Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > A Misfit's Guide to the 20 Ways
17# A Damsel In Distress
19 ReviewsBecause deep down he wants to be there for you.
That’s it. The next fic I write is sooo going to be set in Middle Earth.
A Damsel in Distress
As I remain there, suspended from my beam, eyes glazing over the warehouse floor my brain starts to bring back memories. I remember when I was six years old and I chased Ryan Bates round the playground in kindergarten. Even when I was a kid gates and boundaries meant nothing to me and when I saw him with his scuffed up knees and Batman lunchbox everything seemed so clear. I was going to marry this other six year old and we were going to have three children named Ironman, Tinkerbelle and Clarky.
Needless to say it was a romance doomed from the start when I eventually managed to tackle Bates to the ground and press a sticky, wet, five year old kiss on his mouth. He started crying and the teacher sent me home with my mother for “unacceptable behaviour.”
While walking home I asked my mom what I had done wrong. She sighed and looked at me with something I think might have been pity as she said “I think you just scared him, Frank. You can’t just jump onto people like that and try to kiss them.”
“But Ryan does it with all the girls in class. So does Bobbie and George and Fernandez and Abdul-”
“-That’s different,” she sighed again and suddenly looked very old. “They shouldn’t do that either but it’s easier to blame you because...because you’re different, Frank. You’re special. You’re a very special boy and I love you for it but there are always going to be people who aren’t going to understand you. You have to be patient, take your time with them.”
“But why should I take my time when Bobbie and George-”
“-That’s how the world works, Frank,” said mom. “And it’s not fair I know. Maybe one day it will be but until then no more homoerotic sexual harassment. Kapeesh?”
“Okay, mom.”
“Good.”
“...”
“...”
“Mom?”
“What is it, Frank?”
“What’s homoerotic sexual harassment kapeesh?”
Come to think of it, I think that was the closest my mother ever came to showing me actual affection.
Aw to hell with that. I’m not blaming all my problems on the fact that my mother didn’t give me enough love as a child. I’m through with all that We Need To Talk About Kevin shit. No, I am in this sonofabitch of a situation through my own fault and my fault alone. I broke the number one rule, for Godsake. Bet that would sound good on a job application.
Hi, I’m Frank. I talked to a stranger and now I’m suspended from the rafters of an abandoned warehouse with the mafia questioning me about the motives of a handful of teenage faggots.
Suddenly the door creaks open and I hastily fix my features into a Die Hard death glare. If I’m going down at least I’ll go down honouring Bruce Willis, (God bless his shiny dome.) Antolini walks in accompanied by one of his henchmen who, disturbingly, is carrying his baseball bat as well as something in a curious black plastic bag. They stop in front of me and a wicked smile crosses the don’s face.
“How are you feeling today, American boy?” he greets me.
“I’m alright thanks,” I reply cheerily. “And yourself?”
“Well enough,” he snarls. “But enough of the chitchat. I have a few things planned for you this afternoon and I promise you, by the end of it you will talk.”
He gestures to the guy behind him and the black bag is emptied, displaying a full-sized sawdust dummy, like the kind assassins use for target practice. I feel my body tense in nervous anticipation. What the fuck are they going to do to me? The dummy is sat on a chair in the centre of the room, allowing me a full view. Mr Antolini’s smile stretches to split his face.
“Now, American boy you will tell me the truth,” he says softly. “Where is the home of the Volturi?”
“Christ, I already told you!” I cry angrily, real fear speedily building up inside me. “I don’t know shit about the goddamn Volturi! Until recently I didn’t even know they existed.”
“Sergei!” Antolini nods at the dummy.
The man walks up to it and raises the bat, grinning at me before bringing it down hard on the dummy’s limp form then looks up at me as if to say Hells yeah.
What.
“The more of my time you waste,” Antolini growls. “The closer this man is brought to death.”
Antolini folds his arms and watches me levelly, his lip curling menacingly as Sergei flexes his arm muscles. And I can’t help but burst out laughing.
“What?” I gasp, eyes streaming. “Are...are you serious?”
