Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance

Silas

by RoseFrankiie 3 Reviews

How does Frank deal with his bloodlust? Rates and reviews from the sick-minded?

Category: My Chemical Romance - Rating: R - Genres: Angst,Horror - Characters:  - Warnings: [!!] [V] [?] - Published: 2012/12/26 - Updated: 2013/01/14 - 2892 words

I wrote a story entitled The Missing Frame in the AFI section, but no one was reading it, so after tweaking it, I changed it to a P!ATD fic instead. This is a MCR story, based heavily on The Missing Frame, but it's not important for you to read the original.

Question: So. It was originally just going to be a two-part fic, but now I'm not sure. Should I leave this as a one-shot and upload the other part separately, or should I carry on from this...?






The taste of fresh meat floods my senses, cutting me off from the outside world. I can hear nothing but the squelching sound of blood against my teeth, feel nothing except the liquid splashing onto myself, smell nothing except the metallic aroma. My eyes are closed in ecstasy as I bite until I reach the bone. My teeth gnaw through and I spit out small bones fragments as I move down her leg, feverishly attacking her as I swallow the beautiful meat.

BANG

Hands are circling my body, lifting me away and I yell out with an animalistic growl. I writhe in the grip, ripping through the skin with my nails and teeth until the stranger releases me. As I hit the ground, I turn to see Frank being lifted by the police, a hand held tightly across his mouth. Leaping forwards, my body twists into the officer and I bite into his side, hands blurring into nothing and I rip the arm from the body in a swift movement, hearing the thud of Frank landing next to me.

We run.

Run fast.

We never knew if she survived or not. Paramedics and police rushed by us as we left, screams and shouts filling our ears. I hope that against all odds, she did survive because even though we need to maim others to survive, there’s still a sense of humanity and morals left in us. We met a few other travellers like us. Travellers who fight to survive. Some are friendly, others are cruel, some find it harder than us, others find it easier. We stay with them when we’re on their territory, but we never stay in contact after we leave.

We never returned to our hometown, how can we after everything we’ve done?

They know who we are; they know what we can do. We are still more powerful than anyone could imagine, feasting as often as we need and living in the shadows. We never stay in one town long. Not long enough to be caught, but long enough to make our mark. There are news bulletins about us, we see them. We’re linked to murders in towns left behind long ago.

But we’re never found and we never will be.


The silence in the building is deafening as I enter the room, my ears pricking at any slight sound as I step tentatively over shattered glass and pieces of broken wood. Outside there is no birdsong, there are no passers-by, the sound of a car wouldn’t reach even the most sensitive of ears because the closest shred of civilisation is miles away. Memories are the only thing left in this run down house, screams flooding my ears and a sadistic smirk stretching my face as I hunt for my companion.

He’s blinking furiously trying to rid his eyes of the blood and tear mix that blinds him and his hands are gripping tightly at the grass by my knees. I shift slightly, pressing down on top of his fingers and hearing the bones break below my body.

After I ran hand in hand with Frank from the police, we took shelter in various towns until our faces were plastered across every available surface – ‘Wanted for murder”. Murder, cannibalism, the sheer destruction of humanity. Fear spread through villages and towns like an epidemic and people were hiding from us, road blocks on every stretch of road so we left. We strayed away from main roads, venturing through forests and flat plains like animals, only returning to stalk our prey in the busiest clubs. A fusion of blood and alcohol flooding our senses every time we drank from another unknown, someone taken from the gyrating bodies, someone who is never seen, never missed.

Red liquid pools and stains around the indent of her mouth, clashing with the stark white sheet that’s suffocating her. Her head is twisting around as her muffled screams pierce the air. The fear radiating from her body arouses me and I smile, leaning forwards and licking a stripe along her neck.

After stumbling across the desolate building a few weeks before, we’d taken refuge in the hope we would be able to create a more permanent life for ourselves, claim our territory in the area and taint the name of Sanglibid. The town is one of the most beautiful places I had ever seen – the antiquated vs. contemporary stylization is one to behold. Surrounded by woodland, a single road leads from the closest city into the town centre before branching off into 4 roads, each leading to a different area. There is the road leading to the rows of houses, each standing tall and proud having been built centuries before. Another snakes through bushes and trees before thinning out into a dirt track and hitting a dead end at a shimmering lake: it looks magical at night with the moonlight glinting off the ripples in the water. The third road holds the main attraction, each side lined with shops and clubs.

