Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > But No One Sees the Gnashing Teeth of My Heart [Frerard]

Picture Perfect

by eccentricpaige 4 reviews

Frank Iero is set apart from the others. His desperate need for companionship is never met, and he's fallen headfirst into a vat of rotten emotions. Will life become easier upon meeting a fellow in...

Category: My Chemical Romance - Rating: R - Genres: Angst,Drama,Romance - Characters: Frank Iero,Gerard Way,Mikey Way - Warnings: [?] - Published: 2011-09-02 - Updated: 2011-09-04 - 2320 words

Pictures are simply moments in time. Lying, artificial portrayals of a memory. They hardly ever represent any form of truth. That's probably why I despise them. I don't need to be reminded of a time or event at which I was forced to 'give my best smile'. I reject any traces of dishonesty, much like a filter. Why would I need to have a permanent lie on the wall?

It's because of this that I've set my mind to burn those I come in contact with. I'll be breaking my mother's heart. Her cold, detached heart.

I stand near the wooden stove in my living room, watching the blue and orange flames eat away at the flimsy paper with ease. It's sad when a photograph's appearance only grows more attractive as it's being destroyed.

"Frank? Where are you?" I hear her shrill voice call from upstairs. I take that as my cue to leave.

I lift my hood and pull it far down over my head. I unwrap my earphones from around my ipod and slip them into my ears. It's gotten to the point where my ears feel naked without them. I feel incomplete; empty.

I walk over to the back door near the downstairs bathroom and quietly slip away. I'm careful to step over the broken glass and discarded garbage that pollutes the family garage. The sun's hanging low in the sky, but my day has just begun.

I turn the volume up all the way and breathe in deeply when the rushing wave of music calms my very skin. The lyrics seem to stand right in front of me. I'm slowly consuming the riffs of the guitar. And in turn, being consumed by the faint whisper of piano in the background.

The walk to the park is long. Nearly five miles, but I don't care. That's where I'll be sleeping tonight. It's a perfect mixture of dangerous and safe. Safe because it's not my home, dangerous because it may be someone else's.

Once I arrive, I glance up and notice how many stars have shown their faces. The moon's only a faint crescent, but even in its smallest form it gives off enough light to keep me from stumbling over the mulch in the darkness.

I take a seat on the park bench and move around until the wooden planks morph into a comfortable mattress. I absentmindedly finger the sunken in areas where chunks have been scraped away by bored kids such as myself. I can't hear the angry wind over the music, but I can feel it. My shaggy hair dances against my forehead and the trees I can see are creaking and weezing along with the fast-approaching storm.

My heavy exhale becomes a sigh as I feel the first few drops of rain seep through my hood. I might have to sleep in the slide again like I did last month.

Without dwelling too much on the unpleasant weather, I lift my sleeve to inspect the damage. I went a bit too far this time.

Puckered swipes decorate the underside of my arm. As I focus my eyes, I notice an unmistakable pattern. I wince at the sudden throb of pain. The tiny imperfections sting and seem to sizzle as I lightly brush my pointer finger over them to establish how real they are.

It's terribly ironic. I tear away at the flawless skin I was born with to make sure I'm still alive. Still capable of feeling any ounce of pain. Sometimes, I just forget. Feelings, and the ability to feel, grow into a foggy memory that could nearly pass as a dream. It scares me to go too long without a harsh reality check. I numb myself down for so long, that the only indicator that I even have a body at all is to rake a razor over myself.

I know, I'm sure the elders of today would ramble on about how naive I am. How immature, and stupid I've behaved. How inexperienced and simply young I am.

But they're all wrong.

I've been old for as long as I can remember. This seventeen-year-old body is simply a disguise. I can discuss life, love, political science; the works. I take interest in creating music and literature. My interests are vast and ever-growing. And there's not a damned person in my grade that I can talk to about any of this shit without receiving a funny look or a blank stare.

I want to stab their glazed-over eyes. I want to rip apart what's left of their personality and form it into something they can use in society. I long to make them forget about popularity, and religion, and the next party that's going to take place at Insert Student's Name Here's house.

They all need to be dis-assembled and rebuilt from the floor up. They need to be taken to a mechanic and fixed. Because that's all they are right now. Just broken pieces of robotic machinery that don't function like they should.

The rain is coming down in thick pellets and I start to shiver from the bitterly cold breeze that's come my way. The slices on my wrist and arm seem to multiply before my eyes the longer I stare at them. I had gone weeks without so much as touching a blade. Then tonight, I just couldn't make the raw void disappear.

"Your father and I want to know why you act the way you do." my mother says sternly. She'd cornered me in the living room as I had bent down to find a decent movie to kill time with. "What do you mean?" I ask innocently. It's not like I can really explain why I act the way I do. It'd all sound like bullshit to their deaf ears. They wouldn't accept that the fault is truly all of their's.

My mother places her hands on her round hips and cocked her eyebrow up into a perfect arch. "Now, you know exactly what I mean. You hardly ever leave your room, or if you do it's only to spend nights away from home. You never tell us about your friends anymore, either. I just can't believe how much you've changed. You used to be so caring, so cheerful, so in touch with the Lord! Why did you erase your personality?!" she shouted.

This will happen every few weeks. Normally, we would simply walk on eggshells around each other. Barely gracing the other with a glance or smile. I like it this way. When every problem isn't brought to the forefront of our minds, and we're not squabbling like a group of idiots that feel the need to defend their favorite sport's team.

