Running away seemed to be the only talent he had. -oneshot-
He was sick.
Not in the sense of having a virus, or having a disease of some kind. But sick as in being fed up, annoyed, tired. Pissed off.
He was forever being used by people. People he regarded as froends, people he cared for. It was always something they wanted. Sometimes it was emotional support and advice after a break up, an argument with a friend or family member. They'd come crawling to him, and would he turn them away? Would he be an asshole to them? Would he treat them with the same level of disrespect and disregard for him and his feelings?
Why? God only knows! He could never turn them away, as much as he hated the way they would treat him, he liked to feel wanted. He wanted people to rely on him. But whenever he needed someone to be there for him, to be his shoulder to cry on and to offer him advice there was no one to be found. And it wasn't fair.
He always felt rejected and as though he wasn't good enough. He couldn't sing, act or draw like Gerard. He couldn't play guitar like Frank and Ray. He couldn't play drums like Bob, what was the point? No one would care even if he could. Those four would always be better than him. What was the point to any of it? No one would ever give a shit.
His bags were packed. It was 23:57 and he was finally leaving New Jersey. With at least $10,000 in the bank; he was set for the next few years.
Three minutes later, Michael James Way boarded a plane to Haggard in Ireland.
His family unaware that he wouldn't return. He was going to start a new life out there, and prove that he was worth something regardless of what they thought.
Even if his best talent was running away.
At least he had a talent.