“F-Frankie, Frankie, I do love you,” he’s whimpering, eyes blinking and acid tears dripping down his pretty face. Everything is covered in a red fog, screaming DANGERDANGERDANGER, and I’m ignoring it, still talking, still mumbling incoherently, the things I’ve wanted to say for just so long now, but none of them make any sense at all.

“Fffuck, I do love you,” he mutters, coming closer, wrapping his arms around me. His words start to blend together, and I look at him through bleary eyes. All the sudden, I can’t understand him, I’m starting to panic, and my stomach is twisting and turning. Somehow, more vomit manages to make it’s way up my throat and spill out onto the floor, only it’s red red red, so red. Gerard starts to shake.

“Oh my G-god, Frankie, oh my God!” he whimpers. “Y-you’re r-really fucking s-sick.”

But I keep vomiting, the smell filling the room, strangled cries escaping my throat, begging someone to make it stop. My head feels like it might implode, my stomach feels like alkaline acid’s been poured on it, burning burning burning faster and harder; I’m dying, and I know it.

This is all about death; bloody, tragic fucking death. The kind of death that everyone wants to go out with, the kind of death that burns into witnesses mind’s for the rest of their lives, leaving a huge imprint, forever there with them, to carry and remember. Bloody, tragic fucking death.

“G-ger, d-do you care n-now?”

“Stopit, oh my God, F-Frankie stopit.”

“I l-lied; w-when you a-asked me if I was s-scared I w-would die, I l-lied. I-I wasn’t s-scared; I want to die. T-the only thing I’m s-scared of is t-the dying part,” I let the words tumble from my mouth, and he shakes his head fast.

“You’re not dying, Frankie.”

See also: denial.

“D-don’t lie to yourself, you idiot,” I mumble. “I w-wanted to b-be an angel for you, Gee. B-but I c-can’t, because angels a-aren’t fuck-ups, like me.”

“Frankie, stopit,” he whispers.

“T-telling the truth? I-it’s a fffirst for me,” I manage a smile, and he smiles back for a second. His tears drip down onto my arm, and for a second, I think they’re burning me, making little red tear-drop tattoos on my arm; bloody tears.

“M-maybe I’ll g-get to h-heaven,” I whisper. “M-maybe I’ll be y-your angel; m-maybe I’ll be special.”

“You are special, Frankie,” he whispers, tracing his fingers over my jaw bone, then cheeks, lips, eyes. My head keeps exploding in little bursts of pain, like a gun-shot over and over again, and my stomach keeps twisting. “You were always an angel.
“Angels are always fuck-ups, didn’t you know? They’re the people that couldn’t make it on earth. They’re the people that got burned by love. You’re an angel, I swear to God.”

And I smile, eyes closed, shaking my head.

See also: liar.