FicWad

hey guys!
first off, thank you all so much for your amazing reviews! They really keep me going. I've decided to break the next 'chapter' into 2-3 parts.
so, this is the first part of 'Tarantula' (named after a Smashing Pumpkins song). The first part is entitled Easier to run -props to Linkin Park- and the second part should be up in about 3-4 days (I'm gonna be internetless for the weekend and probably monday so...yeah...)


TARANTULA part 1: Easier to run

GERARD'S POV

I wobbled across the living room, my mind pleasantly foggy but clear all the same, feeling as if someone was dragging me around with soft, velvety hands, a soft pounding in my head and a slight stinging ache at the back of my throat, feeling as if a small, seemingly cuddly animal was gently clawing at my vocal chords, enabling me to sing in a velvety warm, muffled voice. My strained voice gone, but a stumbling, mumbling one here. I bobbed my head along to AC/DC’s rock n’ roll train. Words rolled out of my mouth comfortably, although some syllables kind of got lost in the mess. My movements seemed in my control, yes, but a little too fluid. If I focused on it I could feel a very slight heart ache. My thumbs seemed to be sore in the same way they do when I type for too long. When I start a motion, it’s like my subconscious finishes it, carries it out. Subconscious…or booze. Ya guessed it, I ain’t at my most sober. A shot or two of rum I found lying at the back of a kitchen cabinet and about half the bottle of some fruit flavored liquor that was also hanging back some wooden locker like compartment. I don’t get why they bother to hide it, I used to get beyond wasted on a daily basis, I myself know all the places you could hide shit in this house. But they don’t seem to realize that. My heart and stomach feel warm and fuzzy, but I can still think clearly. Just my actions and words are a little blurred. I can think, function well, only with a slight, almost comfortable throb in my head…but my thoughts are clear. I’m not crying anymore, I barely even feel hurt anymore. Well, I am, but I’ve resorted to watching an episode of criminal minds instead. Mom’s out, and will be for the next two days and I’m warm, hot as if I should be sweating but no physical drops are running down my ghostly skin. In my head--thought wise I don’t even really seem drunk to myself, in fact it’s tempting to reach for more of the booze, but any more and they’ll know I touched it. I tried drawing, but my lines came out thick, messy and wobbly, not to mention holding a pencil just seems really strange. Man, I haven’t felt this way in a while…but I have the comforting reassurance I don’t think this will tip me back into my old habits.

All of a sudden I hear a sound similar to that if a dying chicken’s cry for help; a high pitched, greasy, and quite creepy screech. I squint, as if to help me figure out where it came from. That is, of course before Mikey stumbles into the living room, singing along to the end of AC/DC’s aforementioned song in a lower, hearty voice I didn’t know he had, the ends of his words getting lost in his mumbles. He walks over to me, his legs subconsciously bent, and I stifle a giggle as I realize he reminds me of Jack Skellington walking. See? My thoughts are pretty damn coherent. My mind isn’t really drunk, My actions are.
“M-M-mi-mi-keeeeyyy?” I call out as the last few guitar notes are strum. He gets a running start before skidding to a halt on his knees.
“sheeeee aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaasss’ed me WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY I’M JUS’ A HAIRYYYYYYYYYY GUYYYYY” I erupt into a fit of giggles upon realization that my brother is on the same level of drunkenness that I am, and that he’s attempting to sing that song from the hippie movie Hair. He loves that movie, he makes me watch it once a month.
“Y-y-y-y-y-you’re d-d-druunk” I slur grinning. I stutter even more when I’m wasted, that and I noticed I have some sort of a mix between a French and British accent. When I sing at least…I like singing…my problems, they just seem to fly away, literally. Mikey grins and jumps onto me, pinning me down to the floor as he begins to tickle me, his fingers scrapping against my neck as we both howl out laughing.
“M-M-Mikey…s-stop y-y-y-you’re ka-killing meh-me” I pant, rolling out from under him to catch my breath.


