Chapter Text
“Hon, we’re hearing you, but you aren’t listening to us—”
“You aren’t listening to me!!” You screamed, arms flailing out at your sides. “Something is wrong, I don’t feel right. Something is wrong with me!”
An unfortunate (but common) way for any 13 year old to spend an afternoon: getting into a yelling match with your parents in the kitchen.
It didn’t start out that way; coming home from an awful day of school, you just wanted to complain to your mom. When the girl you considered your best friend up and drops you with no prior warning, what else were you supposed to do? The fact that it wasn’t even the first time something like this had happened— right as you started to open up to someone you thought was going to be there forever— did nothing to quell the crippling self doubt that ate away everything you are.
It only got more obvious as you got older; you were different. Something invisible set you apart, and no one could tell you how to fix it. The more you tried to express those feelings, how othered the world made you feel, the more everyone turned the other cheek. It didn’t matter how loud you screamed when no one listened to the words.
Your father stepped towards you, finger raised in a point, “Don’t you dare speak to your mother that way. She is not one of your friends, you need an attitude check before you get smacked across the face.”
You sniveled. Hiccupped. Stared at your feet.
Your mom sighed, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Honey, I’ve been a teenager before. You think I don’t know what you’re going through right now?”
“Yes,” you whimpered, breaths catching in your throat in staccato.
“Well I do. I didn’t have many friends when I was your age. You’re quiet, hon, you need to put yourself out there. A therapist won’t make you friends. That’s on you. You just have to keep pushing forward— you can’t just give up. You’re still so young. Everything works out eventually. And you’re so smart— no, sweetheart, you don’t need to see a therapist, they really don’t help in the way you think. I went to therapy when I was 16 and it was a huge waste of time, really, you’re not going to like it.”
Her words did little to get you to stop bawling like a baby, because it was the same thing she always said. The same thing that never explained why you felt broken. People loved to tell you that they got it, that they understood, that self-discipline and perseverance was all you needed to save you, because it saved them.
No one you knew tried harder than you felt you did, but as long as the end results didn’t match up to theirs, all your efforts were worth crap.
Nobody listened. Nobody cared.
“I don’t know why you’re so insistent, that something is up,” your mother continued. “You’re the smartest kid on the planet! Do you know how I would’ve killed to have it how you have it in school? I hear it all the time— ‘Oh, that little girl of yours is so bright!’ ‘She’s so mature for her age, she’s got an old soul!’ You really gotta stop taking it to heart as much as you do, when these things happen. You’ll make new friends, hon, you can’t let Allie dictate everything you feel.”
“The first thing a therapist is going to try and do is throw you on some kind of drug,” your dad interrupted. “You know that stuff screws your mind up? You become dependent, and pharmacies rake in money for something that could end up killing you. Kids get taken away from their parents too, if they decide by their own merit that you’re going through some kind of abuse at home. As soon as you’re in that room where we can’t see or hear you, they can say anything they want to you to convince you that you’re better off, and then what? You have everything you need right now. They get to you when you’re young, before you even know who you are yet, and put all these thoughts in your head.”
It was as if your brain lost access to your vocal chords.
That always ended up happening, when you were pushed a little too far. When everyone was a little too confrontational and your words weren’t understood the way you needed them to be. You couldn’t tell them that it wasn’t about just Allie, that it wasn’t about any one person or how well you did in school. You wished they could read your mind, be in your body for one day, feel what you feel.
“I mean— psychiatry is for people are very unwell. Crazy. Everything else can be solved by eating better, sleeping better, getting outside more,” your mother reasoned. “The people who need to be under watch are the ones who hurt other people or see things that aren’t there or risk their own lives. You’re not trying to risk your own life, right? Not over Allie, you know that’s ridiculous.”
…You shook your head, choking in air.
“Right. So— you gotta understand honey, we don’t think this is the route you really wanna go down, okay?”
“You are 13,” your father said, pointedly, “The world isn’t ending because of a fight with a friend, okay? One day you’ll wake up and forget this girl even existed, but this one incident isn’t enough for us to throw you into a shrink’s office. You’ll be okay. You’re young. The whole world is in front of you.”
You nodded, tongue numb.
