Frank stared at his reflection. His once gleaming hazel eyes were now lifeless, weighed down with tragic scenery's and skeletal beings. Only this skeletal being didn't wish for lovely blonde hair, or something to fix those bags under his eyes.

This skeletal being was just too cool for such things. Instead of counting off the specks of sunshine in his eyes, he was singing some melodramatic tune. They called it killing time. He called it killing brain cells. Each off-key note was something traumatic.

Somebody call an ambulance.

He felt a head ache coming on. Two fingers punctured their way into the sides of his forehead, entering a little too easy into his soft, pathetic skull.

They picked at all those selfish thoughts, plucked away at the emotions he'd rather keep hidden in the time lapses he doesn't even notice anymore.

He's too cool. He's too cool.

His hip bones jutted out, and he could crush them if he only could grip hard enough. His cheek bones have never seemed so high, and it might've been appealing if the skin plastered over them wasn't the only thing holding everything together.

Oh, the horror.

He could hear their screams. He could see their beautiful eyes dart away, looking for any welcomed distraction that wouldn't come. No, instead they'd be forced to look. They'd stare. Goo-goo eyed and shit-faced. A cheap fuck for a priceless person.

But those days we're flying out the window, along with his TV, books, CD's, and all those journal entries. All wasted time, crumpled paper; out the window. He was in for it now, but daddy's fists weren't hurting as much as they did yesterday.

"Frank?" Knock, knock. Who's there?

But it seems Frank has better things to do. Sorry, Gerard. We all know you were a loser. A mere face in a crowd. Average Joe. C'mon Gerard; You didn't really think Frank was going to answer the door, did you? You didn't actually believe he considered you something other than a guy to get his weed from, right? Everybody knows little Frankie is untouchable. Oh, Gerard. You silly, pitiful fuck.

He's too cool for you. Everybody knows that.

But to your dismay, he answers the door. And once again; you appreciate it more than ever. Frank's hollow eyes see right through you, and he lets you in. Frank doesn't believe you know that you're the only soul that's been in this apartment since last year. Frank doesn't believe in a lot of things, but the one thing he's sure about is that he hates Gerard. He hates him so much it's a religion.

"Happy Birthday, Frank."

But Frank loves him too much to let him go, and in Gerard's beautiful hands is the chocolate cake daddy never bought him.

Frank's hands are shaking, and his bottom lip is trembling. Only this isn't sudden to Frank-only to Gerard, who just notices. Frank still hasn't said anything, and Gerard is only now starting to look around. He's seeing the source of the freezing, biting air coming from the wide open window. He's seeing papers scattered everywhere, things sprawled out on the floor. He's seeing the mirror in the middle of the room, but he's not seeing the empty pill bottles behind the mirror. He's not seeing the broken bottles of booze buried somewhere in his mattress either.

He's mostly just watching Frank now. Frank's sort of wishing he put a shirt on before he answered the door. This skeletal being was highly self-conscious, and rightfully. He couldn't recall the last time he ate, but only the last time he threw up. It wasn't more of a memory but a dream blurred around the edges. He was sure it was worse then he remembered. It always ended up being worse.

"Frank?" Gerard asked, his hand touching his bare shoulder. He pulled back immediately; burned.

"Your freezing," He breathed, setting the cake that Frank still had his eyes glued to on the side table, next to some ripped up photo's.

"Frank? What the fuck is the matter with you? Are you high?" Gerard was leading Frank to the kitchen, and Frank realized Gerard had been in his apartment more times than he liked. Gerard was probably more comfortable in Frank's own apartment than he himself was.

Gerard pulled up a chair and made Frank sit down, then started rummaging through the cabinets.

"You want me to make you pancakes?" He asked. Gerard really knew more than he let on.

Frank didn't reply, he just watched Gerard as his skilled hands did this and that. Frank wished he had hands like that; artistic, precise. It was a shame he was a skeletal being; he really could've loved him.

"I'm sick, man. " He told him, "I'm just sick."