FRANK’S POV

I knew where I’d be going. I shivered in the dark, freezing cold and honestly repelling alleyway, sheltered by some upside down oxidized metal bins and what seemed to be the now moldy and rat invested remains of some sort or Persian rug, a rolled up soaking wet mainly maroon pile of shit. I wrinkled my now reddened button nose as a gust of wind squeezed through the close-packed back exits of different buildings, only reinforcing the warm-not in a good way- and gagging smell of piss and wet trash against the coldness of the night. The rain was softening again, but if it was to start up harsh in a few hours, It would most likely turn into snow. I took a small gulp of the cold and stale water bottle I’d forgotten to take out of my tattered and scruffy charcoal black bag. I set it down next to me, hugging it with my sore right arm, while my other was wrapped around my bent legs, as I looked out into the night, or what was visible of it here, watching the rain slowly fade; waiting for my time to run. The last few drops fell onto the crackled sidewalk, and I grabbed my bag, pulling my hood swiftly over my head hoping to protect my bangs and ran back down the main street, dodging a few strangers and a few who yelled out after me, but I knew where I had to go. I kept running, running, running, my scuffed up black converse scraping against the wet gravel, my bag bouncing on my shoulders, my hood flying back and my bangs drying in the wind I myself was creating. Finally the old traintracks came into view. Right up there, at that intersection, was the path I’d be taking. I ran to them, ducking past the fence and leaving the paved ways behind, now leaving the light of main street and pounding against the muddy ground. I ran against the tracks, knowing well that It’d be too risky to try and hop on here, that I’d have to catch a train bit further. I ran and ran, finally coming to the faintly lid part, where the houses on the other side were worn down, and where I believed my best chance of getting on unnoticed was. This was, probably once a lit part of the tracks, but the light bulb had worn out and no one had bothered to come change it. I padded over to it, and sat down beneath it on the small patch of semi-dry concrete, I, probably the sole person grateful these tracks weren’t lit so well. I leaned back against the weathered and rusting metal of the extinct lamp post, my Ipod playing very faintly in the background, as I didn’t bother placing the ear buds in my ears, I just let them dangle off my lap. It’s easier to run, Replacing this pain with something numb, It’s so much easier to go, Than face all this pain all alone. I wasn’t going to watch the little family life I’d ever have fade away, break abruptly, alone. I wasn’t going to remember it alone, I’d rather die, curl up and disappear, be reborn than face it alone. But that was impossible, at least in my clouded, teary and unsure hazel eyes. And I didn’t believe in suicide. I was going to live. I am going to live. Live for a fucking long time. That’s why I was going. Or rather, where I was going. If I could change I would, Take back the pain I would, Retrace every wrong move that I made I would , If I could take all the shame to the grave I would. The clickity-click of a train approaching became audible, and I hastily turned off my Ipod, wrapping the earphones around it and shoving it into my hoodie’s pocket alongside my lighter, and slinging my bag onto my back, preparing myself to jump into the train. The headlights grew bigger and bigger, quickly becoming the two blinding, shinning, gleaming eyes of freedom, approaching, approaching, approaching. I held out my arm, taking a bit of a speed. I spotted the wagon I’d jump into. It was one wagon away. I took a running start, propelling myself into it, clinging onto the chipped painted metal hand bars, hauling myself into it, as the very tip of my shoes dragged along the ground. Finally I swung my legs into it, stumbling into the agricultural wagon, and sinking to the floor against the damp wall. I knew this day would come. It had just gotten that bad, and I had apparently always had a flair for the dramatic. I smiled faintly as that reminded me of something Gerard had said, something about his brother saying that to him...I closed my eyes and my mind slowly began to race back tonight’s events, trying to figure out exactly what had gotten me here.