This is why I like the town. During the day, the town is pretty; flowers and evergreens running down either side, clambering haphazardly up the walls and arching into the streetlights, everything is entwined and pressed up against the elderly buildings. It has a certain charm to it, a delicate atmosphere like an old British town. People mutter greetings to each other as they pass in the streets, holding bags of freshly baked bread and walking perfectly groomed dogs.

At night though, oh, at night! Night time becomes play time. University students and party-goers flock to the quaint town, wearing the latest fashions and near-transparent clothing. Heels clatter along the roads, people narrowly avoiding buses and taxis that begin to pile into the town centre. The town explodes in a flurry of colour and noise as the club lights flicker to life, DJ’s blasting the chart hits from their turntables pushed into a dark and extremely crowded room. They drink until they can no longer remember their own name and the gutters are lined with foul smelling sick and other less than desirable waste.

Then they spy the fourth road. This road, hidden behind the overgrown grass, begs its own tale and rumours begin to circulate. Beyond the track is a cast iron gate, locked for years after a fire. No one remembers the fire, but sometimes they smell the faint odour of smouldering wood and at night they hear the screams of dæmons and ghouls that were lost within the flames. It’s just a laugh to them, a $10 dare to enter the forest and scale the gates to the other side. No one ever does, no one has ever followed the path until they reached the burnt out house, no one ever visits.

It’s our time then. It’s our time to hunt, to enter the town unknown to everyone, to play with our prey like they’re nothing more than a mouse caught beneath a cats paw.

She lets out a gargled scream as the blade massacres her tongue, ripping through the muscle and forcing the fresh blood back down her throat. Her body jolts, twisting viscously as she tries to pull away from the sharp utensil. He pulls it away roughly, slicing the side of her mouth and watching the blood flow with a ravenousness look adorning his features.

I can smell Frank somewhere deep within the bowels of the house, and alongside him I can taste the scent of burning candles and fresh blood, making my mouth water slightly in expectation. I glance around, letting the comic book geek take over my mind as I wish the blood lust had come with some sort of super power. Just something simple like being able to walk through walls or x-ray vision or something like that to make life just the tiniest bit easier for me! Instead I have to rely on the faint sounds and smells that are beginning to echo around me as I step through the individual rooms, descending down stairs and peering through doorways.

“Frank?” There’s no obvious reply, just a low groan coming from somewhere to the left of me. I notice the reflection of flames flickering against a crumbling wall and edge towards it, creaking a door open slightly and glancing inside to find the source of my hunt.

Lit candles surround the room, balanced precariously on every available surface and casting shapes across the floor. I watch, captivated, as the flames sway on their wick as though dancing to the muttering of the small man in front of me. Every lyrical word appears to be curling around his tongue and spilling from his reddened lips and I strain my ears to hear him, “…meis: amo te quia es infinite bonus et dignus qui ameris; et quia amo te, me paeitet ex toto corde te offendisse: miserere mihi peccatori...” I recognise the sounds as ones he speaks often, a prayer for repent, a well-versed prayer for penance.

I let my eyes trail in sadness as I take in his whole body. He wears nothing, his tattooed skin prickling as the hairs stand up from the cold that encases us and blood drips steadily from self-inflicted wounds that litter his body. Hands placed firmly on the ground in front of him, his legs spread apart slightly as he kneels on the ground, each drip of blood matting the dust around his knees.

After we were forced into being outcasts, we both grew stronger but in different ways; a shred of humanity has kept a firm grip on his heart making him feel guilt every time he feeds – and so he punishes himself. He dropped into a life of psychological tendencies, barely speaking unless he’s teasing some innocent young woman or muttering Latin verses in the hope of redeeming himself. I try to tell him that no one but me can hear him, if such a God existed then why would he create us: and more importantly, why would he create a guilt-ridden murderer? He just gazes at me blankly though, as though unable to comprehend what I’m trying to tell him.

...aliosque spiritus malignos, qui ad perditionem animarum pervagantur in mundo, divina virtute in infernum det-” A wounded whimper escapes his lips, interrupting his whispering and I let myself into the room behind him quietly, leaning myself against the door frame and watching him in fascination. I should worry for him, I should stop him, but the scent of the blood entices me as he wraps his dirt-coated fingers around a metal cilice. It hangs from his hand as two small chains linked together to create some form of band with metal spikes protruding from every other link. He’s scrabbling at the points, twisting his fingers and crying out in pain as the metal slices easily through the skin on the tips of the short digits. He’s bending the spikes in slightly before he wraps the band around his leg.

