Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Where the animals should go...
Where the animals should go...
1 review*rewritten 1st chapter* Frerard; Frank is a shy, slightly rebellious (allthough he doesn't consider himself so) teenager, who's tired of trying to be good enough and learning to accept the fact his...
3Original
Where the animals should go…
THERE’S A PLACE IN THE DARK WHERE THE ANIMALS GO
You can take off your skin in the cannibal glow. Juliet loves the beast with the lust in commands, Drop the dagger and lather the blood on your hands, Romeo!
“FRANK!” he roared “YOU DON’T HAVE A SAY IN THIS!” His eyes were nearly bulging out of this face, which was past bright red, a shade of deep purple. Pure anger. Hatred. Disappointment.
“I DON’T HAVE A SAY IN THIS?” I repeated, my voice up an octave. I could feel the heat burning in my cheeks, and I didn’t need a second opinion to know that the color of my face was similar to his. “HOW CAN YOU TELL ME I DON’T HAVE A SAY IN THIS! WE’RE TALKING ABOUT ME!” I backed up a couple steps, leaning against the wood and granite countertop. Our Small kitchen seemed to be spinning. The cream tile walls, the brown cupboards, dark green granite. The stainless steel of the fridge (a fridge some had once been very proud of, one of those ones with the water and ice dispenser in the door), the white gas range… The bright light of the ceiling fan, illuminating what would otherwise be a dark room, at 9pm towards the end of November. For a split second, everything was silent. Spinning, but silent. All I could hear was the soft hum of the fridge and the fast clikity-click of the fan, as it turned and turned so fast that the panels weren’t visible. It was just a fading circle in which sat a faded yellow sconce, the light emitted from the light bulbs glowing through. I held a firm grip on the edge of the counter as the world around me spun, a violent migraine in my head as I hoped that I’d regain my sanity and avoid fainting. Within a couple seconds of the inside of my head throbbing, everything became clear again, and I was able to stand up properly. Stand up tall. Fucking tall. I resumed glaring at him. If looks could kill…I could actually feel the hatred radiating off the both of us, like a bomb, counting down the last seconds before it explodes and leaves only ruins, of what might of once been a caring relationship. He advanced towards me, alarmingly calm for someone so angry. His eyes however, weren’t calm at all. They were full of fire, that of a man scared of being challenged, and hating to have to admit it. The eyes of someone so full of themselves they can’t stand opposition. Someone who wanted me to be perfect. To be just like them. Well, that went to hell.
“Frank please” intervened a thin grey-skinned woman, who’s feeble figure was seated at the wooden table, holding her head in her hands and staring down at a black ceramic mug that I presumed held coffee. Strands of her discolored brown hair were dangling limply around her shoulder, escaping the makeshift bun that was help up with a clip. Strands of her hair that blended in with the brick and brown colored plaid of her bathrobe, which hung, even seated past her knees, the seems a sharp line against her worn, dehydrated skin. “Your father and I know what’s best for you”. She stated feebly, sighing. Right. My father. That man momentarily-turned beast, who was shooting daggers at me with his eyes, his brown hair unusually disheveled, his forehead crumpled in a facial expression far worst then a frown. I glared back at him, my black hair momentarily pushed out for my face, my normally hazel eyes glazed over with something terrible, something resembling a mix of both hurt and hate, knitting into a blanket of rage.
“LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER FRANK” roared the beast.
“WHAT’S BEST FOR ME? HOW CAN YOU KNOW WHAT’S BEST FOR ME IF YOU DON’T EVEN FUCKING KNOW ME?” I shot back, still leaning against the counter. My mother sighed and rubbed her forehead, sipping her coffee, and setting it back down, a worn out, tired expression spread across her simple features.