That was the somber end to the conversation, feet carrying you down the hallway so you could finally change out of your school clothes. Each sniffle was accented with a wet hiccup, knees barely managing to hold you up as you gently shut your door.
As you tugged off your pants, your shirt, your socks, the cries got uglier. Raw. Ripping up your throat. You weren’t positive that you could keep yourself from throwing up all over your carpet.
Smeary vision and the buzz in your skull lead you right over to your bed in nothing but your underwear, unable to fathom having the energy for picking out different clothing.
What a killer ending to your week. A whole week of being avoided in the halls, your calls not getting picked up, half-hearted laughter and conversations that grew duller and duller at lunch, you should’ve expected it. In the back of your mind, you did. It happened every time without fail. You just wished she could’ve told you what you did wrong, rather than a blank stare and a stiff smile when you tried to ask what was up.
Everyone always laughs it off, like some joke you weren’t in on. Or something you should know by now. You didn’t. You didn’t understand why you couldn’t keep a friend.
But you got the message— you would not go where you were not wanted.
It would’ve been fine— better, even— if you could come home, straight to talking it out with your mom. She never really got it, struggling to say the things you needed to hear, but she was earnest. She tried. She cared. She just couldn’t always see it your way.
Lucky, lucky you, your dad was home this particular Friday, and he got off on giving his two cents where not one soul asked for it. He just hated you. He didn’t even try. He hated you. In his mind, you never did anything right. You wouldn’t have even gotten so riled up if he wasn’t standing there, scrutinizing, making you feel small, waiting for you to say something that he could jump in and refute and beat you over the head with.
…
You pulled your pillow onto your wet face, wailing in your anger. You didn’t spout off at the mouth when you were mad or punch something or slam doors like your brother— you wouldn’t dare, because you would get punished in a second— but you cried. You cried, and because you cried over all else, hurting your feelings didn’t really matter. No one felt threatened or worried; it was only tears, right? You’d get over it, you were just being a baby, you cried all the time.
If you killed yourself, you could prove them all wrong.
It was a thought you couldn’t escape, lately. The sickest, ugliest parts of you wanted to show them. You wanted them to find you without warning, to live with the guilt of knowing that you tried to tell them before it got to that point.
The logical part of you knew that was a selfish way to feel. You were selfish, selfish, selfish.
You laid there long after you were all cried out, swimming through the all over ache that sprouted from shame. You were so ashamed.
If anyone deserved to hurt in the end, it was you.
…
You rolled over, shaky legs carrying you towards your full length mirror. In that moment, you couldn’t recognize your reflection; whoever was staring back at you was not you.
Your eyes roved over the stretch of skin that your clothes normally covered, little sniffles continuing to shake your frame. As you did so, your attention was pulled to the drawings pinned up beside your mirror.
And a force that wasn’t your own prompted you to pull the pin from the wall, letting the piece of paper it held float to the ground.
You didn’t know what you were doing, really. You just wanted to feel something, leave some proof behind. A proof of concept, seen by no one but you. Give the internal hurt a vessel. Maybe when it healed on your body, you wouldn’t feel it in your mind anymore. Maybe.
No one would see it but you.
“So…”
A heavy, somewhat irritated sigh rang out from the speaker of Gerard’s phone. “Is it cool if my sister comes? My mom’s making me take her.”
Mikey looked up from where he was knelt to tie his shoes, blinking at Gerard with mild curiosity. Gerard glanced at him and shrugged.
“That’s fine. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, just— she’s, like— there’s some things going on and my mom wants her out of the house for a bit, s’all. So she’s making me bring her. I’ll tell you later. So.”
Gerard looked back over at Mikey, as if to gauge his thoughts. Mikey’s face was blank, however, as his attention returned to tying his shoes.
“Well, cool then. I’ve never met your sister.”
“Her and Mikey are the same age, so there’s that,” your brother muttered. “She’s quiet. She’s always in her room when you come over. She won’t bug us.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
…
It wasn’t long before the four of you were piled into your brother’s car, you and Mikey exiled to the backseat.
You were quiet, like your brother said. Mikey wasn’t much different, so there was no judgement in his mind, but it did make him curious about you. You and the way you curled up into the backseat, eyes so fixed on the window that you didn’t catch the way he kept throwing glances at you. You definitely radiated all of the I-Don’t-Want-To-Be-Here energy that a person could have, though.