“Deadly,” replies Antolini and as if to emphasise Sergei lands another blow to the head of the dummy. This time a little sawdust leaks out of it’s eye socket. “I am tired of playing games, boy. It would be too easy to hurt you. Now you must instead suffer watching this innocent man pay for your insolence!”
Omigod. Omigod. Can’t. Breathe. “You fucking faggots! You guys are the worst criminals I’ve ever met!”
Antolini lets out a massive roar of anger, sending my chest into another fit of collapsive giggles. He grabs the bat from Sergei and swings it into the dummy with all the might his little arms can give him.
“WHERE,” BLAM “DOES” THWACK “THE” FWAAH “VOLUTURI” SNAP “HIDE?”
“How about you take a look up your own asshole?” I chuckle gleefully. “I’ll bet it’s big enough!”
“Caca sentenza!” Antolini spits. “I ought to finish you right now! I am not joking any more! Any more of your foul talk and this man will die! Or does the bastardo have no care for the life of a fellow human being? How typically American!”
“But it’s not a human being!” I almost scream. “It’s a goddamn sawdust dummy!”
“And what?” jeers Antolini. “Just because he is a dummy that means he can’t be human?”
“Well, yeah, that is the common theory!”
“HAH!” his finger darts out in fierce accusation and wavers as the man shakes with rage. “You hear that, Sergei? Right out of his very own mouth! And yet these Americans, they call the Mafia fasciste!”
“Yes sir,” replies Sergei dully. “Can we start beating up the actual human now?”
Antolini sends a glowering look in Sergei’s direction, which, if concentrated, I’m sure could send a thousand dummy’s to hell. “How many times do I have to tell you?!” he growls. “Every thing in this world carries an electrical charge of protons and neutrons which processes in the same way as to control our mind and conscious, ie, a soul, if you will. When we die that same frequency is transported to the nearest available energy source, be it living or non-living, giving rise to the Hindu and Buddhist theory of Reincarnation. That means every thing in the world carries this same God-given electrical charge, INCLUDING inanimate objects, hence, objects can feel pain and enables us, the Mafia, TO TORTURE THEM!”
“Hey, that’s a really good theory,” I interrupt.
Antolini narrows his eyes suspiciously. “You think so?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “It’s good. You should get it published or something. Teach it in high schools.”
“Well I actually have a distinguished major in Philosophy and Physics,” says Antolini, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “I’ve written this pretty amazing book on the evolution of the soul and everything but you know how it is, kidnapping minors and torturing dummies, I never get anything finished.”
“Well, that’s a shame cos it sounds like you could be on to something,” I say. “Except it’s a pity you didn’t do so well in Biology.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because if you had any clue about the anatomy of the human body,” I draw out slowly, forcing myself to remain calm. “You would know that pain is controlled by the CENTRAL NERVOUS SYSTEM, you FUCKING IDIOT.”
Another cry of anguish and I brace myself for another bout of laughter and the dummy to collapse when I realise that, wow, hey, he’s actually just thwacked me in the ribs with the baseball bat.
And then I realise that it actually rather hurts.
Quite a fucking lot.
“YOU BASTARD!!” I scream, clutching my ribs with a shaky hand. “YOU CRAZY SON OF A WHORESON BITCH!! YOU BROKE MY FUCKING RIBS, YOU SPASTIC NUTCASE!!!”
“TALK!!” Antolini screams back, saliva flying from his lips. “WHERE IS THE WEAPON? WHERE ARE THEY HIDING IT? WHO IS THEIR LEADER? WHY DO THEY WEAR SUCH UNCOMFORTABLY TIGHT UNDERWEAR?”
“I DON’T KNOW!” And I’m trying not to cry, I really am, except it hurts so much like my insides are on fire and all my bones are splintering as the rope pulls my torso from my waist “I’M JUST A KID! I’M JUST A WEIRD, DIFFERENT, SPECIAL KID WHO’S IN LOVE WITH THEIR BEST FRIEND AND WISHES THEY HAD TREATED THEIR MOM BETTER.”