“DON’T USE THAT LANGUAGE WITH ME YOUNG MAN” counter-shot my father, veins becoming visible on his forehead. “DON’T TALK TO ME LIKE THAT!” he sneered, his arrogance resurfacing. He advanced towards me, and violently gripped my collar. I didn’t drop my gaze though. Not one second. Screw anxiety and authority. Screw being scared and hopeless. I might not be physically strong, and I might be pretty mellow, but this…and I’ll be honest, a lot of things scare me; bullies, thunder storms, spiders, surprise math exams, tanning lotions (my skin could turn orange!), turtle-neck sweaters…, but my father…I know him to well for him to scare me. I stared back with just as much determination. Just as much anger. Just as much hatred. Only more hurt. Because my father wasn’t hurt. His ego was. I, however, deep down, was hurt. Not that I wasn’t used to this. I know frigging well that I’m not the son they hoped for. I’m not athletic, so they can’t boast about my physical state to friends of theirs, can’t show them picture of me as captain of the football team. I’m shit at anything remotely related to any form of 5th grade of higher level math, so they can’t show pictures me at family reunions with academic awards. I can’t quote Shakespeare, so my mother can’t tell her friends that one day I’ll be a romantic writer, while my father rolls his eyes. I’m not manly, not burly, so my father can’t chuck beers with his friends while discussing that “strong young man of his”. I don’t have sunny blond hair that’ll please my father because all the girls will be falling over me. I have voluntarily messy floppy black hair that sweeps over my face like bangs, and smooth, pale-ish olive skin along with a few tattoos here and there. I’m 5‘4, slightly muscular, and today, I’m wearing bright pink converse, a pop of color against my black clothes. Okay, so maybe the converse were to piss my father off, but hey, admit it you think it looks kind of hot. I play guitar, write lyrics and poems of revenge and anger, and could quote an entire Stephen King novel. I’ve done several things I was too drunk to remember, several of which I wouldn’t even want to remember. It’s just another thing I did to fuck up his oh-so perfect family. I don’t even like drinking…and I think he knows that. Actually, I’m sure they both do. But deep down, I have the nagging sensation that I almost wanted them to know. Ever since I was a child, I wasn’t what they wanted, I couldn’t make them proud…so I gave up. And I steered the other way. A way of provoking them, maybe…a way to get that anger out. However, for some reason not totally alien to me I break down crying, the anger having passed anger, and entered a state of near-hysteria, where the frustration is so bad I want to stab, bleed, brake, shatter anything that’s around me. But, I have more self-control than that. I’m strong. I can break down easily, but I can pull myself back together. I can keep going. Unevenly, unstably, but keep going. With violent ups and downs…but keep. Going.
“YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING TO WIN BACK OUR AFFECTION BY CRYING LIKE SOME SEVEN YEAR OLD SCHOOL GIRL?”
“I-I-I w-w-won’t g-g-g-go…I-I…” I choked out in between sobs. Oh god, why did I have to break down? Already that I’m not very convincing, the fact that I’m hiccupping and kneeling down in the corner like a toddler probably isn’t helping much.
“OH YES YOU WILL! YOU NEED TO BE PUT BACK IN THE RIGHT PATH!”
“T-t-the r-right-t-t p-path?” I repeat, hurt and anger visible despite my chokes,sobs and whimpers.
“YOU'LL NEVER CHANGE WILL YOU?! JUST BE SOME WORTHLESS FAG?”
“N-n-n-oho” I whimper, pulling my knees up to my chest, searching for the protection our wood counters can give me. My father slowly creeps over me, placing one hand on each side of my head, trapping me in the dusty kitchen corner.
“SPEAK UP”
“NO!” I scream, bolting upwards, all the hysteric anger returning, invading me, washing away the confusion of being curled up in a ball sobbing. Confusion that is suddenly very clear. “YOU AREN’T GONNA CHANGE ME!”
“THE HELL I’M NOT! THE WAY YOU ARE NOBODY'S GOING TO WANT YOU! NOBODY WANTS SOME FAG! FOR ANYTHING!”
“Frank, just try seeing him for a while, just try it” this time, the voice is worn out, dry, crackled from too many cigarettes, but soft and caring, as any mother’s would be. And, indeed, it is my mom. I raise my head, allowing our eyes to lock, as mine plead for her to side with me, to defend me. But instead, she just bows her head, allowing her limp discolored hair to fall over her pale face again.
“Mom, How is seeing a therapist going to do anything?” I asked in complete honesty, trying as hard as I can to keep my voice as soft as hers was, caring, loving, but demanding. I really didn’t see why I’d need to see a therapist. I’m stable enough in my opinion, besides, music has always been my therapy.