4 hours earlier

I clung onto the phone like a lifeline, the small, black Samsung, scrolling down my contact list disappointment running through me. I’d really been looking forward to seeing him…That was just another thing I had to fuck up again. Would this hurt him? He seemed so vulnerable some times, so shy, so broken. But how could you blame an angel like him? Some kids could be so cruel. I furiously tapped my fingers along the keys, scrolling down until I found the number he’d given me. I blinked once, before presing on the green call button, my breath hitched in my tattooed chest, oh how those gave a wrong impression sometimes. I wasn’t that tough I guess, but on the other hand, those tattoos meant so much to me. I released my breath when I heard the small click signaling he’d picked up.
“H-Hello?”
“Gerard?” I ask, my voice broken. Who else? scolds my mind.
“F-Frank!” he cheers enthusiastically. I hate myself. I hate my father. I hate this house. I should be calling him to plan something, to---
“FRANK! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU NOW?” I clasp a trembling hand over the phone as my dad’s roars thunder through the house, Gerard not needing to hear them.
“I-I’m…we---”
“FRANK ANHONY IERO! ANSWER YOUR FATHER! RIGHT. FUCKING. NO-” I release my hand from the phone, quickly bringing it up to my ear and making quick of what I have to say. I blink again, my breathing momentarily stopped.
"I-is e-e-e-everything o-okay?”
‘I’m sorry, I--really have to go--” I want to say more, but steps are approaching, and this isn’t going to be goddamn pretty. I try and hold in the tears that are clouding my throat and eyes, and quickly hang up, shoving it into my pockets.
“GET YOUR FAGGOT ASS OVER HERE!” Our staircase, which I’m currently kneeling under, seems to vibrate form the force of the man who’s rummaging angrily through our small home, looking for none other than me. There’s no hiding anymore. Just find out what he wants, Frank. I gulp and slowly open the cupboard door. I barely have my first foot out that a muscular hand grabs me, dragging my small frame into the living room.
“Let go of me! Get off me you fucker!” I try and stammer out menacingly, as I was caught off guard. I manage to jerk out of my father’s grasp, sending both of us stumbling to opposite ends of the meant-to-seem cozy, warmly lit living room. I wobbled onto my feet, ignoring the carpet burns that now covered my inked hands, expecting to see my father either fuming out of anger or attempting to grab hold of me again. He did neither of those things. He just casually brushed himself off, ran a tan hand through his brown hair, patting it into place and turned to face me looking rather innocent. I stared in disbelief. That was it? This was over? I took a shaky step towards him, only to watch him take a confident one back. What the fuck was he playing at? Maybe the man had some sense in him? Yeah right. No, he had something in mind, and I couldn’t figure out what.