But you spoke when spoken to, proved true by Gerard taking the initiative to call your name.
“What do you like to do?” He asked, head turned to look at you through the gap between the front seats.
You only spared him a glance, and then your eyes dropped. “Um… like… for fun…?”
“Yeah.”
You shrugged. “I draw.”
“Really?” Gerard grinned— he found his in, and it didn’t even take that long. “I draw too, I’m going to art school after I graduate.”
From the looks of it, that didn’t engage you even a little bit. “Oh, cool.”
There was an awkward pause, one where everyone wondered if you’d follow up with a question of your own, but you seemed lost to your own thoughts.
“Um…” Never mind, you were speaking again. “I’m not that good.”
“What defines ‘good’, really?” Gerard chuckled. “It’s art. If you liked makin’ it, that’s what makes it good.”
“I guess…”
The conversation reached its natural end there; you weren’t giving Gerard much to work with. Mikey was almost annoyed by it, but he tried to not let that taint his mood. It’s just… why did a girl have to come with in the first place? You were clearly uncomfortable, and Mikey liked being the only quiet third wheel tailing along. An extra presence made it strange.
Whatever. It wouldn’t ruin his day. He would probably never see you again after this.
“My dad will kill me if I come home with another action figure,” your brother muttered, admiring a display of posable DC characters from the other side of the glass.
“Isn’t it your money?” Gerard scoffed. “Who cares?”
“Something something, ‘We don’t give you an allowance so you can waste it on plastic junk,’” your brother huffed, “he says, as he sets up his 17th model airplane in his office.”
The both of them burst into a fit of giggles, more akin to a couple of schoolgirls than anything.
Mikey hovered behind them, eyes wandering around the comic store.
With it being a Saturday, it was a little more busy than usual… but that wasn’t saying much. There wasn’t a gigantic nerd community where you lived, so places like this were always pretty quiet, even for a store in the mall. Sure, Mikey was dead broke, but he’d never deny the opportunity to window shop. More often than not, Gerard ended up buying him something anyway.
Mikey wondered if your likes were anything like your brother’s. Probably not, not with the way you sulked the entire car ride over.
He turned his head around a few times, trying to spot wherever it was you went. You disappeared a long time ago, maybe something snagged your attention?
Mikey quietly excused himself, slowly walking and peering down aisles in search of you. Not like you were tall enough to stand over any shelves.
As his feet carried him to the center of the store, he caught clear view of you through the glass doors— you were outside of the building, peering at something in your hands. Okay.
He shot a look in Gerard’s direction— still preoccupied with the display— and quietly moved to the exit, pushing the door open to get a closer look at what you were up to.
You didn’t look up at him, even when the entrance bell chimed. Your eyes stayed glued to the… well, he assumed it was a bug in your hands. You were holding some kind of bug.
“What are you doing?” Mikey blurted, letting the door slip from his hands so it would shut.
You didn’t flinch, instead uncupping your hands for him to see a caterpillar, inching around on your palm. Just looking at the way it crawled around wracked goosebumps across Mikey’s skin. No disrespect to caterpillars… but how could you just hold one like that? It was, in essence, a glorified worm. The idea grossed him out.
“Ew.”
You took immediate offense, face morphing into a scowl. “The hell do you mean ‘ew’?”
“Why’re you just letting it crawl all over you like that?”
The caterpillar inched its’ way up onto your index and middle finger. “They don’t bite. This one doesn’t have fur so it doesn’t sting. They’re harmless.”
You held your hand out, holding the thing directly in front of Mikey’s face, and he almost yelped.
“Gross, get that away from me!”
“You’re a wuss, wow. You could just hold it, it won’t eat you.”
“Stop.”
You rolled your eyes, pulled your hand back, and turned towards the bush you picked your creature up from. “Wuss.”
Well, if Mikey was on the fence about you before, he definitely didn’t care for you now. You got dragged along for what? To act like you were too good to be there and torture him with bugs? His heart was beating too hard in his frustration to form any kind of comeback, so he just stood there and glared at the back of your head while you plucked a leaf out and shoved it in the caterpillar’s face.
