Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Gunshot Glitter
Frank's P.O.V.
Slowly my eyes creakily crept open to see a face that absolutely none of the rumors that floated around could have prepared me to see. So many things I had heard, how his face was so mutilated beyond recognition, how he had long and uncut matted black hair caked in the drying scarlet blood of all his former victims. How they said he had natural and rare red irises due to some sort of chemical imbalance, or that he had long bony, disgusting fingers, and a thin layer of scorched looking skin that clung to a practical skeleton… Oh, not a single word of those rumors were any close to the face that lie in front of me, the words that carved such a morbid description didn't match a single part of this face… not a one.
My back collided to the wall, nearly painting the crusty navy blue structure in my dress of skin as I slinked backward, staring straight into a pair of sharply cut and finely painted porcelain orbs. The tiniest of lines dressed in a parade of colors between light yellow and light green outstretching to touch the darkly poisonous, but beautiful, swirling black pupils; it's as if they were trying to fight for and claim the beautiful diamond that lie embedded in those magnificent eyes. Those lovely eyes that lie so warmly nestled in the sockets of such a fair, and seemingly translucent dress of skin as it hugged just close enough to the skull to etch out the fine and unbelievably accurate cheekbones. A pair of tender and delicate pink lips lie so perfectly sketched upon the beautiful mask that was able to be called a face as locks of flowing black hair leaked in magnificently like a river of raven water across his forehead, tucking and falling gently just above his finely chiseled chin.
This was the vicious and inhumanely, disgusting looking and acting beast that so many have cautioned and tried to weigh me down with facts about? This simply couldn't be the same person that all the people whispered to me about, telling me how they feared for my very own life… No, this just couldn't be him; there must be some terrible mistake. I must have walked into the wrong cell, not that there necessarily were any others down here that I knew about, but that just had to the situation. This must have been some guy locked in here for some small and harmless crime that he more or less did not commit. Yeah… that had to be it.
I opened my mouth to speak but the sound that followed was not that of which belongs to me, no, his voice filled the gap that I was about to tackle with a question before I was on my way to find the murderer… his equally beautiful and flowing voice, possibly slightly roughed from few years of one too many cigarettes, but hardly even noticeable.
"There's no mistake here Frankie, you are precisely where you are desired by your fellow colleagues just down that safe and stretching hallway, where they are nestled warmly in an office somewhere, maybe waiting to see if sending someone to fetch your body will be necessary. I guess they are a bit lucky today, because my dear Frank, I don't think that will be at all necessary today, maybe we can save the janitors from the chore of having to mop up a young mans blood from a stinking concrete floor. I think I'll just have… fun with the situation.
"Yes, Frank, I am Gerard Way, the name notorious with the killings of 25 completely innocent and undeserving victims, to the eyes of your little friends anyway. I dare not say however that I am the one who so brutally and gruesomely murdered those other five agents that I do believe you know about. After all, young Franklin, I am not the one who did the deed, am I? Oh of course not, their fragile and ill minded psyche drove them to that, although I simply must take credit for the beautifully laid out artwork of each situation, suicide can't get any more gorgeous that that, can it, Frank…?" he purred quietly as the words dripped from his lips, hitting my ears with a much larger impact than expected as he smiled at me, manically before gracefully turning on the heal of his thick black boots and pacing toward the other color doused wall.
I on the other hand created myself into my very own work of art, a self portrait sloppily glued together and placed firmly against the wall of this cell. I have made no mistake… no possible mistake at all, this was him, this was the murderer of so many, technically thirty people since he is the one who so rudely and forcefully inserted the thoughts into the agents unwilling minds as they carried out a case… the same case that I am here to continue. This beautiful and elegant being, the very one who terrorized and mutilated those innocent and undeserving people… the same exact person. None of it seemed possible, not even the slightest bit plausible, how could someone such as this dare want such a thing and have the nerve to smile about it and claim it as if what he has carried out is a proud trophy or symbol to wear on his shoulder… It disgusts me.
He stopped, facing the opposite wall, staring upward a little at an array of morbid drawings, corpses, all mutilated beyond recognition, but not every picture was so artistically sickening. Among the many there were a select few that trickled across the wall, portraits of beauty and stamina, possibly whatever it was that he felt he could grasp in those forever tainted hands. He stood ever so quietly admiring his pictures, hands folded so neatly behind his back, tucked against his fitting grey turtleneck sweater.