“HE MIGHT PUT YOU BACK IN THE RIGHT PATH” Spat my father. Oh, I see now. He’s hoping that I won’t be the failure he’s always seen me as? Treated me as?
“RIGHT, WELL HERE’S A FACT FOR YOU” I yelled, placing my face right in front of his, mere inches away. I took in a sharp breath before assuring our heads were leveled, hazel eyes meeting. “PEOPLE ONLY LIVE UP TO THEIR REPUTATIONS!” I screamed out so loud that the kitchen seemed to be shaking. I gripped the counter again; shocked at how loud and hateful my voice had been, as rage bubbled inside of me.
“WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?” he demanded, releasing his grip of the counters, and leaning back slightly.
“I’m saying go to hell.” I quickly spun around, shoving him out of the way and ran up the carpeted stairs to my bedroom, tears streaming out of my eyes. I burst into my room, shutting the door and pushing the dresser against it to bolt it tight. I managed to find some comfort as I recognized my room, despite the image distorted as salty tears cascaded down my bare cheeks, falling onto the floor. I looked around, my vision blurred, as the dark red walls of my room seemed to be whirling around me. I leaned against my dresser, closing my eyes I slowly stopped shaking, and drew three deep breaths, something my grandma had taught me to do when I used to suffer from severe anxiety, saying it would help calm, not only anxiety but also anger and hurt. Somehow, in the midst of debating whether to write lyrics or to pick up the guitar and play an already existing tune, I flicked off the light and curled up onto the floor, crying until only tears existed anymore, until the peaceful state of sleep cradled me in its arms, transforming the rain outside my window into a calming, soothing lullaby… I’ve really been, on a bender and it shows so why don’t you blow me a kiss before she goes.
Give me a shot to remember
And you can take all the pain away from me
Your kiss and I will surrender;
the sharpest lives are the deadliest to lead,
I light to burn all the empires,
so bright the sun is afraid to raise and be!
In love with all of these vampires,
so you can leave like the sane abandoned me…
Hey, so, I re-wrote the first chapter, changing and -hopefully- improving it. It's gonna be a frerard. I've never posted any of my stories anywhere before so...if there is anything that needs improving, plz let me know (thx) also, if the raiting isn't appropriate or anything...
well, I hope it was ok,
xx,
Angelica
THERE’S A PLACE IN THE DARK WHERE THE ANIMALS GO
You can take off your skin in the cannibal glow. Juliet loves the beast with the lust in commands, Drop the dagger and lather the blood on your hands, Romeo!
“FRANK!” he roared “YOU DON’T HAVE A SAY IN THIS!” His eyes were nearly bulging out of this face, which was past bright red, a shade of deep purple. Pure anger. Hatred. Disappointment.
“I DON’T HAVE A SAY IN THIS?” I repeated, my voice up an octave. I could feel the heat burning in my cheeks, and I didn’t need a second opinion to know that the color of my face was similar to his. “HOW CAN YOU TELL ME I DON’T HAVE A SAY IN THIS! WE’RE TALKING ABOUT ME!” I backed up a couple steps, leaning against the wood and granite countertop. Our Small kitchen seemed to be spinning. The cream tile walls, the brown cupboards, dark green granite. The stainless steel of the fridge (a fridge some had once been very proud of, one of those ones with the water and ice dispenser in the door), the white gas range… The bright light of the ceiling fan, illuminating what would otherwise be a dark room, at 9pm towards the end of November. For a split second, everything was silent. Spinning, but silent. All I could hear was the soft hum of the fridge and the fast clikity-click of the fan, as it turned and turned so fast that the panels weren’t visible. It was just a fading circle in which sat a faded yellow sconce, the light emitted from the light bulbs glowing through. I held a firm grip on the edge of the counter as the world around me spun, a violent migraine in my head as I hoped that I’d regain my sanity and avoid fainting. Within a couple seconds of the inside of my head throbbing, everything became clear again, and I was able to stand up properly. Stand up tall. Fucking tall. I resumed glaring at him. If looks could kill…I could actually feel the hatred radiating off the both of us, like a bomb, counting down the last seconds before it explodes and leaves only ruins, of what might of once been a caring relationship. He advanced towards me, alarmingly calm for someone so angry. His eyes however, weren’t calm at all. They were full of fire, that of a man scared of being challenged, and hating to have to admit it. The eyes of someone so full of themselves they can’t stand opposition. Someone who wanted me to be perfect. To be just like them. Well, that went to hell.
