Chapter Text
Mikey was tired.
He was tired of mornings. He was tired of the air in his lungs. He was tired of being Mr. ‘Can’t Smile for Shit’ Unloveable and he was tired of being the ‘other Way brother.’
He was tired of his own skin.
Hell, sometimes he even thought about how tired he was of being tired.
But the days went on, and so did he, tired.
He would sit on the communal couch, probably either smoking or with bottle in hand and he would think about how the answer to every “are you okay?” from his brother and from his band resulted in a choked out “I’m fine” or maybe the occasional “alright” and he thought about how everyone would react if they knew how he was really feeling. It made him sick to his stomach.
Of course, though, that’s just normal. Everything made him sick nowadays; whether it be the thought of the number on the scale being higher than the last time he checked or how easily he could trace his own ribs with a finger or how small he looked compared to bandmates and fans alike.
He found that no matter how hard he tried to not, he couldn’t help but compare himself to everyone he met. If he had to tick the dreaded ‘big’ out of two mental boxes it’d be just another scar added to his tally and as many meals skipped as would shrink him to the size he wanted. To the size he needed.
He thought about how the looks of concern he received everywhere he went made him giddy with a mix of guilt, excitement, fear of being caught, and a touch of ‘I can do better.’ Those looks from his brother especially seemed to be a little heavy on the guilt side, though.
All peaceful melancholy must be interrupted however, and it was then that his thoughts were interrupted by Frank walking in and sitting on the other side of the couch, visibly drunk, and saying:
“Mikey, man, I saw you looking in the mirror last night. I really think you should try ‘nd eat more y’know? You barely look like you anymore!”
It was hardly coherent due to his state but it still made Mikey’s stomach drop lower than he thought was possible.
“I dunno if you make yourself look like that on purpose but it’s not healthy. Not healthy at all.”
The nausea returned and Mikey attempted to stop himself from going into blind panic by sitting up straight, subconsciously scratching whatever wound was most fresh on his thigh from over his gone-baggy ‘skinny’ jeans, and taking a drink from the closest can of room-temperature beer he could find.
“I’m really not sure what you’re talking about, Frank.”
And Frank just looked at him, shrugged his shoulders, and stumbled back outside.
Mikey wanted to let out a sigh of relief but the feeling of straight fear in his throat and chest and stomach wouldn’t leave him. Instead, he ran his fingers through his already messy hair and tried to breathe properly but nothing was working.
After half a minute of mental debate, he stood up and rushed to the bathroom, locking the door and grabbing the blade he kept in a crack between the damaged walls.
And here he was again, alone and feeling empty with a blade in his hands and a false promise to never be back here again. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep to that but he tells himself it’s true each time anyway.
He just loved it too much.