Drop Dead Beautiful

“Safe home, Gee!”

“Alright, Bob!”

Gerard could hear Bob shoving the key in the door and locking up for the night, shuffling off home in the other direction. Gerard was the only other one to trail the streets back home at this time. He was always the last out. He drank the most. Shit, he could probably give Joe, the local family-man-by-day-alcoholic-by-night, a run for his money. In fact, he may well already have proclaimed that title from him.

Day, after wretched day, Gerard Way, 30, would fall out of bed and into his own vomit, wipe it off, and pull out a bottle of liquor. That was breakfast. Lunch: Sleeping on the floor in his front hallway which was littered with empty bottles -once filled with death liquid and pills- and rejected and pathetic attempts at “art”. You might find the odd typical horror movie lying around, the case, trampled flat from drunken stumbling to the kitchen, disc, shattered like its owner’s brain. Dinner was rather exciting. He left the house to walk, or crawl, take what you like, to Bob’s bar for a delicious meal of whiskey and cheap tasteless beer. Dessert, oh, dessert was eventually being kicked out on his ass to go home and collapse before he could start crying or, of course, drink even more.

Bob put up with Gerard when he lazily pushed money towards him, on the other side of the bar to pay for a refill every five fuckin’ minutes. Bob put up with it as much as he possibly could, he didn’t want to, of course he didn’t, he hated the sight of his best friend content only with destroying himself. Yet, he knew that if he didn’t, Gerard would do something drastic before Bob could even name his momma. All he could do was wait until the right moment to kick him out every night- just after it got too much to walk properly, and just before it got enough to send him into cardiac arrest.

Gerard liked Bob. Bob put up with him. Bob was strong. Bob was kind. Bob was a good friend. Whatever “friends” were.

Gerard hiccupped, and giggled at the start he gave from the motion. It was a cold and windy night, he noticed, as he stumbled along the sidewalk that lasted a couple of blocks before it ended at his house. He stretched out his arms and pretended to fly.

That would be a peculiar sight to anyone, a thirty year old pretending to be a bird.

A peculiar sight, indeed. Even for the biggest, introverted, comic-book artist, weirdo, death-obsessed, addict, fag guy in New Jersey.

He huffed out a laugh at the thought. He enjoyed creeping people out. He loved it. Because that was all he was good at. He even did it back when he was sober and when his little brother was by his side.

The bile rose in his throat at the thought of his brother. Michael, little baby Mikey abandoned him for that bitch.

“Married. We’re getting married.”

“Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Married. Getting married.”

“Moving away.”

“Together.”

“Gonna travel the world, Gerard.”

“I love her.”

“Only her.”

“Never had anyone just as close.”

Gerard stumbled to the side, his feet dragging him into the park off the side of the path. The words swirled around in front of him. Mikey was standing in front of him screaming the word “married” down at his pathetic brother.

Mikey abandoned him. He chose her over his own brother. His brother who taught him how to walk, his brother who protected him because their mother went out with some friends that month and never came back. Because their father was there in body but not in mind.

Mikey was his brother, his son, and his best friend. His only friend.

Not anymore.


The troubling thoughts had the drunkard trip over eventually. He let out a yelp and tumbled to the ground. The grass was cold, but dry. Comfortable. Instead of getting up, he curled into himself, into the shadows of the tree. He was pretty far from the path now, in a more remote area of the park. Just the way he liked it. Maybe he’d sleep here, he thought, as he began to drift off into sleep.

As his breathing deepened, he shuffled a little, his hand brushing up against someone’s chest. Hm. Cold.

Cold?

Chest?

Someone?

Gerard leaped up, his eyes and mouth all forming “o” shapes. He blinked down at where he was lying. Not looking at all. His mind, he noticed, felt clear, the ever-fuzzy feeling now gone. Was this sobriety? He wouldn’t know, he hadn’t experienced it for five years.

He looked around, in the hope nobody had seen him leap from the ground like a someone being plagued by a spirit.

When he was sure nobody had seen him, he crouched down to where he was laying, reaching out to feel around for whatever gave him such a shock. His hand found purchase of clothing and he tugged until something heavy rolled out into the moonlight pooling at the ground.

Shit.

“Shit.” Gerard tried to say, but all that came out was a choked gasp.

He cleared his throat

“fuckshitballsasstits”

Gerard groaned, his skin paling. Did he just- lie down with a- dead body? Oh, God.

Did he just leave it there? Did he call the cops? He had no idea.

He peered at the body, dark hair was covering its face. He reached over and gingerly brushed the damp strands away, not phased from touching a dead body, really, he was a creep, after all.

He pulled his hand away and- oh.

Oh.

The face was very pale, glowing, actually, but not yellowing or purple. He must’ve been killed and dumped here only recently.

Very recently, there weren’t any maggots and he didn’t have that zombie look that Gerard had first expected. And he didn’t smell bad, like, well, like a corpse. He smelled of aftershave, actually, and something metallic.

Blood.

Blood was seeping from the boy’s lips and coating them like some tragic lipstick. He had a nose piercing that looked like it had been shoved deep into his skin, bruising the soft surface. He had a black eye and there were red, black, purple and blue marks littering his stomach where his shirt had ridden up.

He did a mighty fine job of being beaten up, he could still be on the cover of male model’s magazine.

Shut the fuck up, Gerard.

He- should he tell someone? No, they’d think he did it. Then they’d bury him. They couldn’t do that. This face was too, young and pure and beautiful and something else that Gerard couldn’t quite pinpoint.

What did Gerard do about the situation? He did what any gentleman would do. He took him home.

With effort, of course, carrying a body half-a-mile home isn’t exactly easy. Okay, he was pretty short but Gerard would still have a pain in his neck from the weight on his shoulder.

He ambled up the drive way, forcing his door open and scuttling into the living room, laying the body down on the couch. He looked around. This place was a fucking mess. He should have cleaned up. Not like he knew he had guests.

He sat down in the armchair next to him and switched on the TV. They were doing a re-run of The Fellowship Of The Ring.

A good hour into the film, after a couple of glances towards his “visitor” it hit him.

He just carried a fucking dead body home.

He went into the kitchen and did what he did best. He drank himself to sleep.

Notes