Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Destroy rebuild until God shows

Destroy rebuild until God shows

by nukyster 1 Reviews

Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win

Category: My Chemical Romance - Rating: R - Genres: Angst,Horror - Characters:  - Published: 2011/11/27 - Updated: 2011/11/27 - 1485 words

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Destroy rebuild until God shows

Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win

A young man walked his pitiful path through downtown Jersey. He kept his eyes sternly down onto the soiled concrete, right eye twitching oddly. Although the streets were deserted from cars and the light bulbs of the poles providing enough light, he shouldn’t keep his gaze down entirely. This was New Jersey past midnight, people have been killed for less.

He didn’t seem to bother about the lurking danger of street gangs and dealers, his thoughts were somewhere else, squirming and squinting deep inside his mind, like his eyes, uncoordinated and blinking, flashing. Nobody noticed his struggle though, keeping himself hidden inside his canvas jacket he doesn’t catch a lot of attention.

Too bad he couldn’t stop his lips from exclaiming his train wreck of thoughts, coming out in smothered mutters.

He didn’t stop, he simply paused, getting his trembling fingers ready to pick out a cigarette from a soggy package. He’d bought them yesterday and it’s already near empty, moist from the rain that steadily poured down on every unlucky soul without shelter.

Boney arms appeared from under his jacket, scars ran around like rats and he hated it, he fucking hated it. Half of the cuts left him clueless and he can’t remember the inked words being stung into his wrists. But they where there, all there for the world to see.

“Leave me alone, l-l-leave me a-alone,” his voice echoed through the street past midnight, shaking, he was shaking all over and he needed a fix, something, anything would do.

Nicotine was only a mellower, it didn’t lessen the twitching and thoughts. He breathed it in welcomingly anyways, sometimes it felt like a hug from a stranger, warm and clingy. Sometimes they made him feel fuzzy.

But not tonight though, tonight there is no luck in his vocabulary or mind. Dejected he stopped walking and sighed, deep and shuddering. “No. N-no, no, no.” He wasn’t a foul, or a retard like the kids used to call him, dirty little maggots, vicious little monsters they were, he hated them all. From the far back of the street he recalled footsteps and they are in a hurry.

“N-not alone, n-n-not alone,” he tried, a warning. Oh God of please, oh no. He could feel it in his guts, this wasn’t going to end well. “N-no, no, no, please.” But begging never got him anywhere and it certainly didn’t help.

So he steadied his miserable pass, directing his gaze upwards to see where he was. Cold sweat seeped out of his pores and fuck his weak bladder, no, he wasn’t going to piss his fucking pants. Not again, fuck.

His hurried steps didn’t make the inconvenient urge down his pants any less, his cotton tee already stuck on his back before he made it till the next street. An ally passed before he could squint his eyes, his laces of his worn out sneakers loosened and he nearly tripped over them. To keep his balance he shoved himself into a garbage can, pretty much awakening the entire neighborhood.

‘Good,’ he thought, ‘please wake up, please, don’t leave this up to him,’ jumping over a pile of human waste he jerked the hood off his head to get a better view of his surroundings. There was a T split coming up, one possibly leading him to safety and salvation, the other to redemption and hell. Hell, because that was what he gets. With rotting carcasses, maggots and maggot babies, they would be everywhere, around him, on him, inside of him, be deserved it. He deserved him. Unless he made the right decision, right here right now.

Wavering between right and left he whimpered and couldn’t help a trail of though break free from the far back of his mind, into the wild and open.

“Don’t let the cocksucker get you, man up little chicken-shit!” He snarled cold and low, anger rising underneath the surface. He bucked from the foreign jolt of bitter emptiness, for a moment he was stranded in a no-man country, with no thoughts no feelings or emotions.

“N-no hollow-man, no n-no,” the lack of pretty much anything drove him beyond any recognition, it was a no way back zone, a blank wall to sink into. It would swallow him up, the voice and the words until he was gone, wrapped in darkness and store it all for another time, another day. Hopefully a less terrifying one.

A hand tangled itself around his collar and he cried out, ready to weep beg or cry for whatever was coming for him. ‘I deserve it, I can take it’.

He got jerked around and rammed into another dumpster, the iron frame sinking nastily into the flesh of his exposed waist. His attacker seized better grip around his collar, leading him close to choke, his eyes where rolling backwards already, squinting and trying to catch a glimpse of the man who harassed him. He noticed widened eyes, wild and out of control, adrenaline kicking in, he wished he could have a share of that. The smell of sweat and booze hit him in the face possibly at the same time as an iron fist bashed into his right eye socket.

He didn’t fight, he held still, blank dots blurring his vision and he cried out, there was no use of keeping it in anymore. The smack against the back of his head cost by the wall behind him stirred something up and all he wanted to do was cry. “P-please, no h-hollow-man,”

His words came out wrong, too soft and too needy. As reward he got kicked in the groin and that snapped him wide awake, hunching forward and gasping for much needed air he fell on his knees, holding himself up with one arm.

“-Money! Give me your goddamn money!” Words mingled with threads but all he could do was peacefully stare at the drips of his blood making a pattern on the filthy ground.

“I don’t have any money,” he muttered honest, blinking cautiously, touching the back of his head. It felt wet, warm and sticky but it didn’t hurt, it didn’t hurt at all. The blankness was coming, lack of pain was the first sign. “I really don’t have any money,” he spoke and peacefully closed his eyes.

“- Fucking junkie!” This time it was a knee colliding with his face and he chuckled hopelessly.

Eventually the chuckle evolved into a wary giggle as he was ready to pass out on the floor, front teeth scraping over tiles every time his head got kicked into a different angle. Maybe this time he would be the lucky one, maybe this time he wouldn’t be gone, maybe he would be dead. He tried to keep conscious, counting the drips of blood being beaten out of him. He kept his eyes open until drips formed into a puddle and he his eyes squinted, his lips twitched into a tiny grin. Salvation at last.

.-.-.

It had been rage, and rage alone waiting to surface. It had been waiting and watching how its double ganger mercifully got beaten till pulp. It didn’t wait for an order, it simply waited for the other to weaken, unable to suppress and in the end give in. Slowly it opened one eye, testing its limits and the smile turned in a fowl one, more animal-like then a person should smile. Running its tongue over its teeth it tasted bloods, lots of it. Recognizing it as its own there was only seeing red from that point. The sent in the ally smelled like a slaughterhouse, blood and cold sweat from his double ganger.
It was vaguely aware of being kicked.

‘Wolf in sheep clothes and the beastie got hungry,’ boots nudging its limp body, under the influence that it had done enough damage to its unlucky predecessor.

The animalistic smile grew, the attacker felt secure enough to search the pockets for small cash, like he would find any. Eventually he settled for the soggy package of cigarettes and lighted one.

Oh, the smell of cheap cigarettes, the smell of success. Little lamp felt secure enough to leave the heard. Little lamp felt safe.

That had been where it waited for, security, the most fun was to catch them off-guard, it made them scream louder anyway. It didn’t matter that the attacker stole every little penny, every little thing from the jacket.

All he needed where his bare hands anyway.

.-.-.

no mcr fic, didn't know in which cat to put it either. mention of MPD, it's going to be dark, insane and fucked up enjoy
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