"Oh and Frankie, unless you truly do plan on releasing me from this cell in about three seconds, shut the door please" he stated nonchalantly, seemingly lost in thought yet at the same time fully aware as he lifted a hand, brushing his fingers gently across the charcoal lines of his pictures. I shifted quietly, releasing my arm from where I had left it pinned between the solid metal structure and the door frame. I couldn't continue being quiet like this, I was accomplishing nothing, nothing at all, and that is not what I am being paid and risking my very own life to do.
"Those pictures... are they all pictures of your victims, or just things and people you see in your head?" I questioned sheepishly, placing my hands behind my back to rest against them. I've learned from more experience than you might think that if you ever want to know something, you never cut directly to the chase, you test the water, get the feel of the person and work out the needed information. Maybe I'm no psychiatrist, but I've definitely worked things out of people before, just no one as potentially life threatening as this.
"Yes, they are all victims, I drew these at the crime scene with a few, which I'm sure if that is ever revealed they will take my precious creations away, you wouldn't take that from me, would you Frank? They are the only things I have anymore…" he asked quietly, fingers still tracing the tiny barely noticeable veins in one of the women's wrists. Honestly, knowing everything this man has done I almost wouldn't mind taking away everything dear and precious to him, it's not like he hasn't claimed the lives of people who weren't something marvelous to someone. However, I just don't think that I ever could, everyone sort of deserves something for comfort, even the most vicious and heartless of people.
"No, I wouldn't, sir. But… why did you draw them? Doesn't it, haunt you at all?
"Oh, Frankie, if you could only be there for one killing to see the beautiful aftermath… The colors schemes and tents of their organs, all the marvelous variations in the blood color tones, all the glorious wounds and scars that can only happen once, never to be recreated with the exact pattern of torn flesh or shattered bones. Those deep tents and shades cutting deep into the canyons of the body, both natural and man made by an artist, it's all just to magnificent Frank. If only you could see one scene before it is doctored and contaminated by those vile and purified objects, moved and snapped at with artificial flashing lights to stow my creations into a camera, if you could just see it once, dear Frank, I know you would understand" he breathed out quietly, gently dusting his hands off, causing some charcoal and chalk particles to lazily flutter to the floors concrete surface so gracefully as if seconds before they had nothing to do with the morbid drawings.
It was so odd, this morbid murderer, claiming all of those peoples lives whose last words and pleads are completely unknown to everyone and the world but himself, this very man, he found something beautiful in what he does. He doesn't just leave a sloppily dissected body on the ground as if it is no importance to him at all, like he had nothing at all to do with the séance, no, that is not the case with him. He takes time, possibly hours to finely etch the disaster he has created onto paper, finding and defining every color and detail that he found beautiful in the lifeless corpse. These drawings were more important to him than running from the cops, he wouldn't even leave the scene until they were finished which makes it apparent: these murders were not all about him.
If he had the sense of any other selfish murderer anyone's heard of, he would have bolted the instant the last breath seeped through the victim's fragile windpipe. This clearly wasn't about him… and that was an almost intriguing thing to try and understand. What the hell am I saying… this man killed 25 people and forced suicide into the heads of five of our female officers… how could I be complementing him?
My eyes scanned the pictures for one last time, halting at one picture I particular that to me looked all too familiar.
"That last picture, the one on the right, that looks l-"
"Marie Evelyn George, wonderful job, you have placed the correct name, Frank. Lovely Marie, yes she held one of my more favorite aftermaths I must say. .." he pondered quietly, fingers lightly grazing the picture of her mangled corpse before he turned back to face me, sliding down the wall gracefully, crossing his legs across the rough and jagged concrete before folding his hands neatly in his lap. He stared up at me, a smile neatly stitching across his delicate lips.
"Enough about my pictures, Frank. You've not gotten yourself any closer to forming what you might call some form of bond between the two of us. I am no fool, Frank, I know an amateur agent when I see one. So why don't you move along and tell me a few things, get to the reason that you've actually been paid to come here, and risk your life to sit with someone who would love more than anything to mutilate a little body like you" he purred quietly, a menacing grin stretching across his face as he expectantly awaited my appraisal. I knew he was trying to strike a nerve, but I still couldn’t help but feel the adrenaline spike when he brought victimizing me into the scenario.
