I slowly eased up off the ground, still confused as to whether what I saw was an illusion or not. Before heading off to first period, I dusted my jeans and headed to the restroom to clean to blood off my face. The damage wasn't too bad, not even close to the worst I had received. I used a few paper towels soaked in water to dab the red liquid from me.
In class I listened to my music on full blast all period. Miss Stein, my English teacher, used to write me detention slips for it, but since I never stop she just lets it go. As long as I turn in something, she doesn't care; most of the time it's not like I am even in my classes. I just sit in the back and turn up my headphones for an hour. My teachers never seem to mind anymore.
The school day went by drearily and I had gone through my playlist seven times. It was getting to the point where I could predict the next song. I slammed my locker door and pulled my sweatshirt hood over my head to perhaps fool the jocks outside. It was highly unlikely, but you should never underestimate the stupidity of people. I was walking down the school's steps, thinking I was safe, when one of them noticed me.
"Well looky here! It's Frank the Fag!" the leader sneered.
I just re-adjusted my hood and kept walking, hoping to avoid another incident. I did not exactly like being beaten every morning and afternoon.
"Aw, come here, Frank! I just wanted a little kiss," one of the other jocks joked, making a kissy face. He then spit on me as one of his companions approached me and threw me to the ground yet again.
"Uh…hey," I heard a voice faintly mumble. My head was spinning, and I could not properly orient myself.
"Are you…alright?" the voice continued. I could only answer with a groan.
"What happened?" I managed as my senses began to return to me.
"Uh…the jocks beat you up and you lost consciousness,"
"Again," I sighed.
"This happens," they gulped, "often?"
"Yeah,"
I stood up unstably and looked down at the owner of the voice. He had long, black midnight hair that sloppily framed his ghostly white face. His penciled eyeliner rimmed hazel oceans of eyes in a manor that gave him a look of dark angels. Even his eyelashes fluttered long and black the same sense.
He was wearing a crimson tee shirt that hugged his perfect frame attractively. His dark skinny jeans had hand-cut tears in various random spots and were splattered on the left side with white paint. He was sporting Chucks that were adorned with checkered laces and a few black-and-white string bracelets on his right arm. He looked… perfect.
I suppose I was just staring at him in awe for way too long because his white cheeks were replaced with ones of maroon. He flipped his hair over his eyes in one solid motion and I lead my gaze to the ground embarrassed.
"Oh," he whispered almost inaudibly. With that, he rose up from his kneel and looked at me repeatedly while adverting his hazels in-between. It was quite adorable.
"Yeah," I replied in the same tone. I wasn't sure where this conversation was going. I was so nervous to even have him acknowledge me. Then it all hit me like a ton of bricks. This perfect guy had made sure I was okay… while I was unconscious…after being beaten up by jocks… and was about five hundred social classes above me.
"Why," I choked on my words, "why were you concerned about me?" I asked. It was only moments after when I realized what I had said. I slapped my handover my mouth and turned around so I wouldn't have to face him.
"I…I'm sorry," I croaked, trying my best not to cry. I took off running to my house and never stopped once to look back. What if he had been calling my name? What if he had wanted me to turn around and come back? I shook these silly thoughts from my head with a slightly psychotic laugh and locked myself in the solitude of my bedroom, ignoring my father's snide comments.
Sprawled out on my bed, I began to relive the past moments over and over in my head. It was crazy to think about; how I was face-to-face with an angel of grace and gothic perfection. It was insane to imagine that I, Frank Iero, the loner-emo-gay-loser-kid, had been approached by him. No matter how hard I tried, I could not wipe the goofy smile I had spread across my lips from my face. For once, the sounds of broken glass and curses coming from downstairs, and the physical pain from daily beatings, and even the mental scars from years in living hell just seemed to fade away as I spent the remainder of the evening daydreaming about him. Seeing his face just made it all melt away. Hearing his voice stitched together my ripped heart. Feeling his touch patched up all the holes inside of me. I felt… okay.
I wonder if he has known he was always the one keeping me alive. I wonder if he had known that I had always been in love with him. I wonder what he would say if I told him that I put down the razor so many times for him. I wonder what we would say if I told him my story and how he got me through it. And I wish I would have stayed just a little longer to see what he would have said when I asked him why he was concerned about me.