Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > But No One Sees the Gnashing Teeth of My Heart [Frerard]
When I walk through the front door of my school, an instantaneous hum of excitement and groggy-morning rants consumes me. My ears are ringing from the babbling and laughter, and I begin to wish I'd just stayed home.
I shuffle from my locker over to the corner of the wall that's farthest away from all of the madness and slide down until I'm sitting indian-style. I take my iPod out of my pocket and randomly select a song that'll help me block out the noise.
I sit and watch their moving mouths and start to imagine what I think they might be saying. I never was any good at reading lips, which probably makes my pathetic game just that much more entertaining. The hall begins to erupt and come to an even busier life as the bell rings and everyone rushes to go to class. I slowly pick myself up from the floor and walk over to the art building.
I take my regular seat in front of the fiber optic camera and give the supervisor a pained smile. It's just so hard to feign politeness when it's the farthest thing from what you feel like doing. It's quiet for a good five minutes before the students from the other side of the television start to run in and take their spots.
I glance around the room and wonder how I managed to score such a small class. There are only eight kids and I can't help but to feel thankful. More students equals more commotion. I'm best at art when I'm able to really concentrate on my project.
After the teacher takes morning roll and gives instructions to continue with our work, I pull out my sketchbook and pencils to finish my Friday project. The directions were to scrawl something frightening, so I proceed to work on a venomous demon as the crinkling of papers around me fades to the background.
I'm lost in the pointed fangs of my beast-in-progress, so when the door swings open at the back of the room, I'm one of the few not to look up. I focus intently on drawing the gums of his mouth just right, and don't hear a voice mumble something to the effect of "I'm new here." to the teacher. The moment I start to take in my surroundings is the moment a darkly dressed boy sits down in the chair next to mine.
I look up with curiosity and am immediately dumbfounded when I find that the boy from the park has followed me to school.
All traces of focus have been purged from my system, and I awkwardly follow his movements with my eyes. I start to wonder about him. What's his name? From what school did he transfer? And then I realize that I shouldn't be interested in the first place, so I attempt to lose myself in the picture before me.
The rest of the block drags on as I wait to leave his presence and get my mind off of the thoughts I had last night. Why am I even so entranced? He's nothing special. It's with these thoughts that I successfully convince myself to forget his existence all-together.
The remainder of the day goes by at average speed, and by the time the bus rolls its way on campus, I'm more than ready to escape from this place. I stand in line as the handful of students pile on in front of me. When my turn comes around, I make quick of getting through the aisle and over to my seat in the back where I'm less-likely to be bothered by the elementary students.
I often wonder what this world would come to if all transportation was like this. If no cars existed and instead, poorly-air conditioned buses were used to shuffle people from town to town. In that case, I'd stick to walking full-time. I can hardly stand the eyes of the people who look at me like I'm some kind of gloomed-down freak. I wouldn't want that layer of suffocation around me everywhere I went.
The bus is nearly ready to leave the parking lot, when the principal climbs aboard to give the driver some instructions. He motions his hands in an indicating manor as if he's trying to give her directions. She nods a few times and jots down a note on her clipboard. After I see Mr. Clemons step off, in his place is none other than the mystery boy from Block 1. I turn my head immediately in hopes of losing interest. It just isn't like me to stare. From the corner of my vision, I see him take a seat diagonal to mine. Sheer human nature takes over and I start to watch as he slides his bony finger over the volume button of his mp3. He starts to drift off into a place I might like to visit as the wheels begin to roll and we're all being taken home.
I fail to see where his stop is because I'm dropped off first. I quickly wrap my earphones up and stick them in my messenger bag before pulling out my house key and stepping inside. Very rarely is my mother out of the house, so when she is I like to take advantage.
I run up the stairs with an energy I don't usually possess and open the door to my room. From behind my headboard, I pull out a creamy white Les Paul and start to strum it in the most delicate way imaginable. It's just so beautiful beneath my fingertips, and I suddenly get the odd impulse to clean it.
I lose myself in the music I'm so elegantly performing, that I fail to notice the lapse of time. As I play riff after riff, messing up here and there but still considering it a song well-played, the clock ticks on and before I know it my mother's coming through the door.
I feverishly lunge to un-plug the guitar from it's miniature amp while simultaneously ripping off the supportive strap from my shoulder. I quickly hide the guitar back in it's safe place and busy myself in something else.
Later that night, when dinner's made and bedtime is creeping closer and closer still, I'm called into the living room for a traditional talk from my parents.
"Franklin, we'd like to know why you refuse to play your guitar for Sister Bethany's choir in Sunday service. You used to beg us to let you play for the congregation, and now it's like you've forgotten how lucky you are to have such a gift. God has blessed you with this, Frank. And if you don't start utilizing your talents for His glory, you're sure to lose them." my mother finishes. I silently curse myself for thinking I'd ever be able to get away with a little fun, and begin working out an suitable argument in my head.
"I just don't feel like playing in front of people anymore." I say lamely. My mother gives me a 'Bullshit' grimace, and I get the sudden urge to just scream in her face. I'm sick of the absolute shit I go through because of her. Her passive aggression is more than what I can tolerate. I habitually go to clasp my arm and nonchalantly sink my nails deep inside where they can act as a stress-reliever.