"Okay then, What w-"
"Ah, ah, ah. No, no dear Franklin, the answers to my questions are only given with a price…" he cut me off, hissing slightly into the words. What have I gotten myself into…
Slowly my eyes creakily crept open to see a face that absolutely none of the rumors that floated around could have prepared me to see. So many things I had heard, how his face was so mutilated beyond recognition, how he had long and uncut matted black hair caked in the drying scarlet blood of all his former victims. How they said he had natural and rare red irises due to some sort of chemical imbalance, or that he had long bony, disgusting fingers, and a thin layer of scorched looking skin that clung to a practical skeleton… Oh, not a single word of those rumors were any close to the face that lie in front of me, the words that carved such a morbid description didn't match a single part of this face… not a one.
My back collided to the wall, nearly painting the crusty navy blue structure in my dress of skin as I slinked backward, staring straight into a pair of sharply cut and finely painted porcelain orbs. The tiniest of lines dressed in a parade of colors between light yellow and light green outstretching to touch the darkly poisonous, but beautiful, swirling black pupils; it's as if they were trying to fight for and claim the beautiful diamond that lie embedded in those magnificent eyes. Those lovely eyes that lie so warmly nestled in the sockets of such a fair, and seemingly translucent dress of skin as it hugged just close enough to the skull to etch out the fine and unbelievably accurate cheekbones. A pair of tender and delicate pink lips lie so perfectly sketched upon the beautiful mask that was able to be called a face as locks of flowing black hair leaked in magnificently like a river of raven water across his forehead, tucking and falling gently just above his finely chiseled chin.
This was the vicious and inhumanely, disgusting looking and acting beast that so many have cautioned and tried to weigh me down with facts about? This simply couldn't be the same person that all the people whispered to me about, telling me how they feared for my very own life… No, this just couldn't be him; there must be some terrible mistake. I must have walked into the wrong cell, not that there necessarily were any others down here that I knew about, but that just had to the situation. This must have been some guy locked in here for some small and harmless crime that he more or less did not commit. Yeah… that had to be it.
I opened my mouth to speak but the sound that followed was not that of which belongs to me, no, his voice filled the gap that I was about to tackle with a question before I was on my way to find the murderer… his equally beautiful and flowing voice, possibly slightly roughed from few years of one too many cigarettes, but hardly even noticeable.
"There's no mistake here Frankie, you are precisely where you are desired by your fellow colleagues just down that safe and stretching hallway, where they are nestled warmly in an office somewhere, maybe waiting to see if sending someone to fetch your body will be necessary. I guess they are a bit lucky today, because my dear Frank, I don't think that will be at all necessary today, maybe we can save the janitors from the chore of having to mop up a young mans blood from a stinking concrete floor. I think I'll just have… fun with the situation.
"Yes, Frank, I am Gerard Way, the name notorious with the killings of 25 completely innocent and undeserving victims, to the eyes of your little friends anyway. I dare not say however that I am the one who so brutally and gruesomely murdered those other five agents that I do believe you know about. After all, young Franklin, I am not the one who did the deed, am I? Oh of course not, their fragile and ill minded psyche drove them to that, although I simply must take credit for the beautifully laid out artwork of each situation, suicide can't get any more gorgeous that that, can it, Frank…?" he purred quietly as the words dripped from his lips, hitting my ears with a much larger impact than expected as he smiled at me, manically before gracefully turning on the heal of his thick black boots and pacing toward the other color doused wall.
I on the other hand created myself into my very own work of art, a self portrait sloppily glued together and placed firmly against the wall of this cell. I have made no mistake… no possible mistake at all, this was him, this was the murderer of so many, technically thirty people since he is the one who so rudely and forcefully inserted the thoughts into the agents unwilling minds as they carried out a case… the same case that I am here to continue. This beautiful and elegant being, the very one who terrorized and mutilated those innocent and undeserving people… the same exact person. None of it seemed possible, not even the slightest bit plausible, how could someone such as this dare want such a thing and have the nerve to smile about it and claim it as if what he has carried out is a proud trophy or symbol to wear on his shoulder… It disgusts me.
He stopped, facing the opposite wall, staring upward a little at an array of morbid drawings, corpses, all mutilated beyond recognition, but not every picture was so artistically sickening. Among the many there were a select few that trickled across the wall, portraits of beauty and stamina, possibly whatever it was that he felt he could grasp in those forever tainted hands. He stood ever so quietly admiring his pictures, hands folded so neatly behind his back, tucked against his fitting grey turtleneck sweater.