”whadaya want?” I demanded sternly. Come on Frankie, don’t be scared of him.
“What. Do. You. Want?” I repeated, pausing after each word, letting them sink into him. A look of unease spread on his features, and this time his attempt to look in control failed, as he wavered forward, giving me the courage to fix him dead in the eyes. Bad move Frank. I must not have been as confident looking as I would of liked, because a smug, sadistic grin found its way onto his face.
“So, how was your day?” He inquired, something a young child would’ve called an evil grin spreading up to his ears. What the hell was he doing? “Nothing to…tell me? No little…anecdotes to share?” I cocked my head to the side, peering up at him expectantly, a little fear washing away. I felt strangely confident for a brief, welcomed moment but I knew well enough that it wouldn’t last. “For once, I attended parent-teacher. Funny of your school to still host those. But I went.” I gasped in disbelief, he…went? Is that why he was so calm? He wasn’t enraged about anything? He’d…why was he…I...part of me wanted to belief he was trying to make things better. That maybe this, tonight, would be the beginning of a normal family. But another part of me knew the man well enough to figure out he wasn’t finished, that if he’d gone, there was a reason, and that reason, wasn’t going to be a good one. Through the sheer curtains I could see two headlights turn into our small, gravel driveway and I turned my head back to my father. “So, failing maths I heard” he spat, his voice drifting into a chilling whisper near the end, like a snake’s menacing hiss. “And…seem to magically disappear during PE…oh, and also seem to be off in your own little world quite a bit during Physics” he slowly advanced towards me. “And don’t think I didn’t hear about the incident in music class…something about watching this…video of some queer band…Green Dagger-Day-Dave or something--”
“Green Day” I correct, trying to figure out where he’s getting at
“Of course you’d know. I overheard someone saying you had to be excused from class, and were let out with a sweatshirt tied around--well, that part. You think no one got it? Huh?” I cringed. Shit. Apparently the entire school hearing I’d gotten hard while watching Billie Joe Armstrong dry hump his guitar wasn’t enough. Now the man who was the biggest homophobe -and not to mention pretty fucking racist- on this earth, had found out. “You’re pathetic” He sneered, as I suddenly realized he was towering right over me, I could smell the minty scent of his aftershave, as well as that of his breath freshener. “You can’t even control yourself” He grinned again “And for guys too” he scoffed before allowing room between us again, and turning his back to me. “So tell me. What exactly did you do today?”
“...Nothing...”
“That’s a lie.-- Oh, and you forgot to buy some hamburger patties too” it was now my turn to scoff, as if I cared about the hamburgers. Well, actually I did, about the cows, but not about me forgetting to buy them. I brushed a dark, dry hair strand out of my face, and ran my fingers through my bangs, fluffing them a tiny bit. “But food shopping wasn’t really why you went, was it? Oh No...because Mr. Fag of the century had a date” he literally spat on the cream carpet, and was about to add something when the front door opened, my mother slowly came through, placing the drenched black umbrella on the small bit of hardwood floor. The tips of her dry, brown hair were wet, and she removed the plastic clip from it, setting it on the window sill. She must of felt something wasn’t right as she glanced at us, a mixture of hurt, exasperation, and exhaustion on her delicate facial features. She swiftly went by us, disappearing into our small, fluorescent lit kitchen.
“…date?” I repeat, unsure.
“Starbucks” he clarifies.
“That wasn’t a date!” I yell back, I can feel myself blush as I know deep down that’s what I would of liked it to be.
“You were quick to reply, don’t you think” he points out, the corners of his mouth twitching in and his eyebrows knitting together, making them resemble big, fury and poisonous caterpillars. Anger started bubbling deep inside of me. “So you tell me, who’s the other worthless faggot” I gulped, trying to contain the rage that was now consuming me. “Well…?” He was too calm, to calm for what he was saying. My head began to get dizzy and I stared at the ceiling lamp, it’s soft white light amber on the sides. I realized as I tried to stable myself that he was enjoying this. “WELL? WHO IS HE? WHO’S THE OTHER ASSHOLE?”
“DON’T TALK ABOUT GERARD LIKE THAT!” Salty tears began pouring out of my eyes, and I realized that all I wanted to do was hurt the man in front of me. I collapsed onto the cream carpet, of the house that should’ve been my home, but how could this be my home? It was the excuse for a fake family life. I just didn’t see how I would change it…the best thing to do was put it all behind me…forget it all… Just washing it aside, All of the helplessness inside, Pretending I don’t feel misplaced, Is so much simpler than change
“Don’t say that about Gerard” I whimpered, pleading. It felt as if, on the small living room flooring, I’d gone back to being a little kid. Vulnerable, pleading, a broken shell of a kid.
“DON’T ANSWER BACK! WHO ARE YOU TO TELL ME WHAT TO SAY?!” a bony, tanned hand gripped my collar, and pulled me up to my feet. I winced as the cotton hem dug into my neck, pressing forcefully against my repertory system. “Besides, he’s worthless enough to want to spend time with you. And deep down, you know it” he hissed, fixing his icy, hate filled eyes on mine. It only took a few seconds for me to react, and before I could think twice about it, my strengthened fist collided with his face. He toppled backwards, tripping over his feet and falling onto the carpet. “FRANK ANTHONY IERO” he howled out, cupping his now crimson covered nose in his hand. Blood spurted out of it.
“GO TO HELL YOU FUCKER!” I screamed out before kicking him in the ribs, remorse suddenly exploded through and I realized that I’d just permanently ruined any chance of a normal family life. Sure, it’d been a lost hope for years, but I was actually hurt by it. Not by punching my father, but by truthfully believing he deserved it. He was up too soon,though, pinning me against the stairs, and a sharp pain rang through my head, as he slowly drew back his fist, which was now covered in my crimson, dripping blood. I tried to make for the stairs, only being shoved to the floor, the carpet acting as some sort of barrier, cushioning the fall. I peer up at him, his caterpillar eyebrows knit together. “You’re a pathetic excuse for man” he spits, before collapsing down next to me. Caterpillars that will never, never grow into butterflies. It’s only then that I notice a faint scent of alcohol floating through the air, coming from his passed out, slightly bleeding form. I manage to stumble upstairs and into my bedroom, the lightbulb flicking on and off before revealing the familiar dark red walls and posters I spent hours taping up. I crawl halfway to the window, before exhaustion, sleep and emotions knock me out cold, sleep holding out her soft, dream filled, comforting hand for me to take hold of.

