From a funeral to paper.
So this fic is for Gerard and Mikey, for anyone else who has lost someone close to them, for anyone else who knows someone ill, for anyone else who knows how it feels. But most of all for the people who can't remember when their relatives died but are scared. This goes out to you, and my consolations.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything; I didn't own the life or the burial of the person who inspired it.
Mama, I'm Scared
He should have been too young to know, really he should but when you looked down into those hazel eyes you know that he understands. Standing there in his black trousers and his blazer, his hand wrapped tightly around yours, the wind blowing his floppy brown hair back off his face, he looks up at you curiously. You smile back comfortingly at him, your own blonde hair flying back in the wind as you watch them lower the coffin into the ground. Then as the minister's words ring out over the silent graveyard the first dirt is sprinkled down into the pit, hitting the wooden surface milliseconds later.
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. He rests in the hands of our merciful lord now."
He seems to clasp your hand a little tighter when the suited director brings around the metal tin of earth and you scrap some into your other hand, then gently lead him towards the edge. As you throw the soil down, making it last till you've thrown it twice you see him look down, his eyes following its progress. You pause for a second, time seeming to slow as his eyes come to rest on the coffin, its polished wooden surface dotted with the first scatterings of dirt. He looks up at you, his hazel eyes wide with something almost like shock before you hastily lead him back to the path and the rest of the family and friends come to say goodbye. For the rest of the time he's silent, doesn't even move a muscle, seeming to be frozen until the mourners begin to wander back to their cars and you look down at him again, tearing your eyes from the burial. "Gerard?" You ask him slowly, shivering in the wind "We need to go."
He still doesn't move, but a whisper emits from his lips seconds later "He's dead." It says "Mama?"
You nod, sadly, not wanting to lie to him "Yes Gerard, he's dead."
He shivers, his eyes scanning the rows and rows of graves that stretch out beyond where both of you stand "And they're dead too?"
You nod sadly once more "Yes Gerard."
He looks back up at you, his eyes still wide and frightened "I'm scared Mama," He whispers "Don't bury me too."
Years later and he's grown up, your little boy all grown up. His long hair's now black instead of natural brown but his hazel eyes still remain the same. Only now their tinted with age and realisation and drugs and pain. Today they're filled with so much pain that you can't look at him, can't even look your own son in the eyes. So you go to Mikey instead, go and comfort your youngest and not the man who sits in his room and stares, his mind completely lost in grief.
For the night before his grandma died, his wonderful Italian grandma who was always there, ever since the day his hazel eyes had opened to see the world he'd been born into. He came back off touring, that's all he'd seemed to do, tour and tour and travel but it made him happy, and she was so happy seeing him happy. Every time that you had gone into hospital to see her that old face had lit up with pride whenever you even mentioned his name.
"Gerard and Mikey send their love mom." She smiled at you, her eyes still closed. She was getting so very weak now and it was breaking your heart, she couldn't even sit up any more. "They do?" She murmured "Is Gerard okay?" You nodded and then remembered that even with her eyes open she still wouldn't be able to see you "Yes Mama, he's still away."
She sighed, long and hard "Oh," She murmurs "But he's happy?"
"Yes mom," You answered and she smiled "Good, he's a clever boy isn't he?" She was getting tired again and you knew "He's a wonderful little boy Mama." You told her quietly. "Yes," She whispered as she slipped back into dreamland "He is a wonderful little boy."
But he'd come back late, he'd come back and gone to bed before you had chance to tell him. Tell him that only an hour before you'd been at the hospital hearing her last words, words that were still echoing in your ears. If he'd seen you he would have known something was wrong, even if you'd wiped away the running mascara and smiled your hardest and your best, he would have known. But he didn't see you and he didn't know and when he woke up in the morning, bouncing and cheerful you didn't have the heart to tell him. His dad had to instead; you wouldn't have even had the heart to write him a note.
He didn't even say anything when he found out, just dashed downstairs to his basement room, seconds later you heard the door slam hard behind him and since then no one's said a word to him.
Still sobbing bitterly, your little boy, his head buried into his pillow he isn't the rebel of the music world anymore. He can't take it, can't take the pain and he can't take the realisation that his grandma is gone. That in a cold, dark, white painted room her unmoving body lies, her soul long departed. He can't take the fact that while she was dying he was drinking his problems away, singing to half the world and laughing with his friends. He can't take it that while she was breathing her last he was driving home, singing madly with his brother to some shit on the radio, on top of the world. He can't take fact that he'll never be able to tell her all the things he wanted to and the fact that she'll never live to see what he wants to become. And he hates the fact that she never really lived to be proud of him because for all her life he was a failure, some fucked up freak in a basement drawing. She'll never see him save the world.
Standing at the top of the stairs you take a deep breath and begin to slowly pace down, counting as you go One, two, three, four... Stopping you bit your lip, what if he throws you back out for not telling him sooner? No, you reason, that's a stupid idea. Five, six, seven, eight/ But maybe he'd rather be left alone? Maybe you should just wait for him to come up...that's a stupid idea too, he'll never come up again otherwise and besides, you need to go and talk to him /Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen You stand where you are for a second before plucking up the courage to push open the door, half glad that you didn't let him have a lock.
He's sitting on the edge of his bed, no light piercing through the thick curtains in the dusty stream that it normally does. Between his slender white fingers a pen is clasped and he's scribbling with it like mad. Song writing, you know before you even look at him, there's just something in the speed that he's writing at that tells you. Sighing quietly you sit down at the other end of the bed and look across at him, still in his black pyjamas. He doesn't turn for a while, not until he's finished writing what he wants to write. Then he looks around and the sight of him almost breaks your heart.
Gerard Arthur Way doesn't cry much, but now his pale cheeks are streaked with tears and his eyes are red and puffy past the eyeliner he's forgotten once again to rub off. There is no spark left in his hazel eyes, they just stare emptily at you with all the heartbroken sadness that the mix of colours could ever muster. Closing your eyes for a minute, not able to look at him you summon your thoughts and sigh. Opening them again you move closer to your oldest child and put your arms around him. He doesn't make a move to stop you, just leans his head against your shoulder as his tears begin to fall again.
"She loved you Gerard," You whisper, trying to stop the lump forming in your own throat. "She told us to tell you she's proud."
He chokes back a sob "Proud of what?" He almost growls "Of some freak sobbing in his room, why's she proud Mama?" He asks and it shatters your heart to hear him "Why's she proud of some scared little kid?"
Mama? I am scared