"Mom, I haven't changed on purpose. I've just grown up." I mutter the same thing I say each time. "Frank Anthony Iero! Don't give me that! I don't know of a single kid who acts the way you do. Do you see the teens at church treating their parents so disrespectfully? I didn't think so." she says with finality. I just roll my eyes and wait for another attack. The second of many to come.

"Well? Aren't you going to say something? Act dramatic and cry like you usually do?" she said with a tone of mockery I'd love nothing more than to suffocate and impale.

I haven't cried in front of her in three years. It's taken so long for me to just give up and let her walk over me like I'm her front door rug. She gripes and nags and pulls at whatever remains of my good spirit. So I let her. I let her have her way with my aching mind and then scamper off to my room to pick up the pieces of my shattered mood.

"Mom, I don't want to argue. I'll try better." I say with a pleading tone. She shakes her head in disgust and snarls another sentence. "So is that all, then? You're just going to pretend like you actually care and escape to your cave again? Fine. Go! Go be snobby and careless. I've never been so disappointed with anyone more in my life." I nod my head in gratitude and walk upstairs to my bedroom.

I open the door and lock it tightly once I'm inside. The darkness provided by the black curtains has been more than welcoming these passed few years. I never feel prodded and poked when I'm in the safety of my room. It's my own personal space, and it's the only room in the house that doesn't make me feel uncomfortable.

I look in the mirror for a shred of remorse. Shouldn't I feel guilty for making my mother so angry? Why don't I feel the pang of shame as my room is filled top to the brim with the sounds of her overdramatic wailing downstairs?

I search my eyes for care. Is it true? Am I really as apathetic as she says?

With a shrug, I walk over to my bed and allow my eyes to dart around the bedside shelf I have until they land on the one thing I long to have the most. I grasp my Swiss Army knife and carefully bend it back. The recently-sharpened blade seems to gleam attractively and I'm forced to smile back at it.

Not a single thought goes through my head as I pull back my hoodie's sleeve and make the first cut. A violent swoosh of relief and euphoria courses through every molecule I'm made of as I drag the knife along my arm. My neck becomes limp and I let it fall backwards as I'm overcome with peace.

Small incisions. Nothing terribly noticeable. The first is always the best, but the ones to shortly follow aren't very lacking. Each and every swipe of the blade brings more and more happiness. The blood I can feel bubbling over the sides of each slit seems to stay in place.

After a good five minutes, I heave a very shaky sigh and lay the knife on my knee. I reach behind my shelf and grab a fistful of tissues, blotting away at the red streaks. It does no good, though. The never-ending supply of sticky sweet symbolism keeps flowing with ease.

The blotting turns into wiping and I'm forced to tend to myself like a nurse for no shorter than thirty minutes. Once the bleeding is under control, I'm left wondering what to do next. I stopped using bandaids a long time ago. They're a hassle and a half to replace and it isn't exactly easy to explain to my whining father why I keep needing more.

Unable to stare at the aftermath of my urges any longer, I violently pull down my sleeve and clean the blade off until all that's left is a crimson-soaked tissue. The stinging is great and shows no sign of stopping for a while, so I sink down further onto my pillows to try and sleep it off.

Nearly an hour later, I'm up and ready to leave. It would be less conspicuous this way; just to creep away after my mother thinks the hatchet has been officially buried. I grab hold of my ipod and tread the steps like water.

I'm nearly at the door when a stack of photos on the antique sewing machine catch my eye. I slowly pilfer through them. Each is more disgusting than the last.

Pictures of a smiling me, my nine-year-old-self beaming expectantly at whoever was holding the camera. Others were of my parents. One of my mother clutching me tightly in her arms. I was wearing a birthday party hat, and had frosting smeared across my face. I remember the day it was taken. Staring intently at the frozen reminder, I start to notice the forced grins planted on our faces. The attention had been taken away from my tear-stained cheeks and focused on the cupcake I had decided to wear. Oh, those were the days.

Without bothering to look through the rest, I walked them over to the fireplace. I opened the top of the stove and peered in at the flames that were lapping away at the wood and slowly forming ash. I felt my eyes start to water and tear up as the wave of heat instantly warms my face.

One, two seconds passed. I allowed the pictures to hover over top of the burning logs before they're dropped through the slot and scathing from the corners inward.

A giant smile stretched across my face as I imagined the screams of burning victims. Those visual memories will never be around to haunt anyone again. I made sure of that.

I heard my mother's voice and slipped away before she came down to lecture me on the dangers of standing too close to fire.

And that's how I ended up here. Soaking wet, at this point, and ready to let my mind slip away inside of itself like it normally does.

I'm alone, now. Truly, and painfully alone. And it's both the best and worst feeling imaginable. I'll be a sight to see at school tomorrow. I can hear the jokes already.

I crawl onto my side and rest my head on my un-battered arm. The water from the sopping cloth of my sleeve is being slowly squeezed and is currently seeping into my ear. I hide my eyes and yank my hood further down until it feels like I'm under the covers at home. The crackling thunder acts as a goodnight whisper and I slowly reach that point of unconsciousness where it feels like not even a force of God could wake you.

It's peaceful inside of my bleeding mind, and I wish more than anything life has to offer that I'm able to just stay protected and harnessed like this forever.
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