But it’s not worth the effort. The tears start coming and I’m not even sure what I’m crying about, excluding the fact of course that this total basket case asshole cock-sucking dick just slammed a baseball bat into my bones. But I don’t even care about that too much any more because yeah, it hurts like hell but actually I’m more concerned about the fact that the last conversation I actually had with my mother went like this:
“I don’t want any trouble you cause coming back to me so make sure you do as your teacher says and if I hear you’ve gotten caught taking guys back to your hotel room and I have to pay for the mess you make I will genuinely skin you alive. Will there be partying?”
“There will be partying.”
“Will there be drugs?”
“...There will be drugs.”
“Are you going to take any drugs?”
“Weed. Maybe an e.”
“Be careful.”
“How about a “have fun?”
“Don’t push it.”
Which is not really how I wanted my last conversation with the woman who gave me life to be. I kind of figured that if I ever did somehow end up in a situation like this I would want my mom to know that I was sorry. Sorry for being such a shit son and causing her so much trouble and pain and just being a total fucking dick, really. And then I think of Gerard and the last words I spoke to him.
“Cos there’s noooo where to hide, since you pushed my love aside...”
“Seriously, Frank?”
“Seriously. I’m out of my head, hopelessly devoted to youuuuu...”
“That’s really fucking mature.”
“Oooooooh, hopelessly devoted to youuuuu-”
“Okay. You know what? If you can’t behave like an adult then fine.”
And that’s when I really get going until my eyes are so thick with tears I can’t actually see the warehouse any more or that sonofabitch Antolini or the dummy or anything. Because nothing really matters anymore because I’m going to die. I’m going to die at the hands of someone who thinks that sawdust has a conscious in an abandoned building that smells like bacon and I didn’t even get a chance to tell Gerard that I love him, I do, and if I’m never sure of anything ever again then fuck it, at least I’m sure of this.
And I cry for so long and so hard that when I next open my eyes I don’t even notice that Antolini and his henchman are gone and I’m all alone, swinging from the roof with a hole in my side.
I try to wriggle my fingers out of their bonds, wincing at the strain it pulls on my whole left side. That absolute dick. I can’t believe he actually just broke my ribs. I swear only jocks do that. It would have been so much easier for them to have just shot me in the head and put an end to my miserable existence. If only I had told him...if only I had said the words when I had them on the tip of my tongue. But no, I had to fuck things up to infinity by singing him Grease instead.
Then a sudden thought occurs to me. And it’s beautiful, like a golden halo of light in my mind and for a moment I love myself just for remembering. For remembering...that I still can.
Because my cell phone is in my pocket.
Yes yes yes motherfucking yes! Excitement builds as I can feel it pressing against me, it’s comfortable weight reminding me that there IS still hope, there is always hope, (although there never was much hope, only a fool’s hope.) But now for my next little brain teaser.
How the hell do I get to it?
I crane my neck round to get a good look at my hands before clenching them as tightly as possible before attempting to pry them out of the handcuffs. But it’s no good. There is no way I’m wriggling out of these badboys. My head falls back against my neck as my happy bubble of faith pops right before my eyes.
But then another idea occurs to me. Although I must admit, it does very little for my mood.
Nothing for it. Desperate times, desperate measures. Squeezing my eyes tightly shut I grasp my left hand and clench it as hard as I can and don’t stop until I can hear something snap.
Think happy thoughts think happy thoughts.
Watching Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles season 2 with Gerard Way on a Thursday night.
I gasp in pain, undefinable searing pain as finally I am able to slip a broken, limp hand from the metal cuffs. The blood runs like an infection, slowly spreading to the rest of my body. So much paaaaain. But can’t think about that now, can’t think about that. Letting my left arm dangle by my side I shove my right hand down my pants pocket and unsheathe my Excalibur, my Elder Wand, my Tokyo Mew Mew Strawberry Bell Surprise. And with shaking fingers I call him.
ErMerGerd Scarlett dude, what’s with all the VIOLENCE?! Well, I’m sorry. If you want to know the truth, teen fluff isn’t really my forté. I would say that I was in a dark place when I wrote this but no, really I'm just a little bit odd.
