Staring Down the Barrel of a Gun

The small smile on the shorter man's face washed away any fears of tomorrow or the next day or the next. His phone hadn't buzzed once. I was grateful. My fingers brushed his shoulder as I ducked and nuzzled into his chest on the small couch. His finger tips curled into the red strands of my hair that met my shoulders as his arm squeezed around my shoulder. The hum of the television was nothing more than soft whispers; the sweet-nothings in my ear making me feel like complete mush. I giggled like a child because, Good Lord, I'm nothing more than a little, girly mess. Especially when it comes to Frank. Always. I writhed as his lips skidded gently across my ear. Shivers flew down my neck and back, and he followed the trail with his nose until he hit my collar. His lips collided with my neck in a feather like touch, the contact lingering for what felt like hours. I'd stay like this forever if I could

But, however, I couldn't.

Soon enough, as I was thinking it'd all be okay and that nothing'd go wrong, Frank's phone went off with the same melancholy chime he kept for the mysterious number I never learned nor wanted to learn. He sighed, slowly putting it to his ear and slowly, yet hastily, shoving my off. His "hello" was hoarse with tears and cracked beyond belief. It sounded as if he'd been through the desert twice, and it sounded that the only water he could drink was the salty substance piling in his throat - his tears. He sighed once more. He never told me the owner of the call, but I knew, the man on the other line always yelled when he was alone with me. I tried to tone out the steady streams of profanities, but it became more and more difficult. Pain stricken, Frank stared at the wall. The yelling grew harsher, I could tell, and then I heard my name. Hardly, however.

"You listen here," Frank hissed, running a hand through his hair after he jumped up from my loose grasp, "I couldn't do it. I never promised anything. Hell with your oath! Hell with it!" What had started in a soft growl grew into a yell. I cowered into the couch as Frank stormed off into another room. I couldn't do much else, but sit there, playing songs in my head. My heart fluttered and throbbed and hitched and sobbed wihin my chest in anxiety. Is this all because of me?
"Wake up, Gerard. For fuck's sake, get up!" I hadn't realized I had fallen asleep until I heard a tone of anger - stern, bitter, hateful. "I want you and your belongings out in thirty minutes. Or.. or your dead." His voice wavered a bit, but with a clear of his throat he regained his pose.

"Fr..Fra-"

"Get up. Get out. Or I can shoot you dead."

"You couldn't." My voice was shakey as I quivered.

"I could."

"You wouldn't."

"I would." I froze, choked on my sobs. I had hoped he'd double over and laugh and that this was all a joke and he'd say he was sorry and that he loved me when he realized it hurt. He, however, wouldn't. "Out." My soft, involuntary whines escaped me as I slumped forwards to slip the shoes on that were discarded earlier in a long gone, passionate kiss. I couldn't find my strength to sit back up. Then I heard a click. I looked up with my eyes, eyelashes clouding my view. There was a barrel pointed at my head. Frank was shaking gently, a lump being swallowed back as he, somehow, kept his pistol steady despite his fingers that lay sadly against a trigger. "Gerard, I don't want to, but I will shoot." I thought I heard a small please like a whine, but placing the word into my imagination, I sat back, crossing my arms. I nodded.

"Go on," I whispered gently. "Fire away." His hand tightened and he gritted his teeth. "Fire away." I closed my eyes as I saw him begin to shake. A shot rang out, leaving me waiting for an excruciating pain to ring throughout my body. It never came. I heard him toss the gun aside and drop to his knees as I drew in a breath and held it. "Frank."

"Gerard, I need you to go," he whispered, his hands on my shoulders, and his voice cracking, tears being held. He gripped my shoulders, holding himself back from me. "I love you." For the first time I didn't belive it. "Jesus, I love you. You have to go. Because I love you, you must go." His shaking hands slid up to cuff my face, his trembling lips connecting with my head. I refused to open my eyes.

At some point, he stood. Wrapping his arms around me to pull me into a stance. I whimpered at his touch as if it burned.

"Leave," he cooed. I stood blinking then stared at my feet. "Gerard." His voice was a growl. He began to tug me by the arm to the door. Frank shoved me outside, and I stood there facing the door as it slammed. I heard his converse slide and his head hit the door like he was slipping down to sit. I took this as a cue to leave.

I got into my car, resting my hands on the steer. Tears brimmed my eyes, and I let them fall coldly down my cheeks. I put my head between the hands holding a death grip, loosing control as I wished it was his shoulder and not leather coated plastic. I don't know how long I sat, or when I went home, or how I didn't get into a wreck, but I eventually was staring at the insides of my apartment.