My nails dig sharply into the flesh of my arm at the sound of his screams echoing around the small room. He’s pulling on the chains, tightening them and forcing the spikes into his bare flash as he buckles it shut. He lets out a few more whimpers and my eyes watch the blood trickling from each small wound, dripping steadily onto the earthen ground below him. My nose twitches, relishing the metallic scent of my mate and I barely notice him scrambling to his feet, his hands twisting as he tries to find some purchase to grip in his short lived agony.

He reaches me, limping heavily as his hands latch onto my shoulders. Looking up at me, his dark eyes are glazed and fixed on the door frame behind my head as I support him. My arms wrap around his chest, below his armpits and he sags against me, lips trembling and tears streaking through the dirt that stains his cheeks. His nails are scrabbling at my jacket, trying to pull himself back up into a standing position, but all that happens is he collapses further against me, leaving me to stumble beneath his weight.

“Frank, you-”

“Hurts..” His voice is strained and croaking, each letter dragged out as though he can’t find the energy to speak. “It hurts, Gee…” He’s trying to pull himself away from me, twisting in my arms and doubling over, tears hitting the top of my thumb from where his face rests

“Then don’t do it.” The silence following my suggestion fills the room like a lethal gas and I know I’ve done wrong.

“Don’t do it?” He’s whispering, wiping his nose against my hand. “You mean… stop doing it?” I can’t speak. I don’t move. Instantaneously, he’s tearing my hands from around his body, plummeting to the floor with an almighty crack from where I was originally supporting him and glaring up at me. His cheeks are reddening and his eyes are glittering with new found life, fingers pressing into his sides in what I can only imagine to be a diversion from the pain. “I have to do it.” His voice is unexpectedly steady, words being spoken slowly and through gritted teeth as he starts to push himself from the ground.

“But-”

“Don’t you understand? I need to do it, I’m not like you, I can’t kill a person with no feeling, I have emotions and it-” He let’s out a bloodcurdling scream, fingers pulling at the cilice that encases his leg. “-it fucking hurts!” He growls, rolling in the dust as he writhes in pain. His hands are alternating between pressing the spikes deeper and trying to pull them from the skin, each movement sending him into new waves of hurting.

He pauses momentarily, eyes squeezed shut tightly and salty tear trickling down the edges of his face. They run along his face into the matted black hair at the nape of his neck, joining the scarlet blood that’s smeared across his shoulders. For a moment he just lays there, barely reacting.

I wait.

His hand is edging closer to the array of metal, cloth and rope devices by his side and he lifts the top half of his body, rolling himself towards them. He wearily drags his body into his first kneeling position, eyes closed and head bowed as he grasps the first object within reach. Tilting his head back, he opens his eyes to the ceiling, his hands tracing the curves of the multiple strands on the end of the whip.

“Do you know what this is, Gee?” He doesn’t give me time to answer, voice quiet enough that I edge closer to hear him. “It’s called the ‘Cat O’ Nine Tails’, it has these hooks, can you see?” His fingers are tracing the edge of the arced metal attached to each tail. “It doesn’t need them, the knots in it are enough to lacerate the skin, but I think it adds greater punishment.” His eyes follow the woven strips, each one ending with a thicker, solid knot to which the hooks had been crudely attached. The whip cracks through the silence, making me jump sharply and I step backwards. Franks arm crosses to the opposite shoulder, bringing the tails down heavily on his back, drawing more heart-wrenching sobs from deep within his throat.

The sound of the cat hitting his back sounds like a gunshot and reverberates around the walls. The hooks tangle themselves in the flesh and I lick my lips in satisfaction at the ruby liquid that immediately spills from the wounds. I shake my head slightly, reminding myself that this is Frank and not some inebriated prey, but the blood dampens my senses like a drug and I let out a predatory growl as I begin to inch forwards. The jagged edges of the metal are ripping through his skin like claws, opening barely healed scars and tugging at the nerves that map through his body like roots. He pauses with the hooks half way across his back, dropping forwards to cradle his head in his hands as he screams, the pain becoming too much for him.

“Frank…just leave it now, please.” I whisper, edging forwards to unhook the cat from his back, my fingers gently ghosting across the broken flesh; I lift them to my lips, lapping at the fresh blood each time I remove a new hook. Frank doesn’t fight and his sobs die down to quieting choking noises, letting me lift him from the ground and take him back to the surface.
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