A Damsel in Distress
As I remain there, suspended from my beam, eyes glazing over the warehouse floor my brain starts to bring back memories. I remember when I was six years old and I chased Ryan Bates round the playground in kindergarten. Even when I was a kid gates and boundaries meant nothing to me and when I saw him with his scuffed up knees and Batman lunchbox everything seemed so clear. I was going to marry this other six year old and we were going to have three children named Ironman, Tinkerbelle and Clarky.
Needless to say it was a romance doomed from the start when I eventually managed to tackle Bates to the ground and press a sticky, wet, five year old kiss on his mouth. He started crying and the teacher sent me home with my mother for “unacceptable behaviour.”
While walking home I asked my mom what I had done wrong. She sighed and looked at me with something I think might have been pity as she said “I think you just scared him, Frank. You can’t just jump onto people like that and try to kiss them.”
“But Ryan does it with all the girls in class. So does Bobbie and George and Fernandez and Abdul-”
“-That’s different,” she sighed again and suddenly looked very old. “They shouldn’t do that either but it’s easier to blame you because...because you’re different, Frank. You’re special. You’re a very special boy and I love you for it but there are always going to be people who aren’t going to understand you. You have to be patient, take your time with them.”
“But why should I take my time when Bobbie and George-”
“-That’s how the world works, Frank,” said mom. “And it’s not fair I know. Maybe one day it will be but until then no more homoerotic sexual harassment. Kapeesh?”
“Okay, mom.”
“Good.”
“...”
“...”
“Mom?”
“What is it, Frank?”
“What’s homoerotic sexual harassment kapeesh?”
Come to think of it, I think that was the closest my mother ever came to showing me actual affection.
Aw to hell with that. I’m not blaming all my problems on the fact that my mother didn’t give me enough love as a child. I’m through with all that We Need To Talk About Kevin shit. No, I am in this sonofabitch of a situation through my own fault and my fault alone. I broke the number one rule, for Godsake. Bet that would sound good on a job application.
Hi, I’m Frank. I talked to a stranger and now I’m suspended from the rafters of an abandoned warehouse with the mafia questioning me about the motives of a handful of teenage faggots.
Suddenly the door creaks open and I hastily fix my features into a Die Hard death glare. If I’m going down at least I’ll go down honouring Bruce Willis, (God bless his shiny dome.) Antolini walks in accompanied by one of his henchmen who, disturbingly, is carrying his baseball bat as well as something in a curious black plastic bag. They stop in front of me and a wicked smile crosses the don’s face.
“How are you feeling today, American boy?” he greets me.
“I’m alright thanks,” I reply cheerily. “And yourself?”
“Well enough,” he snarls. “But enough of the chitchat. I have a few things planned for you this afternoon and I promise you, by the end of it you will talk.”
He gestures to the guy behind him and the black bag is emptied, displaying a full-sized sawdust dummy, like the kind assassins use for target practice. I feel my body tense in nervous anticipation. What the fuck are they going to do to me? The dummy is sat on a chair in the centre of the room, allowing me a full view. Mr Antolini’s smile stretches to split his face.
“Now, American boy you will tell me the truth,” he says softly. “Where is the home of the Volturi?”
“Christ, I already told you!” I cry angrily, real fear speedily building up inside me. “I don’t know shit about the goddamn Volturi! Until recently I didn’t even know they existed.”
“Sergei!” Antolini nods at the dummy.
The man walks up to it and raises the bat, grinning at me before bringing it down hard on the dummy’s limp form then looks up at me as if to say Hells yeah.
What.
“The more of my time you waste,” Antolini growls. “The closer this man is brought to death.”
Antolini folds his arms and watches me levelly, his lip curling menacingly as Sergei flexes his arm muscles. And I can’t help but burst out laughing.
“What?” I gasp, eyes streaming. “Are...are you serious?”
