Gerard's in love with her. But she wishes he were dead. (masturbation/self harm) - i was thinking of leaving this as a oneshot, but we'll see :p
with those eyes, glaring out through that curtain of black hair. Its a look that clearly says, 'If only i had a gun...'
And its a look that scared the living daylights out of him.
That day was just like any other. It could have been just another uneventuful day; one or two deep gashes through already heavily-scarred flesh. Uneventful, as always. And he despised it.
Each day would roll past in a haze of blood and deaththreats and those looks.
He slumped his bag onto the gum studded floor and burried his face in his notebook. 'Dont let her look at me today.'
The second the prayer graced his thoughts she turned in her seat. Black hair sweapt across her ice pale cheek bones, and there was the look.
If only i had a gun.
And Gerard wished it too, because if he had a gun at least this could be over. He could get out, get away. Never have to look into those black eyes again.
Funny, that the eyes that shot him those looks every single day, could be the ones that kept him awake thinking about every single night.
He'd lie awake as lights danced across the ceiling. As the yellow numbers of the alarm clock flashed 2am at him; as if it were urgent. It was of them that he thought of as he lay sweating, praying that his brother wouldn't hear his panting breaths, his muffled moans.
And afterwards he'd despise himself for it.
Despise the fact that he loved her. The fact that he'd given in to temptation so easily. And that was when he would heave his matress up off of the bed frame, and reach for the cold, sharp object he kept hidden underneath.
The oject of hatred. of punishment.
And that was when he would draw that cold, sharp blade across his skin until the pain of love left him.
Until he could barely breath with the weight of this new pain.
And he could colapse onto his bed again and sleep soundly. dreamlessly
Until tomorow morning, when she would turn in her seat again. And those eyes would meet his bloodshot, swollen hazel ones, crying into their notebook, full of crossed out initials and scribbled broken hearts.