"Oh and Frankie, unless you truly do plan on releasing me from this cell in about three seconds, shut the door please" he stated nonchalantly, seemingly lost in thought yet at the same time fully aware as he lifted a hand, brushing his fingers gently across the charcoal lines of his pictures. I shifted quietly, releasing my arm from where I had left it pinned between the solid metal structure and the door frame. I couldn't continue being quiet like this, I was accomplishing nothing, nothing at all, and that is not what I am being paid and risking my very own life to do.
"Those pictures... are they all pictures of your victims, or just things and people you see in your head?" I questioned sheepishly, placing my hands behind my back to rest against them. I've learned from more experience than you might think that if you ever want to know something, you never cut directly to the chase, you test the water, get the feel of the person and work out the needed information. Maybe I'm no psychiatrist, but I've definitely worked things out of people before, just no one as potentially life threatening as this.
"Yes, they are all victims, I drew these at the crime scene with a few, which I'm sure if that is ever revealed they will take my precious creations away, you wouldn't take that from me, would you Frank? They are the only things I have anymore…" he asked quietly, fingers still tracing the tiny barely noticeable veins in one of the women's wrists. Honestly, knowing everything this man has done I almost wouldn't mind taking away everything dear and precious to him, it's not like he hasn't claimed the lives of people who weren't something marvelous to someone. However, I just don't think that I ever could, everyone sort of deserves something for comfort, even the most vicious and heartless of people.
"No, I wouldn't, sir. But… why did you draw them? Doesn't it, haunt you at all?
"Oh, Frankie, if you could only be there for one killing to see the beautiful aftermath… The colors schemes and tents of their organs, all the marvelous variations in the blood color tones, all the glorious wounds and scars that can only happen once, never to be recreated with the exact pattern of torn flesh or shattered bones. Those deep tents and shades cutting deep into the canyons of the body, both natural and man made by an artist, it's all just to magnificent Frank. If only you could see one scene before it is doctored and contaminated by those vile and purified objects, moved and snapped at with artificial flashing lights to stow my creations into a camera, if you could just see it once, dear Frank, I know you would understand" he breathed out quietly, gently dusting his hands off, causing some charcoal and chalk particles to lazily flutter to the floors concrete surface so gracefully as if seconds before they had nothing to do with the morbid drawings.
It was so odd, this morbid murderer, claiming all of those peoples lives whose last words and pleads are completely unknown to everyone and the world but himself, this very man, he found something beautiful in what he does. He doesn't just leave a sloppily dissected body on the ground as if it is no importance to him at all, like he had nothing at all to do with the séance, no, that is not the case with him. He takes time, possibly hours to finely etch the disaster he has created onto paper, finding and defining every color and detail that he found beautiful in the lifeless corpse. These drawings were more important to him than running from the cops, he wouldn't even leave the scene until they were finished which makes it apparent: these murders were not all about him.
If he had the sense of any other selfish murderer anyone's heard of, he would have bolted the instant the last breath seeped through the victim's fragile windpipe. This clearly wasn't about him… and that was an almost intriguing thing to try and understand. What the hell am I saying… this man killed 25 people and forced suicide into the heads of five of our female officers… how could I be complementing him?
My eyes scanned the pictures for one last time, halting at one picture I particular that to me looked all too familiar.
"That last picture, the one on the right, that looks l-"
"Marie Evelyn George, wonderful job, you have placed the correct name, Frank. Lovely Marie, yes she held one of my more favorite aftermaths I must say. .." he pondered quietly, fingers lightly grazing the picture of her mangled corpse before he turned back to face me, sliding down the wall gracefully, crossing his legs across the rough and jagged concrete before folding his hands neatly in his lap. He stared up at me, a smile neatly stitching across his delicate lips.
"Enough about my pictures, Frank. You've not gotten yourself any closer to forming what you might call some form of bond between the two of us. I am no fool, Frank, I know an amateur agent when I see one. So why don't you move along and tell me a few things, get to the reason that you've actually been paid to come here, and risk your life to sit with someone who would love more than anything to mutilate a little body like you" he purred quietly, a menacing grin stretching across his face as he expectantly awaited my appraisal. I knew he was trying to strike a nerve, but I still couldn’t help but feel the adrenaline spike when he brought victimizing me into the scenario.
"Okay then, What w-"
"Ah, ah, ah. No, no dear Franklin, the answers to my questions are only given with a price…" he cut me off, hissing slightly into the words. What have I gotten myself into…
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