Went to dad's closet I picked up his .45. Grabbed 3 boxes of bullets & on my hip they shall reside.Until I opened the gym doors. U should have seen those fucks run. I poured out a full clip in thei...
The room has very few furniture. There's just a mattress, a suitcase, and a locked wardrobe. There was no blanket, no pillow, it's forever cold.
I coughed I rolled off my mattress on to the hard stone floor. My room is the basement. My mattress is uncomfortable more than usual. Because I got a birthday gift, those aren't allowed. Leaving the only place to hide it , under the mattress. I lifted the mattress my present instantly bringing a smile to my face. I got a diary, a pen, a pack of colored pencils and a sketchbook. I grabbed the diary and pen, pushing them to the center of the tiny two by four room, while my other hand still held up the mattress. I positioned the other items carefully so the mattress wouldn't look lumpy or out of place when I set it back down. I placed it down gently, careful not to make much noise. I scuttled over to the center of the room and started to write in the diary. Beginning with the first page.
They say yesterday day was my birthday. How old am I now? Fifteen, seventeen maybe? I don't know. I know how old I was when I was brought here, I was just six. Days blurred by, blending together. I could be almost thirty. Who knows? This is the first gift I've ever got. You better be honored diary. That's what you're called, a diary. I know this because Bob told me. He gave you to me you know. He's my only friend here. He explained everything, I write my feelings down and how my day went, dating the page and always starting with 'Dear Diary'. Bob, taught me how to read and write, he's nice to me. I know he's not supposed to be, he gets in trouble for teaching me things. I like learning. I also like to draw and write. Anyways, it's life story time. I live with and evil bitch... well witch... Well neither, well both. But kind of just the bitch part. She's my aunt. Bobs her adopted son. She has a lot of kids. She loves them, she hates me so they hate me, except Bob. Bob is nice. I've been locked in this same basement sense I was six. Anyway, when my aunt first took me away from my dad, I thought I'd finally have a family, but she just chucked me in the basement. The rest is history. The room hasn't changed much sense I was that youngster, actually it hasn't changed at all, nothing's changed. But maybe if I'm guessing right, I'll be 18 soon and I can leave and never look back. From Gerard?
Though the entry was short. Considering that my terrible huge scribble of shit, I call hand writing made it take up 5 pages. I need to ask Bob how I'm supposed to finish the entry things.
I paced around the room, bored with the diary. My mind wandered through the events of my life. I stopped in front of the ever locked door.
I don't exist
I've never been to school. I've never been to the hospital or dentist. I only leave this room every other day. On a fucking time limit. I can get away with murder. I don't exist. Once I turn eighteen SHE can't keep me here, or maybe she can. Being that I don't exist. Does it even matter? Unless I want to be a professional criminal or something this is very bad. I don't have any sort of degree.
It doesn't matter. Maybe I don't want to exist. Perfectness doesn't exist, legally I don't exist. Doesn't that make me higher than the law? Because the law is flawed. The laws imperfect, but I'm not. I wasn't brainwashed by this world trivial laws and ways of life and thinking. When I turn 18, I'm gonna get out of here and I'm gonna teach the world how to be perfect. The world can only find truth under my rain.
I'm gonna be a dictator.
Anothers persons POV, it's a surprise who
I coughed up some mucus, blood possibly mixed in. Weakening even more as my body was thrown against the locker. Where is a teacher when you ACTUALLY want them? I looked down receiving blow after blow from whoever I manage to piss off, some way some how. I didn't bother to fight back or block, I just took it. What's the point? They kill my hopes, call me names. Broke my jaw , it's always the same. Nobody listens. There's no escape. Nobody loves me.
The pain continued to shoot through me, each jab he took making the other numb. He finally stopped. I looked up at his disheveled mop of brown hair. He smirked and punched me again. By far the hardest this week, so far anyway. I doubled over, yelping in pain. I didn't look up again, I don't need to give him a reason to literally kick me while I'm down. I heard laughing and the fading of sneakers walking down the hall.
Endless questions flooded through my mind. Why does this always happen to me? How come it just happens that nobody is ever around to see it? Why an I such a loser? What did I do to that guy? I don't even know his first name. Why am I such a fuck up? Why does the world hate me. A hand shook me, I went to fetal position by habit, preparing for the damage that's bound to happen. "Mikes, it's just me." I looked up at my familiar blonde haired, blue eyed friend, Bob. He grabbed my hand and helped me up. He took a good look at me, examining the damage. "Well, kid. You wouldn't get beat up if you weren't so damn smart. People actually liked you until you skipped grades." I looked down, suddenly finding my shoes more interesting then Bobs speech. He continued on "These senior guys feel like they couldn't prove some with they're brains, so they beat you up. Prove something with they're muscles. But brains beats brawn's kid, so keep it up." I smiled at him a quick bit before returning my eyes back to my plain black converse with rainbow checkered laces. "But call me next time for you get ass kicked." That was the ending to his weirdly 'encouraging' speech. I just nodded.
Bobs my best friend, closer than a brother. I had a lot of 'friends' when I was younger, but Bob and my other friend Frank are the only true friends I've had. They stuck by me when I skipped grades. Which is, stupidly the only reason I'm bullied for. They don't pick on the dorky glasses or my so called 'emo' clothing or how all my different outfits look the same as the next or my semi-girlish figure or how tall I am. They hate that I'm a senior and I shouldn't be because of my age.
Frank and I are really super close, but we're both individually closer to Bob than each other. We'd both tell Bob our secrets before we'd tell each other. But that's okay.
Bob Bryar, just has this thing about him where you known you can trust him instantly. He's is adopted. He lives with the lady everyone in town calls the Kids 'R Us. Because she has enough kids for an army. All ages too. She won't stop adopting kids, gets em' like candy. All the public schools in the area are mainly filled with her kids. Okay, in schools of hundreds, I'm slightly exaderating but you get my point.
Frank Iero is my neighbor. He's an only child, being raised by a single mom. His parents are divorced. He's close with his dad though. I would be in the same grade as Frank if I hadn't have skipped. I sometimes feel bad about leaving the poor kid behind. I'm a year older than Frank. Me Frank and Bob are an odd looking trio. You got the normal looking Bob, the outrageous Frank, with the black hair, shaved sides died red and clothes only a Frank Iero can wear. Then there's me, tall, lanky, super smart, friendly, quiet, the mysterious loner, me.
Now, that I think about it, Bob's only a year older than me. He skipped too but for whatever reasons nobody gives him any shit. Maybe it's because he only skipped from being a junior to a senior when I skipped from being a sophomore. Maybe it's because he looks tougher. Maybe people know he doesn't take shit.
I looked around the boring classroom. I don't remember the bell ringing or me even coming here, but whatever. I thinking I'm in math. Yeah math. My body seems to function fine and know what it's supposed to do even if my mind is off in la la land. I noted this as an advantage, realizing I apparently had finished a pop quiz while my thought process was going through while I get picked on and my friends don't. I have a feeling I aced it. No matter how much my head gets beat in my brain continues to work at full speed.
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This is all 100% fiction. I don't own anything, except my ideas,thoughts, and creativity. If any of this (names, events, happenings, ect) pertain to actuality it is a complete coincidence. Stealing my stories or ideas (rather you changed them around or not) is plagiarism and is punishable by law.