My eyes seemed to open themselves on their own, as I slowly came back from what some refer to as dreamland, and turned to face the electric neon clock display, only to realize only about an hour and a half had passed. I lay on the comfortable enough carpet, still curled up in a ball, trying to figure out what to do. I carefully got up, and tiptoed to the door, which I carefully pushed open, revealing the dimly lit hallway. The man who was biologically my father was still passed out at the bottom of the stairs, and facing him when he woke up might be even worse than what tonight had been. So much easier to run… I would run. That's what I was gonna do. Run. I promptly closed the door, and hurried over to where I had kicked my old, worn out once black school bag. I grabbed it and brought it over to my bed, emptying its contents onto the floor as I went, scattering them all over the room. I opened the dresser drawer, pulling out my few favorite shirts, an extra pair of jeans, and enough boxers for a week’s worth of time. I threw in a couple pairs of socks, before throwing in the first hairbrush I found, which happened to still have the price tag on. I set the bag down and carefully padded over to Pansy, and delicately placed her in her hard case, scooping a few medium Fender picks into it and closing it, securing it and checking multiple times the silver colored clasps were well closed. I picked up my black backpack again, adding an energy bar I found on my old, ink splattered and guitar tabs covered wooden desk, and gingerly slid the window open, dropping the bag through it, watching it land on the wet grass below, barely making any sound, that is, of course after I managed to throw in a paperback coral, ivory and bright yellow copy of The Catcher in the Rye. I paced my room one last time, grabbing my favorite picture of Billie Joe Armstrong off the wall and folding it in half, stuffing it into my hoodie’s left pocket. I check my dearly loved misfits hoodie’s content, checking it for Ipod, phone, lighter, and smokes, only realizing I ran out Marlboros yesterday. I silently shut the window, looking over my room one last time before shutting off the light, and sliding through the faint opening as the wooden door was only half-open. I tiptoed downstairs, past my father’s sleeping, and heaving (talk about a beast) figure, and slid into the small, half bath, worried the front door would wake my father. I placed Pansy’s case along the cool, lavender and snow white tiles, and slowly sliding open the small window, which was un-strategically placed right in front of the alabaster toilet. Talk about smart planning. As I gazed out into the coldness of the night, I suddenly remembered something, and carefully walked out of the tiny bathroom and into our -now- dark kitchen. The little light of the moonlight seeping through the small window was enough for me to see well enough, and I searched for a small pen, my eyes finally setting on an old, Best Western Hotels ball point and scribbling on a canary yellow post-it, checking the dark, navy blue ink. I then pulled out a piece of wide ruled note paper, placing it right under the window, and scribbled a truthfully and surprisingly painful I’m sorry, mom. Which I signed by my name, followed by a genuine small heart. Remorse and guilt started to pool in my heart, but I promptly shook them away, placing my note on the table and heading back for the bathroom. I lowered Pansy through the window and onto the porch before crawling through myself. I closed the window and picked up Pansy, darting down the steps and into the fine rain, picking up my bag and began running, away from ‘my’ house, away from the street, away from the family. A slight, misty drizzle sparkled by every golden street lamp, the rain only visible there, and on the ground of course. I trudged along the now alarmingly clean street, except for a few shit colored heaps of what had once been tree leaves that had never made it down the storm drains. I turned onto the brightly lit, yet still practically empty main street, that, in a couple blocks would be passing through the town center. I scraped my worn converse against the sidewalk, my floppy, dark, licorice colored bangs flowing down onto my face, which was beginning to itch uncomfortably as the rain continued to drizzle lightly. I kept my tired hazel eyes on the plastic, once white tip of my converse as the homey, quaint and cozy houses started turning into two or three floored either brick or siding buildings, businesses on the ground floors, and apartments above. I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets as the air seemed to get colder, as my aching and wet feet dragged along the empty, midnight black tarmac street, which flickered both amber and gold whenever under a street lamp. It wasn’t even that late at night, but the rain seemed to do a pretty good job at keeping people in their homes, which allowed me to wander on in the middle of the empty street, following the grayish-white dotted lines that were intended to separate traffic. The rain suddenly picked up violently again,glimering silver in the night sky, forcing me to seek coverage in the nearest alleyway. I ducked into it, wrinkling my nose as I recognized the unpleasant smell of sewage and sat down against the brick wall, in between one or two upside down turned garbage bins and the remains of a rolled up, rotting and ancient rug, waiting for the rain to cease, or at least diminish in force.