I traced my fingers along the counters, staring at my hand. This, I remembered, was where we first fought, and when he silenced my yells and tears by pushing me down, connecting our lips. I could almost hear the sobs I fought through bouncing off the walls. My stare looked up towards the front door. Our first night together started there. I could almost feel his chapped lips lining down my neck then back up my jaw. I shivered, throwing myself onto the couch. I felt too weak to move. I felt too weak to live. I felt too - way too - weak. Yet, somehow, I dragged out a bottle of Jack. A place all your sorrows go - down a little funnel into a bottle, so you can drink them all over again.

I awoke in my bed, tucked into the sheet tightly with the faint smell of vomit and Frank's cologne seeping into my nose. My hair was wet, and my clothes had been changed. My arm was bandaged, and it stung like a bitch. My memory was wiped clean after a third of a bottle was gone. I'm better dead than alive, I thought. I went to climb out of bed only to be seized in my actions by a hand clasping around my wrist. I froze.

"Baby, stay with me." That voice. I clampered away quickly, shaking frantically. "You worried me last night. I cleaned it all up. Baby, I lost them." Frank's voice was pleading. I walked on before I realized I wasn't at home - I was at Frank's house. I started for the door, and he began to call for me. I nearly fell, shaking and. . .was I crying? His arms caught me from behind, lifting me into the air as I kicked and cried. "You called. When I got there, I saw you bleeding with alcohol covering the arm you smashed the bottle onto. Baby, you were so sad.

"No!" I screamed. "You tried to kill me!" I was sobbing - scared, lost, fragile. He grunted, pulling me into his chest. I felt his hand reach to my mouth as he kept hissing 'sh' and I bit down. I bit down hard. He didn't even flench.

"Gee," he growled, "stop this, now." I couldn't stop my screaming, and it all turned to coughs and gasps. "You're going to hurt yourself, again - fuck!" I really didn't care at this point. He threw me into the wall, pinning my wrists. I hissed through my teeth. "Gerard Way! Stop!" I looked off to the side, my teeth grinding. "I won't hurt you - I swear." Too late, I thought miserably. His grip tightened, and I winced. "Sorry," Frank sighed. Then, I heard banging on the door and his lips violated mine.

"Who are they?" I sobbed against his lips. He pulled away slightly, the touch lingering. The bangs got louder like the thumping of my heart.

"The mafia," he whispered calmly. The lips pushed to mine again, the door flying open. "You're too pure, my angel." Four or five men flooded around in snarling positions. I was scared. "It'll be okay. I love you so much, my pure, innocent angel." His voice faded, distant, as he held back tears. He was yanked away, his sharp intake of air now staggering breaths of hurt as he wrestled in an attempt to grab me. One other guy grabbed my should, so I stayed against the wall, staring, quivering as tears drained dryly.

"We warned you, Iero," the guy holding me hissed. I wasn't crying, - I was more paralyzed, just staring - but Frank was a wreck as a gun was shoved against my back. I tried to replace the round barrel with Frank's rough, guitarist finger tips in my head, but the numbing site before me prevented it.
"No!" Frank cried, breaking from the other man's grasp. He tackled the one beside me to the ground, and within the blur of everything, somehow ended up holding me to him, shaking in his fragility with blood on his hands and along his cheek and everywhere, really. "It's okay," he whispered, but something in his voice told me it wasn't, it wouldn't, and it never has been. I could only stand there paralyzed, staring into nothing as his arms shivered against me. Not ever had I been so emotionless. Not ever had I felt so numb. Not ever.
A few days passed of him just holding me tightly. He had disposed the bodies - burning them in the basement - and chanted, trying to convince himself it'd be okay. It wouldn't. I know it wouldn't.

Somewhere within him, he knew it, too.

"It's okay," he muttered, sloppily and lazily pressing his lips to mine. Frank's kisses always felt different. They'd be warm and passionate then clumsy and needy then soft and loving then sleepy and sealing - this time it was chapped and bitter, as if he'd been in the snow eating a lemon. It was warming, however, and blinding. The numbness eased away for a moment, my heart jolting. Then the door swung open, and due to series of events that happened last time, I didn't dare move. And neither did Frank.

"We have you another chance, Iero, but you proved me a fool. Now you'll just die pathetically." The voice was deep, and my eyes welled up as Frank's arms crashed around me, my stiffness returning.

