CUT UP ANGELS

"He sounds dangerous."

Mikey is staring at me, his lips curled into the left side of his mouth as his eyes glaze over with judgement. He shakes his head minimally, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. I fucking knew he would act like this. As soon as I bring anything new up with him, he instantly becomes a protective father-figure. Ha, or maybe he's just making up for the lack of a dad in our lives. Either way, it pisses me off. "I mean, Gerard... if he is what you think he is, then we can't just le-"

"Mikey," I say his name in a cold, neglecting tone. Our eyes meet and I draw in a deep breath. "They aren't all that bad."

"That bad?" He jerks forward, his mouth opening slightly as his eyes widen. "Gerard, last time you let one of those things into your life, you ended up with a fucking coma and a broken leg." He then pauses, as if he is waiting for the words to sink into my head. Does he think I don't know these things?

I sigh. "All I'm saying is that we should keep an eye on him, okay? Let's not jump to conclusions. We can wait it out for a few weeks and see what he does." I'm doing my best to convince him that I'm not acting irrational. This new kid isn't a threat. Mikey disagrees with me, despite how often I'm right about these kind of things, but he's the one who is wrong. Yes, I ended up with a broken limb and a two week long coma, but I was drugged up. I couldn't exactly help it.

"Why do you always do this, Gerard? Why?" Mikey is shaking his head even more now, and he's pinching the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb. "Do you wanna end up dead? Do you wanna end up like-"

"Mikey, be quiet," I snap, centering my gaze into the ground with a burning glare. I feel my brother watching me, not a smudge of confusion on his boyish features. Just irritation. "I drew you something today." I turn around, and immediently dig around in my bag before pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. Mikey only shakes his head at the sudden change in topic, and snatches the drawing out of my hand. "And..." he draws the word out as long as possible, his eyebrows arched inwards. "It's the new kid."

"Yeah."

"You drew him?"

"He has a nice face."

"And bright red eyes, fangs and blood trickling from his mouth?"

"It's supposed to be strawberry sauce."

"Gerard..."

And again Mikey turns into the father we never had, and purses his lips before handing the picture back. I take it, and glance at it for a short second. His face is certainly nice. Strong jaw, perfectly curved nose, flawless eyebrows, greasy stranded hair hanging down to his cheekbones - he's a clieche. Not that this bothers me. Sometimes all a person wishes for is a clieche, despite how much humans are supposed to hate them. However, this is despite the point, so I shove the picture back in Mikey's face. "Yours," I grunt.

He rolls his eyes before taking it. "Who's cooking tonight?" He folds the picture in half twice before tucking it into his shirt pocket.

"You," I tell him as usual. He gives me his expected sad, almost dissapointed eyes. Puppy dog? I think not. Fuck off, little brother.

"Gerard, Mom... you... c'mon, you gotta help out. I-this isn't fair-" he stammars, trying to get across some useless point.

"No Mikey. I'm not cooking anything. That kitchen is full of germs. Germs are gross." I rest my case.

He closes his eyes for a second. "Can you at least make a pot noodle to share? Please?"
And it goes on like this. Mikey is an asshole, I tell him to leave me alone, I go down to my room and then I draw.

I draw the new kid again. I don't know why; I just do. My memory is good, so I am sure that I capture his face flawlessy, and I'm not one to brag - but I'm a fucking good artist too. The picture comes out beautiful. Maybe one day I'll give it to him. One day he might actually ask me to draw him in the first place. That'd be rad.

For ten minutes, I stare out into the darkness of my tiny basement. I don't think of anything; I just blank out completly. Then, a thought suddenly strikes me. A plan begins to form in my head, and I know exactly what I have to do. It's perfect. After letting out an exhausted yawn, I let myself roll into bed and I close my eyes to sleep.

xoxo

The next day begins when I arrive at school. I spy the new kid as I wander across the yard, trying not to draw too much attention to myself. He doesn't notice me, and neither do his dickweed friends. Fucking pricks - it's a good thing that this boy doesn't actually like them. He's using them, just like everyone uses each other. It's human nature, except this boy is doing it for a slightly different reason. Mikey would suggest that I stop him before anything bad happens, but I'd love to watch Jackson writhing on the ground, blood driping from his tanned skin. Who wouldn't? No one likes him. Even his girlfriend is sleeping with one of the teachers, bitching about her partner at every chance she gets.

I'm drawing again, sat in the class room as I wait for the morning lessons to begin. I have about fifteen minutes to kill, and I spend them drawing a violin-human hybrid. I name her Vanya, and pay very close attention to the strings trailing down her torso in a sexualized way. When I draw her left hand though, I feel a jolt of heat burn though my skull as I fuck up on her little finger. Trying to keep my cool, I decide to just shove the drawing back in my bag so I don't ruin it because of my fucking temper.

The first two hours of the day pass quickly, boredom creeping into my mind as I yawn my way through Chemisty followed by Math. Music, English and Art occupy the rest of the day though, so at least I'll have something interesting to focus on, other than the new boy. I'm pretty sure Art will be a pain in the ass, despite it being my favourite. Fucking teachers are shallow as shit these days, like hell they'll ever get the stuff that I paint. Oh well, I don't really care. They don't need to know what my art is about because - it's my art - which is what is most important.

However, it's music where my day picks up.

We're studying old punk bands, which is more than perfect for me. The class is having a 'heated' discussion about Ramones, but I'm keeping my head down. Some twat gets them mixed up with The Smiths and I have to try not to punch something. Fucking nimrods. Dookies. Idiots - I'm surrounded by idiots.

"Blag Flag are the best punk band though, obviously."

That could be argued with, but finally. Some intelligence.

"Fuck off Iero, all this emo screamo shit is for faggots anyway." Jackson. I scoff at his ridiculous remark and roll my eyes over to him. My eyes land on the new kid, who I didn't realize was in our class. He's smirking right at me. I think he's noticed the Misfits patch I have sewn onto my school blazer.

"It's not 'emo'. It's punk. There is a thick line between 'emo' and punk." The new kid is still staring at me.

Jackson laughs. "What, like Gerard?" He points a finger at me. I growl. "He's emo. He slits his wrists."

I growl again. Dick. Weeds. "Get lost, Jackie-boy," I spit at him, causing the whole class to let out a huge chorus of 'WAAAAY!' which is truly quite ironic in this particular situation.

"Oh yeah? Fucking faggot. You wanna say that to me again?" Jackson is acting all high and mighty, standing up and walking over to me. I'm already bored of his shit. "Hey what's that?" He reaches my desk, and looks down at the picture I've been working into throughout the lesson. Fuck.

"Jackson no I-"

"Hey everybody!" He snatches the drawing away, then waves it around in the air like a fucking tosser. "Gay boy has been drawing pictures of Frank all lesson!"

Frank. His name is Frank.

Frank looks confused. He's frowning at Jackson, who skips over to his desk and puts the drawing straight into a perfect pair of pale hands. Frank's features soften over with something as he stares at my creation in wonder, before he is nudged by Jackson. "Look, he put so much detail into your eyes, Iero. So pretty!" He bursts into mocking laughs and I feel my cheeks go a blaze. I close my eyes and wish for this to be over. I don't have time for these petty games.

The bell rings.

I jump out of my seat, grabbing my bag before heading straight for the door. I hear Jackson calling my name in mockery. "Don't worry, Gee-boy! I'm sure your little crush over here will wanna talk to you later!"

I hate them.

Notes