---

I blinked my eyes open, confusion washing over me as I managed to make out a painted black, metal compartment filled with agricultural products resembling wheat. What the fuck was I doing he--Oh, right. Last night’s events suddenly returned to my foggy mind, as I rubbed the little sleep I’d gotten out of my eyes. Dawn seemed to be preparing its glorious arrival, as the sky was no longer black, but more a shade of very dark lavender, or even royal blue, and seemed to be on its way to lighter, softer, hue. I rubbed the back of my head gently, and slowly got up, stretching, not looking foward to the sore back I’d be having all day. Out of habit, my mind automatically announced it was Friday, although it didn’t really seem to matter now, did it? Not so much…I ran a few tattooed and calloused fingers through my bangs, before poking my head outside, incredibly grateful for my hoodie’s warmth. I recognized New Haven in the distance, and, if I remembered accurately from previous -however legal- train rides up here, in about thirty minutes I should be able to hop off and find my way to where I’d be going. Connecticut’s country side was absolutely beautiful, dew sparkling off the fields, a tiny layer of leftover snow here and there, which I assumed to be from last night. The sun began to rise up from behind the horizon, as the sky became a cotton candy like shade of pale pink, and I inhaled deeply the fresh, pure, golden morning air. The cold stung my eyes a little, but I tried my best not to care, returning to where my bag and Pansy sat, against the rough, chipped wall.

I walked on along the cold, icy streets I was able to recognize from my childhood, it now being about eight in the morning, according to my Ipod’s clock, and the sun was weaving its way high into the sky, which was now a beautiful baby blue shade. I kept walking along the wide suburban road, passing a small, weathered white church I rememebred from my childhood’s few summers spent here. I finally find the street that looks familiar, and turn onto it, counting down the houses until I find the one I’ve been looking for. A small, two story, or rather one story with furnished attic- beige painted quaint home, a small garage off to the side. Taking a deep breath, I walk up the snow drizzled path way and up the few, wet, wooden stairs, pausing at the maroon painted and screen covered front door. Come on Frank, you can do this. It’s easier to run…If I could change I would, Take back the pain I would, retrace every wrong move that I made I would, If I could take all the same to the grave I would. I softly knock on the door, soon being greeted by an elderly pink-skinned pleasant looking woman I don’t recognize.
“Hello dear, how can I help you?” she asks in a soft, sweet velvety voice, as she draws a wrinkled hand up to one of the sage green curlers in her hair.
“Um…Hi I--I’m here to se my grandmother. Tell her it’s me, Frankie”




Well um, I hope you liked it! I'll try and get part 2 up as soon as I come back.
Arg--I'm really fucking annoyed: MCR are playing in Madrid tonight, and I was gonna go see them, but my dad couldn't get off work soon enough. However, tommorow, I'm actually going to Madrid with my parents for the weekend, but MCR will no longer be in Madrid...so..yeah...
anyways, I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! And again, please R&R! I love getting feedback and hearing what you guys think! Oh, and the NY senate passed the gay marriage bill! NY becomes the 6th state to legalize gay marriage!
xx, a.