Your mouth moved like you were saying something, but it was all under your breath— he could only imagine you were talking to the bug, or something ridiculous.
“What are you even doin’ out here?” Mikey muttered, pushing his glasses up. “Come back inside.”
“I looked at everything I wanted to look at. I’m gonna wait out here.”
“You shouldn’t wait out here by yourself. You could get kidnapped or something.”
You raised an eyebrow, a mocking huff escaping you. “Oh, yeah, uh huh. I’ll take my chances.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
God, what the hell was your problem?
Mikey almost pulled his hair in frustration, head whipping around to glance through the storefront doors. He couldn’t see your brother or Gerard from the angle, no calls for help available. Now that he was out here, Mikey felt responsible for you. He knew better than to leave a girl by herself outside in a mall, but he was not happy about it.
He glared at you so hard, he knew you could feel it like fire on your skin. You didn’t look at him at all.
…
The glass door swung open; out stepped your respective brothers, both carrying a bag in their hands.
You were immediately prompted to hold up the caterpillar in your brother’s face, silent, and he shrugged at it like this was an everyday occurrence.
“That one is ugly.”
“You’re ugly. At least she gets to turn into a butterfly.”
Gerard barked out in surprised laughter, and your brother shot him a glare.
“Screw you. Put the poor thing back, we’re leaving now,” he grumbled, starting to step off in a different direction.
Mikey lingered behind, watching you lower the creature back into the bush. As you turned around, you slid the (now chewed up) leaf from earlier into your pocket, like it was some souvenir.
Then you bounded off and ahead, stopping right at your brother’s side. “Can I get a lemonade now?”
Your quick mall trip ended with a quick stop to buy you a frozen strawberry lemonade, one that your brother moaned and groaned about getting you while actively lining himself up and pulling out his debit card.
While Mikey was ready for the day to end there, he knew he wouldn’t get so lucky. The day was only just beginning, since these hangouts always ended in your brother coming over to his house for an indefinite amount of time. He didn’t mind him. The problem was you.
You, sitting on the couch in his living room, observing everyone in silence. And he only got more peeved when Gerard was actually able to get you to warm up quite a bit more.
“…Fruit stickers, huh?”
“Yeah,” you nodded, picking at your chewed up plastic straw. “I’m trying to cover a page in my journal with them.”
“But you don’t eat fruit?” Gerard mused. “Interesting.”
“It’s a texture thing, I don’t like the texture. I just steal the stickers out of the kitchen when my parents aren’t in there.”
“Why do you have to wait until they leave?”
“They think it’s weird and get mad at me for collecting trash.”
Beside you, your brother shuffled a deck of Uno cards. “It is a little strange.”
“You used to literally eat the stickers, shut up.”
“They’re edible!”
“Yeah, but not for any nutritional value, idiot. They’re nontoxic for the off chance that people like you ingest them on accident.”
Your brother rolled his eyes sky high, and slid off the couch to sit on the floor, right in front of Gerard. He started to deal out 4 decks, 7 cards for each of you.
You and Mikey followed at the same time, taking your places on the floor and grabbing for your cards.
“Are we stacking +2s and +4s…?” Mikey mumbled, flicking through his hand.
You scoffed right next to him. “That’s technically against the rules.”
Mikey’s expression fell into a deadpan, a slow turn of his head forcing him to glare at you for the umpteenth time. If he could shoot lasers from his eyes, he would.
Your brother gave you a light shove. “Don’t be a buzzkill, jeez.”
“What? It is!”
“Stacking is more fun though,” Mikey huffed. “Who cares?”
“I’m just saying.”
“What, you read card game rules for fun or something?”
“We’ll stack +2s. No +4 stacking, though, those are wild,” Gerard settled it, killing the brewing argument where it stood. “Fair?”
You said nothing. Your brother went on to start the game.
The current turn order had Mikey in front of you, your brother to follow, and then Gerard. Mikey had a pretty decent hand to start with, having a ‘skip’ and a ‘+2’ from the get, but he was lacking in opportunities to use them. No one was putting down any green, so the ‘+2’ was useless. He did get to use his ‘skip’ after Gerard put down a yellow 5, though, and he could feel the hatred radiating off of you in waves.