“Deadly,” replies Antolini and as if to emphasise Sergei lands another blow to the head of the dummy. This time a little sawdust leaks out of it’s eye socket. “I am tired of playing games, boy. It would be too easy to hurt you. Now you must instead suffer watching this innocent man pay for your insolence!”
Omigod. Omigod. Can’t. Breathe. “You fucking faggots! You guys are the worst criminals I’ve ever met!”
Antolini lets out a massive roar of anger, sending my chest into another fit of collapsive giggles. He grabs the bat from Sergei and swings it into the dummy with all the might his little arms can give him.
“WHERE,” BLAM “DOES” THWACK “THE” FWAAH “VOLUTURI” SNAP “HIDE?”
“How about you take a look up your own asshole?” I chuckle gleefully. “I’ll bet it’s big enough!”
“Caca sentenza!” Antolini spits. “I ought to finish you right now! I am not joking any more! Any more of your foul talk and this man will die! Or does the bastardo have no care for the life of a fellow human being? How typically American!”
“But it’s not a human being!” I almost scream. “It’s a goddamn sawdust dummy!”
“And what?” jeers Antolini. “Just because he is a dummy that means he can’t be human?”
“Well, yeah, that is the common theory!”
“HAH!” his finger darts out in fierce accusation and wavers as the man shakes with rage. “You hear that, Sergei? Right out of his very own mouth! And yet these Americans, they call the Mafia fasciste!”
“Yes sir,” replies Sergei dully. “Can we start beating up the actual human now?”
Antolini sends a glowering look in Sergei’s direction, which, if concentrated, I’m sure could send a thousand dummy’s to hell. “How many times do I have to tell you?!” he growls. “Every thing in this world carries an electrical charge of protons and neutrons which processes in the same way as to control our mind and conscious, ie, a soul, if you will. When we die that same frequency is transported to the nearest available energy source, be it living or non-living, giving rise to the Hindu and Buddhist theory of Reincarnation. That means every thing in the world carries this same God-given electrical charge, INCLUDING inanimate objects, hence, objects can feel pain and enables us, the Mafia, TO TORTURE THEM!”
“Hey, that’s a really good theory,” I interrupt.
Antolini narrows his eyes suspiciously. “You think so?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “It’s good. You should get it published or something. Teach it in high schools.”
“Well I actually have a distinguished major in Philosophy and Physics,” says Antolini, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “I’ve written this pretty amazing book on the evolution of the soul and everything but you know how it is, kidnapping minors and torturing dummies, I never get anything finished.”
“Well, that’s a shame cos it sounds like you could be on to something,” I say. “Except it’s a pity you didn’t do so well in Biology.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because if you had any clue about the anatomy of the human body,” I draw out slowly, forcing myself to remain calm. “You would know that pain is controlled by the CENTRAL NERVOUS SYSTEM, you FUCKING IDIOT.”
Another cry of anguish and I brace myself for another bout of laughter and the dummy to collapse when I realise that, wow, hey, he’s actually just thwacked me in the ribs with the baseball bat.
And then I realise that it actually rather hurts.
Quite a fucking lot.
“YOU BASTARD!!” I scream, clutching my ribs with a shaky hand. “YOU CRAZY SON OF A WHORESON BITCH!! YOU BROKE MY FUCKING RIBS, YOU SPASTIC NUTCASE!!!”
“TALK!!” Antolini screams back, saliva flying from his lips. “WHERE IS THE WEAPON? WHERE ARE THEY HIDING IT? WHO IS THEIR LEADER? WHY DO THEY WEAR SUCH UNCOMFORTABLY TIGHT UNDERWEAR?”
“I DON’T KNOW!” And I’m trying not to cry, I really am, except it hurts so much like my insides are on fire and all my bones are splintering as the rope pulls my torso from my waist “I’M JUST A KID! I’M JUST A WEIRD, DIFFERENT, SPECIAL KID WHO’S IN LOVE WITH THEIR BEST FRIEND AND WISHES THEY HAD TREATED THEIR MOM BETTER.”
