It is another day. And I don’t know how I go on. Maybe today I won’t. Or maybe that day is tomorrow, the day I won’t go on anymore. One day I will have to stop; one day, I will have to not go on. And that is how I manage, knowing that today could be the end. One would say I live to die. I live each day hoping it will be my last.
Some would say that’s not living. But I’m not dead either so then what am I? Is it possible to be something in between? Not alive, but not dead either? Then perhaps I am somewhere betwixt life and death, an anomaly. I do not feel alive. Yet a true death evades me.
Or is that me, evading a true death? I don’t know. Who knows? No one.
This partial life goes on.
◊ ◊ ◊

I wake up. The sky is powder blue. I’ve slept in again. Late for everything. Always late. Alarm clocks never rouse me.
I roll over to see the clock; it reads 9:47AM. The alarm symbol doesn’t flash, and it takes me a moment to remember I turned it off before I went to sleep late last night—or early this morning. That’s right. I was fired. I managed to get fired from a roadside convenience store. Impressive. I guess stealing merchandise was not part of the job description. Damned security cameras. My ex-boss had kindly but sternly explained to me that snagging a pack of gum once in a while he would let slide, but whole meals was pushing it too far.
I mean, damn. I thought I was being sneaky about the gum. The bowl of chicken and rice obviously was not sly—in fact, it was self-sabotage. Yes, I admit it, I did this to myself. I don’t know why. Sometimes I just can’t help myself. Sometimes I have to hurt myself.

◊ ◊ ◊

Today, I wake up to someone next to me. He snores. It’s not my bed. We’re naked. The darkness of the sky outside tells me it’s too early to be waking up, and though I’m tired, I can’t sleep.
He says nothing when he wakes midmorning, though he sees my eyes are open. He just dresses and leaves. When I finally get up, I find he’s generously made me scrambled eggs for breakfast. They aren’t well-cooked, but I eat them anyway. There is a note by the eggs, which he must’ve scribbled in a hurry before rushing off to work: “Come back anytime.”
I consider this; I consider the eggs. “Tonight,” I write underneath, then tentatively add, “dinner first.” I scurry off then, memorizing his address.

◊ ◊ ◊

It’s been a while since I was kicked out of my flat after I was fired and could no longer pay the rent. Luckily, I’ve fallen onto an unexpected gold mine. Ray, in an attempt to silently communicate that our relationship is not romantic, pays me for my “services.” It’s not a lot, but he’s fairly rich, and it easily gets me through the day.
I’m not a whore, not really. It’s just the one guy, and it’s convenient.
Or am I?

◊ ◊ ◊

Sometimes, Ray eats dinner with me. I don’t particularly enjoy the company, because it’s just a long, awkward silence and only sound is chewing. We don’t go out to eat—that would be too much like dating.
I say it to break the silence—no, I’m just self-sabotaging as always. “I love you.” I say it as casually as one might say “pass the salt” or “could I have more bread?”, not even a “please” tacked onto the end.
He puts his fork down and wipes his mouth, not meeting my eyes. I continue to devour my last meal. With a clear of his throat, he says the unbelievable: “I’ve been developing similar feelings toward you.”
I manage not to choke on my noodles in surprise.
“I’m sorry,” he fumbles, grabbing my hand. “Were you joking? I’m not good at jokes.”
“I wasn’t joking,” I mumble.
He squeezes my hand, oblivious to my lies.
What have I gotten myself into?

◊ ◊ ◊

The damage done is irreparable. He doesn’t pay me anymore, but I live with him. Eat his food. Pretend I love him. I’m not even grateful, though I know I should be. I never was grateful. I never am.
Never.
Nor do I ever feel guilt, or joy. Am I a psychopath, then? But I do feel sadness. Does that count? Or am I wrong about that? Is it really sadness, or just numbness that I interpret as sadness? How would I know? If I am a psychopath, how could I compare what I feel to actual emotions? Is there a way to tell?
There must be.
I have to find a way.

◊ ◊ ◊

I know. I know how to tell.

◊ ◊ ◊
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
◊ Frank’s POV ◊
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
◊ ◊ ◊

The last school bell of the day rings and releases me from my stiff seat. I shove my books into my bag as fast as humanly possible and rush for the door…just as everyone else rushes for the door. I’m jostled to the back of the crowd, as per usual. Before I can wedge my body through the exit, I hear the teacher call me back.
And I’m out, nearly jogging towards my locker. I surprise myself by making it without human interaction. I sigh in relief. Another responsibility avoided. Another angry teacher. As I’m grabbing my books out though, the inevitable occurs. My face jerks forward into the metal locker, and the books I’m holding tumble to the floor. My nose barely complains—it’s so used to this treatment.
“Hey, Frank Queero!” that familiar voice jeers. My lifelong bully, Gerard Way, is extremely homophobic and, unfortunately, very attractive. I will admit that despite his bullying, I’ve had the slightest crush on him for years. How typical. The loser junior secretly crushing on the popular senior.
“It’s Iero,” I growl, trying to seem tough. I don’t know why I bother; it doesn’t help anyway.
“What’s that, Queero? You trying to ask me out?” Gerard guffaws.
I manage to shove past them, beet red, leaving them in laughter. My books are still on the floor where I abandoned them. More homework lost. My teachers are going to hate me even more than they already do.
Outside, students mill about, waiting for busses and rides, friends and lovers. I walk alone, friendless and loveless, relying on my own two feet to carry me home.
I spot a young woman surveying the crowd with concentration about twenty yards ahead of me. She could almost be a student, but for the air about her that screams sophisticated adult. Her face is skeptical and thoughtful as she searches. I only realize I’m staring when her eyes meet mine, at which point I drop my head and ignore her gaze.
As I push forward through the throng of students, I notice a pair of converse shoes walking towards me, and when I look up, it’s the young woman again. Her cold, curious eyes search mine for a moment, before I’m distracted by a familiar voice not far away. Gerard Way is walking parallel to me on my left. Eager to escape both undesirable companions, I swerve to my right and attempt to continue on, but the woman blocks me with a hand.
“I should be sorry,” are the odd words she utters, “but I’m really not.”

And suddenly, there is a knife pressed to the skin of my throat and the woman’s hand is clasping the back of my neck.

Notes