Before Killing Was Cool ➊ FRERARD

19: The End Of All Good Things

Patrick nods like he was expecting such a response. "That's okay." He pulls back his blackened candy to eat, the soft licking of the flames tainting his face with orange. "We've got some time before we go. Andy's still looking at apartments. He has family in the industry, connections who could sign us."

"I've never even heard you play." Mikey deflates. He's going to miss Patrick. Christ, he wants to go but something is holding him here - his parents, Pete, Gerard? God only knows.

"We've been doing some small gigs in town over summer, got to New York a few times. It's nothing major but it's our Plan A, and there's no backup. We owe it to ourselves to try make a name for ourselves."

"And Pete?" Mikey presses. This warrants a sour face of uncertainty as Patrick takes a deep drink from his cup.

"Like I said - like you know - he'll be locked up. Whatever he did, I wouldn't be surprised." He's an all-seeing owl, head full of wisdom when he eyes Mikey up. "He didn't treat you the way people are supposed to be treated." It's a statement, not a question.

Mikey says nothing, still conflicted. The urge to get raging drunk eats at him.

"I want to sing about what happened here," Patrick admits suddenly and the confession makes his companion want to weep. "In Chicago, in Seattle, in Las Vegas and LA."

"West Coast, then," Mikey alleges but it's not an accusation, "far from New Jersey."

"I'd happily live the California Dream. None of us have ever been out there. Maybe we'll make our way over, steadily aiming for the Pacific Coast. Maybe we'll totally flop and the whole thing will have been for nothing, Andy's connections be damned." He shrugs. "Have to do something though. Have to keep going forward."

Mikey wishes he could have that mindset but something is always holding him back.

>

In The Past

Exactly two years ago, I walk through the door of my house, throwing my school-bag onto the stairs and hanging my jacket up beside it. "Mom? Dad? Are you in?"

It hasn't been a bad day. I got a B in my latest English paper and being Friday, I've completed the stretch of another long week of education. I feel boundless, free from the torment of any bullying for at least the weekend, ready to spend all the time I can with my family.

"In the kitchen!" My mom chirps, and the smell of fresh vegetarian lasagne proves her right.

I must look like a hungry animal from a Disney movie upon smelling a pie, my nose practically lifting me off my feet and toward my dinner.

It's pretty early but my parents know I don't tend to eat breakfast nor a huge lunch so I've built up an appetite over the course of the day. They can read my mind in terms of the menu I would have picked.

"You're home late," she notes as she opens the oven and pulls out a perfectly made meal. I'm convinced my mother is the world's best cook.

"I went out with Ray. Where's dad?"

"He got bored with the car being at the mechanics', so he went hunting with that damn new shotgun of his," she sighs, dropping the oven-mitts on the counter, "you and I, Frankie, could never understand what he finds so enjoyable about slaughtering helpless and innocent creatures."

The way she says it makes it seem harsher than it really is. He doesn't always enjoy it - we make good money out of selling what he hunts and that's the main motive. He's quick and humane when he puts them down. I don't approve of it, especially being a vegetarian, but it could be worse.