That’s what you get for the caterpillar.
Your brother put down a red 9, and Gerard hummed as he surveyed his cards.
He eventually pulled one out, setting down a wild. “Green.”
Mikey’s hand flew out so fast with his +2 that the card didn’t land completely in the discard stack, sliding off of the glossy surface of the pile.
A chorus of ‘oooohs’ came from the older boys at either side of you.
You calmly placed down a red +2 of your own.
Fine. You redirected the attack. Whatever. Mikey would get you eventually.
Your brother snickered, and Mikey watched in horror as he placed another +2 on top of yours. And Gerard was giggling before he could even pick through his own hand, so Mikey knew what was coming when a fourth and final +2 was added to the pile.
He visibly deflated as he reached out to collect his 8 cards, the other boys’ cackling getting louder by the second.
“You guys suck.”
“Isn’t it more fun when we stack, though?” You muttered, reaching out to straighten up the discard pile. “I’m having fun.”
“Go,” Mikey whined. “It’s your turn.”
You placed down a blue ‘skip’. “Uno.”
A chorus of groans, the loudest coming from your brother. “Stop. Someone skip her. Mikey— skip her!”
“I don’t have any skips!”
“Gerard, reverse!”
“I don’t have one!”
Gerard put down the only card he could in this situation, which was his blue 1.
Mikey stared long and hard at his cards.
He could put down a blue, on the off chance that you didn’t have any more of them, or put his red 1 down to switch it up. There was a 75% chance he’d pick a color you didn’t have, right? And he felt like he had seen you put down more blues than anything for most of the game. It was a calculated risk, but he had a pretty good shot.
He laid down his red 1.
You dropped a wild card onto the discard pile, dramatically dusted your empty hands off, and leaned back against the foot of the couch.
“You’re kidding,” your brother groaned, throwing down his hand. “You’re a cheater!”
“How could I be a cheater? You shuffled, it isn’t my fault that you guys just suck.”
Mikey set his numerous cards down, a sharp breath escaping his nose. “Yeah, don’t bring her back around here.”
“Hey!”
“We’ll play again, alright?” Gerard reached for the deck. “Maybe that was just a fluke.”
While this would normally be the point in the evening where Mikey chose to retire to his bedroom, giving up after getting his butt kicked, he sat himself up straighter. Something about your smugness lit a fire in his gut. He wouldn’t quit until he got to pull a stunt like that.
The evening ended with no further wins on either of your parts, despite the loads of coordinated attacks.
That became the main entertainment, honestly— you and Mikey had it out for each other. It got to a point where Mikey wouldn’t even use his good cards when the turn order reversed, opting to save them for when he knew they would hit you directly. Unfortunately, that made him far more vulnerable in the end, so Gerard pulled in most of the wins before you guys had to pack up and leave.
It was around 9:30pm as the both of you stood in front of the door, tugging your shoes back on.
“We gotta try you at other games,” Gerard laughed, lightly nudging you in the shoulder. “You’re a riot.”
You smiled, somewhat bashful— a far cry from the menace you were for the last few hours— and laced up your Converse. “Um, maybe.”
“I’ll bring her back,” your brother said, like it was matter-of-fact.
“Maybe,” you repeated, mumbling.
When you stood up straight, your eyes locked directly with Mikey’s, and he felt himself grimacing.
That bashful smile was plastered over with the smuggest expression known to man. It was like you couldn’t even control it.
More pleasantries were exchanged, and you were finally out of his house, leaving Mikey to stare at Gerard with the most unamused expression a person could make. Gerard only beamed.
“I don’t like her,” Mikey blurted.
“Seems like that’s mutual.”
“Why does she have to come back?”
“Oh, come on. Don’t act like you didn’t have fun.”
Mikey groaned, packed with melodrama.
“First impressions aren’t everything, too,” Gerard pointed out, moving to lock the front door.
“Don’t start.”
“It’s true!” After the lock clicked into place, Gerard turned back around, heading for the stairs. “And it’s good for her to be out of the house right now, I guess.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Gerard shrugged, a total cop-out, and disappeared up the stairwell.
Fine, if you kept coming around, you’d get a taste of your own medicine. Mikey swore by it.