“Frank please” intervened a thin grey-skinned woman, who’s feeble figure was seated at the wooden table, holding her head in her hands and staring down at a black ceramic mug that I presumed held coffee. Strands of her discolored brown hair were dangling limply around her shoulder, escaping the makeshift bun that was help up with a clip. Strands of her hair that blended in with the brick and brown colored plaid of her bathrobe, which hung, even seated past her knees, the seems a sharp line against her worn, dehydrated skin. “Your father and I know what’s best for you”. She stated feebly, sighing. Right. My father. That man momentarily-turned beast, who was shooting daggers at me with his eyes, his brown hair unusually disheveled, his forehead crumpled in a facial expression far worst then a frown. I glared back at him, my black hair momentarily pushed out for my face, my normally hazel eyes glazed over with something terrible, something resembling a mix of both hurt and hate, knitting into a blanket of rage.
“LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER FRANK” roared the beast.
“WHAT’S BEST FOR ME? HOW CAN YOU KNOW WHAT’S BEST FOR ME IF YOU DON’T EVEN FUCKING KNOW ME?” I shot back, still leaning against the counter. My mother sighed and rubbed her forehead, sipping her coffee, and setting it back down, a worn out, tired expression spread across her simple features.
“DON’T USE THAT LANGUAGE WITH ME YOUNG MAN” counter-shot my father, veins becoming visible on his forehead. “DON’T TALK TO ME LIKE THAT!” he sneered, his arrogance resurfacing. He advanced towards me, and violently gripped my collar. I didn’t drop my gaze though. Not one second. Screw anxiety and authority. Screw being scared and hopeless. I might not be physically strong, and I might be pretty mellow, but this…and I’ll be honest, a lot of things scare me; bullies, thunder storms, spiders, surprise math exams, tanning lotions (my skin could turn orange!), turtle-neck sweaters…, but my father…I know him to well for him to scare me. I stared back with just as much determination. Just as much anger. Just as much hatred. Only more hurt. Because my father wasn’t hurt. His ego was. I, however, deep down, was hurt. Not that I wasn’t used to this. I know frigging well that I’m not the son they hoped for. I’m not athletic, so they can’t boast about my physical state to friends of theirs, can’t show them picture of me as captain of the football team. I’m shit at anything remotely related to any form of 5th grade of higher level math, so they can’t show pictures me at family reunions with academic awards. I can’t quote Shakespeare, so my mother can’t tell her friends that one day I’ll be a romantic writer, while my father rolls his eyes. I’m not manly, not burly, so my father can’t chuck beers with his friends while discussing that “strong young man of his”. I don’t have sunny blond hair that’ll please my father because all the girls will be falling over me. I have voluntarily messy floppy black hair that sweeps over my face like bangs, and smooth, pale-ish olive skin along with a few tattoos here and there. I’m 5‘4, slightly muscular, and today, I’m wearing bright pink converse, a pop of color against my black clothes. Okay, so maybe the converse were to piss my father off, but hey, admit it you think it looks kind of hot. I play guitar, write lyrics and poems of revenge and anger, and could quote an entire Stephen King novel. I’ve done several things I was too drunk to remember, several of which I wouldn’t even want to remember. It’s just another thing I did to fuck up his oh-so perfect family. I don’t even like drinking…and I think he knows that. Actually, I’m sure they both do. But deep down, I have the nagging sensation that I almost wanted them to know. Ever since I was a child, I wasn’t what they wanted, I couldn’t make them proud…so I gave up. And I steered the other way. A way of provoking them, maybe…a way to get that anger out. However, for some reason not totally alien to me I break down crying, the anger having passed anger, and entered a state of near-hysteria, where the frustration is so bad I want to stab, bleed, brake, shatter anything that’s around me. But, I have more self-control than that. I’m strong. I can break down easily, but I can pull myself back together. I can keep going. Unevenly, unstably, but keep going. With violent ups and downs…but keep. Going.
“YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING TO WIN BACK OUR AFFECTION BY CRYING LIKE SOME SEVEN YEAR OLD SCHOOL GIRL?”
