He's not the brother I thought he was, not anymore. Oneshot - NOT a Waycest. DO NOT READ if you don't like violence.
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“TROLLOP!” the scream was loud, painful in my ears. But not as painful as the sharp blow to my cheek that accompanied it.
I fell back with a cry, my right hand involuntarily moving to cover the cut. The other, the one with dark chin-lenght hair, advanced and though he was shorter and smaller than me he instilled such fear, like a hand around my heart. My chest heaved as I breathed hard, making my already showing ribs prominent.
“I- I’m sorry! Please...” I pleaded, though it was useless and deep down I knew that. I looked at my hand for a second, not even registering the red sheen of blood on it before wiping it on the tight black stage trousers that matched his. He had so many gold and jewelled rings on his fingers – it was no suprise one of them had torn the skin.
The second blow sent me in a heap to the floor, and I shuffled back as he screamed “Sorry? I DON’T WANT SORRY!” I stared up at his pale face fearfully, propping myself up by one arm with the other out in a pathetic attempt of self-defence.
I cringed as a thick-soled boot hit the concrete of the bare room an inch away from my hip. He was wearing his massive black boots, the ones he always wore onstage. This time the kick connected, hitting me in the chest and shaking my glasses off my face.
The world turned fuzzy around me as more kicks hit. One hit my arm, the inside of my elbow, and I crumpled down, hitting the side of my head. A sharp pain in the point of impact – I concentrated on that, made it easier to bear the rest.
More pain hit my curled body as I lay on the cold floor but I couldn’t feel it. It was as though I wasn’t actually there, simply watching. I studied the bare room’s furnishings, going over them as I had done before.
Cracked cream plaster walls, a dresser with a large mirror nailed to the wall above it in which we looked to apply makeup. A plain wooden table and chair with my folded white shirt on it, again the twin of the one he wore. All of these were bolted to the floor – it was that kind of place.
I was counting the cracks on the ceiling when one particularly hard blow hit me in the stomach, making me retch though there was nothing to throw up.
This seemed to please him, as he finally stopped the attack. Hee threw something that clattered to a stop just out of my line of sight, and as I reached slowly for it he placed one foot over my hand, pressing just hard enough for me to feel every corner of the tread.
“You would be wise, Micheal, to never look at Frank Iero like that again.”
Gerard turned to walk out of the door towards the stage, stomping on the object on his way.
And then I was left with the shards of my broken glasses and my silent tears over a look I never meant to give.
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._. What do you think?
- Betsy xx