FicWad

Disclaimer: Don’t own anything and didn’t really happen
The wind howls as trees are whipped around. Rain slashes violently. It seems it could cut through the very foundation of the derelict building. Thunder booms and lightning illuminates a figure. He seems very small in the wake of the tempest, huddled in a corner of a huge abandoned warehouse. His long black hair created a veil around his pale face as he tried to keep dry under the leaking ceiling.
“I could go home right now,” he thought, “but surely that is much worse a fate.” He snuggled deeper into his threadbare hoodie, which used to have the Pixies emblazoned proudly on the front but was now worn beyond recognition, as his mind traced the wicked scar running the length of his back. Memories coursing, he sang as he slipped into yet another night of restless sleep.
/]We hold in our hearts
the fire and the faith
Swelled up like the storm clouds
Fly like a wraith… [/
Nightmares came quickly and Gerard slept restlessly. The night he left home came into his dreams as vividly as if he was watching it through a window as it was happening. It was the night before his eighteenth birthday and his father had passed out on the couch as he did every night. The smell of alcohol was so thick in the air you could cut it. He’d grabbed the small burlap sack that his mother had always used to pack essentials in on their family trips off of the back of the kitchen door. He filled it with all the clothes that would fit, tripp pants, and aeropostale shirts, and long johns, underwear, enough to last a while. On top of that he crammed any food he could grab-snickers, Doritos, crackers, spam, even a jar of peanut butter- and almost two hundred dollars he’d managed to steal out of his father’s wallet, which would keep him fed for a bit. Then he quietly slipped out of the front door. That night he walked, and kept walking, skulking through shadows of the dangerous New Jersey alleys. The only thing driving him was anger and hate. Now that he didn’t have his mother or brother to worry about…
“Oh Mikey. Why? Why did he take you from me? Why?” Tears slipped past his cheeks and over his chapped pink lips, fueling the drive to keep walking away.
Mercifully, the day finally came bringing him back to his current problems. He blinked his eyes against the rising sun and felt the cool drizzle of rain through the crumbling wall onto his heated skin. He sat up and reached for the sack that contained almost all of his possessions. Finding his old Misfits shirt, he slipped it on and headed for the door. On the way out he grabbed the old knock around guitar, wondering what happened to the man he pinched it off of. He walked down the cobblestone alley way and to the center of town, to his more…noble… source of income.
**
“Yes dear. Uh Huh. I love you too. See you in a minute, babe.”
The young man rolled his eyes as he stuck the cellular device back in his pocket. Another chick just in it for the money, she could care less about me, he thought. He walked over to the mirror on his bedroom door, examining his tattoo covered body. He would have more if HER mother didn’t disapprove. Sighing, he slipped a black Smiths shirt on, admiring the way it complimented his flat stomach and muscular arms. He brushed his fingers through his thick dark brown hair, getting ready for his “date” with Missy. She was skinny, blonde, the stereotypical high school cheerleader, and Frank absolutely despised her. His parents thought it would be “good for the company’s reputation.” And mom and pop have the final say as long as they keep money in the bank account. The money that buys the eyeliner he was now digging out of the nightstand drawer. So what if Missy didn’t like it? The two simple black lines made his hazel eyes positively glow, or so he’d been told. Standing back he thought he looked pretty good with his eyeliner and skinnies. Not to mention, he looked like a cheerleader’s worst nightmare. And they were going to a fancy restaurant for their eight month anniversary, Frank’s treat of course. It was always Frank’s “treat.” His black converse squealed as he turned on the doorstep to grab the car keys. The leather in his silver convertible was hot against his behind and made him shift uncomfortably as he backed out of his blacktop driveway.
“Onto Missy’s house we go… Yay…. Why me?”