But it’s not worth the effort. The tears start coming and I’m not even sure what I’m crying about, excluding the fact of course that this total basket case asshole cock-sucking dick just slammed a baseball bat into my bones. But I don’t even care about that too much any more because yeah, it hurts like hell but actually I’m more concerned about the fact that the last conversation I actually had with my mother went like this:
“I don’t want any trouble you cause coming back to me so make sure you do as your teacher says and if I hear you’ve gotten caught taking guys back to your hotel room and I have to pay for the mess you make I will genuinely skin you alive. Will there be partying?”
“There will be partying.”
“Will there be drugs?”
“...There will be drugs.”
“Are you going to take any drugs?”
“Weed. Maybe an e.”
“Be careful.”
“How about a “have fun?”
“Don’t push it.”
Which is not really how I wanted my last conversation with the woman who gave me life to be. I kind of figured that if I ever did somehow end up in a situation like this I would want my mom to know that I was sorry. Sorry for being such a shit son and causing her so much trouble and pain and just being a total fucking dick, really. And then I think of Gerard and the last words I spoke to him.
“Cos there’s noooo where to hide, since you pushed my love aside...”
“Seriously, Frank?”
“Seriously. I’m out of my head, hopelessly devoted to youuuuu...”
“That’s really fucking mature.”
“Oooooooh, hopelessly devoted to youuuuu-”
“Okay. You know what? If you can’t behave like an adult then fine.”
And that’s when I really get going until my eyes are so thick with tears I can’t actually see the warehouse any more or that sonofabitch Antolini or the dummy or anything. Because nothing really matters anymore because I’m going to die. I’m going to die at the hands of someone who thinks that sawdust has a conscious in an abandoned building that smells like bacon and I didn’t even get a chance to tell Gerard that I love him, I do, and if I’m never sure of anything ever again then fuck it, at least I’m sure of this.
And I cry for so long and so hard that when I next open my eyes I don’t even notice that Antolini and his henchman are gone and I’m all alone, swinging from the roof with a hole in my side.
I try to wriggle my fingers out of their bonds, wincing at the strain it pulls on my whole left side. That absolute dick. I can’t believe he actually just broke my ribs. I swear only jocks do that. It would have been so much easier for them to have just shot me in the head and put an end to my miserable existence. If only I had told him...if only I had said the words when I had them on the tip of my tongue. But no, I had to fuck things up to infinity by singing him Grease instead.
Then a sudden thought occurs to me. And it’s beautiful, like a golden halo of light in my mind and for a moment I love myself just for remembering. For remembering...that I still can.
Because my cell phone is in my pocket.
Yes yes yes motherfucking yes! Excitement builds as I can feel it pressing against me, it’s comfortable weight reminding me that there IS still hope, there is always hope, (although there never was much hope, only a fool’s hope.) But now for my next little brain teaser.
How the hell do I get to it?
I crane my neck round to get a good look at my hands before clenching them as tightly as possible before attempting to pry them out of the handcuffs. But it’s no good. There is no way I’m wriggling out of these badboys. My head falls back against my neck as my happy bubble of faith pops right before my eyes.
But then another idea occurs to me. Although I must admit, it does very little for my mood.
Nothing for it. Desperate times, desperate measures. Squeezing my eyes tightly shut I grasp my left hand and clench it as hard as I can and don’t stop until I can hear something snap.
Think happy thoughts think happy thoughts.
Watching Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles season 2 with Gerard Way on a Thursday night.
I gasp in pain, undefinable searing pain as finally I am able to slip a broken, limp hand from the metal cuffs. The blood runs like an infection, slowly spreading to the rest of my body. So much paaaaain. But can’t think about that now, can’t think about that. Letting my left arm dangle by my side I shove my right hand down my pants pocket and unsheathe my Excalibur, my Elder Wand, my Tokyo Mew Mew Strawberry Bell Surprise. And with shaking fingers I call him.
ErMerGerd Scarlett dude, what’s with all the VIOLENCE?! Well, I’m sorry. If you want to know the truth, teen fluff isn’t really my forté. I would say that I was in a dark place when I wrote this but no, really I'm just a little bit odd.
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