“I-I-I w-w-won’t g-g-g-go…I-I…” I choked out in between sobs. Oh god, why did I have to break down? Already that I’m not very convincing, the fact that I’m hiccupping and kneeling down in the corner like a toddler probably isn’t helping much.
“OH YES YOU WILL! YOU NEED TO BE PUT BACK IN THE RIGHT PATH!”
“T-t-the r-right-t-t p-path?” I repeat, hurt and anger visible despite my chokes,sobs and whimpers.
“YOU'LL NEVER CHANGE WILL YOU?! JUST BE SOME WORTHLESS FAG?”
“N-n-n-oho” I whimper, pulling my knees up to my chest, searching for the protection our wood counters can give me. My father slowly creeps over me, placing one hand on each side of my head, trapping me in the dusty kitchen corner.
“SPEAK UP”
“NO!” I scream, bolting upwards, all the hysteric anger returning, invading me, washing away the confusion of being curled up in a ball sobbing. Confusion that is suddenly very clear. “YOU AREN’T GONNA CHANGE ME!”
“THE HELL I’M NOT! THE WAY YOU ARE NOBODY'S GOING TO WANT YOU! NOBODY WANTS SOME FAG! FOR ANYTHING!”
“Frank, just try seeing him for a while, just try it” this time, the voice is worn out, dry, crackled from too many cigarettes, but soft and caring, as any mother’s would be. And, indeed, it is my mom. I raise my head, allowing our eyes to lock, as mine plead for her to side with me, to defend me. But instead, she just bows her head, allowing her limp discolored hair to fall over her pale face again.
“Mom, How is seeing a therapist going to do anything?” I asked in complete honesty, trying as hard as I can to keep my voice as soft as hers was, caring, loving, but demanding. I really didn’t see why I’d need to see a therapist. I’m stable enough in my opinion, besides, music has always been my therapy.
“HE MIGHT PUT YOU BACK IN THE RIGHT PATH” Spat my father. Oh, I see now. He’s hoping that I won’t be the failure he’s always seen me as? Treated me as?
“RIGHT, WELL HERE’S A FACT FOR YOU” I yelled, placing my face right in front of his, mere inches away. I took in a sharp breath before assuring our heads were leveled, hazel eyes meeting. “PEOPLE ONLY LIVE UP TO THEIR REPUTATIONS!” I screamed out so loud that the kitchen seemed to be shaking. I gripped the counter again; shocked at how loud and hateful my voice had been, as rage bubbled inside of me.
“WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?” he demanded, releasing his grip of the counters, and leaning back slightly.
“I’m saying go to hell.” I quickly spun around, shoving him out of the way and ran up the carpeted stairs to my bedroom, tears streaming out of my eyes. I burst into my room, shutting the door and pushing the dresser against it to bolt it tight. I managed to find some comfort as I recognized my room, despite the image distorted as salty tears cascaded down my bare cheeks, falling onto the floor. I looked around, my vision blurred, as the dark red walls of my room seemed to be whirling around me. I leaned against my dresser, closing my eyes I slowly stopped shaking, and drew three deep breaths, something my grandma had taught me to do when I used to suffer from severe anxiety, saying it would help calm, not only anxiety but also anger and hurt. Somehow, in the midst of debating whether to write lyrics or to pick up the guitar and play an already existing tune, I flicked off the light and curled up onto the floor, crying until only tears existed anymore, until the peaceful state of sleep cradled me in its arms, transforming the rain outside my window into a calming, soothing lullaby… I’ve really been, on a bender and it shows so why don’t you blow me a kiss before she goes.
Give me a shot to remember
And you can take all the pain away from me
Your kiss and I will surrender;
the sharpest lives are the deadliest to lead,
I light to burn all the empires,
so bright the sun is afraid to raise and be!
In love with all of these vampires,
so you can leave like the sane abandoned me…
Hey, so, I re-wrote the first chapter, changing and -hopefully- improving it. It's gonna be a frerard. I've never posted any of my stories anywhere before so...if there is anything that needs improving, plz let me know (thx) also, if the raiting isn't appropriate or anything...
well, I hope it was ok,
xx,
Angelica
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