"Spare him," he breathed, and then I realized he had held his breath, "please." His pleading voice did not phase the man as they laughed. Through the corner of my eye, I watched him twirl metal in his finger tips that looked so pale they could be stone and could leave bruises. I'm sure they have before.


"You're strong, Iero. Stubborn as a mule, yet strong as an of." His voice was slowing, sinisterly trading with each word as if he was observing a crime scene. He was so close that my breath hitched, and I stared at Frank, a cold, sharp metal dragging down my left cheek. "But you killed my men." I watched him smile as lips pushed to mine, his voice stiff and monotone. "And stole a prize. Two rules, Frankie. Tsk, tsk." Each hiss was seperated, the morbidity of it all punching me in the gut and chest - especially the chest. Frank held my shoulders as a struggle and mph of pain rang through me, a needle pushing its way to connect our closely connected lips. Blood drizzled into our mouths, and down our chins, the burn slowly fading into a flat out hurt as string stung its way through. "That's right, Iero," the man said as if he was a mentor and his student did something right. "Hold your baby -" - he spat the word - " our contract." Frank ran his fingertips through my hair calmly. It's the most calm I've seen him in months. He knew there was no stopping this cruelty. He was calm in he knew he must play along. "Consequences."


My salty tears eased the pain a bit. Frank whisked them away with his thumb, squeezing my hand each time I tried to brush his away as well. He didn't want me to, I realized. I guess he had point. He'd seen me cry when I was drunk or scared at the doctor's office (my fear of needles is horrid) or watching Winn Dixie die or when my brother came home with a broken heart and I had waited until he left to break down, cringing at the sound of my own moans of agony because Mikey is so passionate that he never deserves to be chucked out the window. I'd never seen him cry. He was the strongest man I knew, and he now won't let me seize his pain. Baby, I cry, too, his eyes whispered gently, knocking into me like a knife in the throat and a shove down the stairs. That'd be equally - if not less - painful. The man pulsing another hole woke me from my reflections, the burn quaking throughout me. The metallic taste was strong, and it was then that I lost all interest in vampirism.

"You remember, darlin'," the man started. "When Frank 'rescued' you from the alley? The night you met?" His voice was smooth but spat words for emphasis. I wanted to stab him fifty-fucking-times. "Frankie was assigned to kill you; not make you his toy." I mentally cringed at his choice of words. I began to clench and unclench then clench and unclench my fist, and Frank put his hand to wrap around it sloppily, the gesture promising it'd be okay. It wouldn't. I found myself trying to listen to Frank's raspy breaths or the break of skin in pops or the drops of blood - not the man's hostile voice. It was the most poisonous thing I'd ever heard. Then I felt a soft pull as the man broke the string, tying it into a knot. "Done," he cheered triumphantly. Frank awkwardly pushed my back against the back of the couch and climbed atop me, securing himself protectivly. "Iero, I don't think that's a good idea, honey." Click. "A good man once said, 'Actions speak louder than words.' Well, this action speaks pretty loud." Frank's eyes searched mind for emotion, warm tears trailing my face. His glistened as he played with the knotted string gently with his thumb. I stared into his hazel, playground eyes that even when darkened in sadness were hopeful. I stared as they went wide. I stared as led pierced his back. I wanted to scream. The man laughed. Frank weakly carressed my cheek.

I searched desperately for a phone, but Frank stopped me with his warm hand against mine. He led it up his stomach and to his chest where blood flowed and lead poked out slightly. A warm, crimson liquid continued to seep through my fingers. He held my hand shakily, air shakily escaping him. He was winded as his eyes grew colder and colder. His face grew paler in the process, the end nearing him as the blood grew slightly colder. His head toppled forward. He was gone, leaving me to uncomfortably cry against his lips. I was crippled almost underneath him, my head looking up to the gunman. He smiled. I locked eyes with him as the gun pointed to me.

One bang is all it took. The bullet penetrated my skull. I could almost hear the bone splitting. It knocked me dizzy, and I folded over, lips still tied to lifeless ones. Blood rushed to my head. I couldn't cry. The spin excruciated within my body, but slowly stopped as of my nerves gave up on trying to warn me of death. As if I didn't already know. I watched the man leave from the corner of my eye, his job finished. The kiss I was still locked into was still different. It was breathless and cold, death nipping at my own lip as the tingling numb over took it from blood escaping it. Everything went blurry as I clung to Frank's dead body. Crippled. Barely alive. I'd die in his arms.

No one could save us.

They gave us shots in the head, and we're all dead now.

Notes

This idea was given to my by the author on here, Lindsay Way (I think that's her name) and I ended up writing this in class