MURDER MACHINE;; Mikey Way, 001

I admit I get a little jealous.

And I admit I can take it a little too far. But if you had the tempting demons in your closet like I do, then you would too.

No, I'm not gay. Well, not completely. No... my closet is full of my most treasured possessions. And those possessions vary from time to time. Sometimes bodies piled up, sometimes a rack of guns, sometimes a backpack full of weed. Directly on the other side of my closet is my brother's bedroom. My sweet and innocent, well-mannered brother.

Sometimes people get us mixed up. Gerard draws the most articulate macabre art, day in and day out, therefore they think he is the jailbait. Therefore they think he has the criminal record. He must. He must, because he has these murderous thoughts in his head, so he must.

But really, he's just like everyone else. And he likes to show it.

Me, I have a different way of showing it. I don't have felt-tip markers or paints of all shades of the rainbow. I don't have sketchpads or canvases of the finest material from only certain sections of the world. My canvases, they walk the paths of every city, every town, every country. They walk so lifeless among the rest of them. But mostly, my finest creations, they walk the streets of Belleville, New Jersey.

There's a knock on my bedroom door of the apartment my brother and I share. "Come eat, Mikey." And in that same tone he says, "You're too fucking thin."

That same tone that everyone uses. "You're too fucking thin, Mikey." "You're too fucking quiet, Mikey." "You're too fucking stupid, Mikey." Nobody gets it. And if anybody ever did, it would be Gerard.

"I'm not hungry," I say, and I slip the gun out from under my sheets, resuming my polishing it, even though I could probably see my reflection in it by now.

And Gerard smirks. "Frank's here."

The sheets stop moving and I assume the clocks have probably stopped. Frank? Frank Iero is my only weakness. The one thing I'm afraid. The one person that makes me pull my finger away from the trigger, that makes me feel slightly guilty when I smoke shit. He must be my angel, I've figured. He must be here to save me from the lifeless pit I've so willingly thrust myself into. If only I wasn't so afraid of the beautiful boy.

I'm not gay. No, I swear. Barely bisexual, I guess. I don't even have regular love interests. I don't even have interests. Frank would be the only one. Girls? Yeah, they're beautiful. And they look so much prettier when they die. Somehow the blood leaving their porcelain skin is so much more beautiful.

Gerard is still smirking when I look up at him and ask, "What's he doing here?"

"He's having problems paying rent, so I told him to chill here for however long."

I gulp and shyly store away my pistol in the drawer on my nightstand. I get up off my bed, and Gerard claps a hand on my shoulder but I can't help but stop at my full-length mirror. I analyze my skyscraper-like figure and the most misleading asset of my appearance, my secret weapon. My glasses. I can't help but be amused by the way one object can attempt to completely define a person. I wear glasses so I must go to college and be really good at it. My brother draws horror art so he must be crazy and have a criminal record. See? Confused.

I remember the way Frank pushes back my hair so that he can see my eyes better, usually to get a pink shade in my cheeks, usually to tease me the way I hate. So I push back my hair that same exact way, so he doesn't have to. So he doesn't have to get that five percent of my very well-hidden humility out of my heart.

That left ventricle's gotta belong to someone.

My name's Mikey Way, and I play pretty fucking dirty.
the broken, the beaten, and the damned ->
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