"Frank, you're throwing away something beautiful." she argues. "I'm not throwing anything away! I still play when I want to." I retort. "Exactly. When you want to. Not when Jesus wants you to." she replies. I fight back the sarcastic eye-roll I've been dying to perform since the beginning of this conversation and wait for the lecture to run its course.
"I over-heard you playing when I came home this afternoon. Why won't you play like that for your father and me?" she nags. My dad stares blankly up at me, probably fantasizing about the dinner he has yet to scarf down in the next room.
"That should be my choice." I say firmly. A smirk slides over her face and makes each and every one of her features as unattractive as possible.
"We're your parents, and what we say is final. Don't start telling us what you can and cannot do." she says in her best mocking tone. I want so badly to mention how I'll only be a minor for just a few short months, but think better of it in order to prevent an even bigger argument.
I nod in agreement and ask if I can leave the room to eat my dinner. She scoffs and mutters "Just go." to herself. I take that as permission granted and hurriedly leave to grab a plate and pile a mountain of salad and macaroni on it. After finding a can of soda, I leave the kitchen and head up to my room to claim the peace I should never have had taken from me in the first place.
The food grows bland the longer I allow it to sit untouched. I've lost my appetite and would love nothing more but to run away. There's just a point in time when the weight of empty and demanding expectations make you do daring and desperate things. Never in my life have I felt so asphyxiated on this lack of hope. Will things ever get better? Even when I turn eighteen, I still won't be able to move out until I've gathered enough money to support myself. Work is something a person of my age hardly ever comes by in this town, because the jobs are few and the pay is shit.
I sigh heavily and try my hardest to release some of this self-pity. It isn't good to dwell on all things negative, but it's gotten to the point where I really don't know how to stop.
The slashes on my arm have scabbed over and are starting to heal. As badly as I'd like to re-open and explore them, I can't be assed to clean up the blood. I settle for picking them raw and marveling in the cheap release of a cloudy pain I crave to intensify.
An hour goes by, and all I've accomplished is a few bites of food and some nasty gashes. When did life become this boring? I regret ever letting go of the few friends I had. There just comes a time when a relationship loses that special bond which holds a false illusion of forever. All the same, it would be nice to have a fall-back; to know that someone out there cares about you in some shape or fashion.
My room is cold, and my thoughts grow frigid. The only people in this world who show interest are the ones who've tried to recruit and convert me for the Lord. I'm sick of getting caught up in this religious battle. Life is hard enough to live without the threat of impending and imminent doom upon denying the one true route to the afterlife. It stings to know I've fallen away from something that should supposedly hold all of the answers, but what's done is done and there's nothing anyone can say to change my mind.
After shrugging off my clothes and climbing into bed, I'm tortured and harassed by these scattered thoughts and worries. Some people's greatest fear is to walk this earth alone, but mine is to take that same walk with someone who hides away the things that make me unique.
A/N: I just want to thank you few who are following along with this story. I know it seems slow for now, but it will progress and I really hope you decide to tag along for the ride
I shuffle from my locker over to the corner of the wall that's farthest away from all of the madness and slide down until I'm sitting indian-style. I take my iPod out of my pocket and randomly select a song that'll help me block out the noise.
I sit and watch their moving mouths and start to imagine what I think they might be saying. I never was any good at reading lips, which probably makes my pathetic game just that much more entertaining. The hall begins to erupt and come to an even busier life as the bell rings and everyone rushes to go to class. I slowly pick myself up from the floor and walk over to the art building.
I take my regular seat in front of the fiber optic camera and give the supervisor a pained smile. It's just so hard to feign politeness when it's the farthest thing from what you feel like doing. It's quiet for a good five minutes before the students from the other side of the television start to run in and take their spots.
I glance around the room and wonder how I managed to score such a small class. There are only eight kids and I can't help but to feel thankful. More students equals more commotion. I'm best at art when I'm able to really concentrate on my project.
After the teacher takes morning roll and gives instructions to continue with our work, I pull out my sketchbook and pencils to finish my Friday project. The directions were to scrawl something frightening, so I proceed to work on a venomous demon as the crinkling of papers around me fades to the background.
I'm lost in the pointed fangs of my beast-in-progress, so when the door swings open at the back of the room, I'm one of the few not to look up. I focus intently on drawing the gums of his mouth just right, and don't hear a voice mumble something to the effect of "I'm new here." to the teacher. The moment I start to take in my surroundings is the moment a darkly dressed boy sits down in the chair next to mine.
I look up with curiosity and am immediately dumbfounded when I find that the boy from the park has followed me to school.
All traces of focus have been purged from my system, and I awkwardly follow his movements with my eyes. I start to wonder about him. What's his name? From what school did he transfer? And then I realize that I shouldn't be interested in the first place, so I attempt to lose myself in the picture before me.
The rest of the block drags on as I wait to leave his presence and get my mind off of the thoughts I had last night. Why am I even so entranced? He's nothing special. It's with these thoughts that I successfully convince myself to forget his existence all-together.
The remainder of the day goes by at average speed, and by the time the bus rolls its way on campus, I'm more than ready to escape from this place. I stand in line as the handful of students pile on in front of me. When my turn comes around, I make quick of getting through the aisle and over to my seat in the back where I'm less-likely to be bothered by the elementary students.
I often wonder what this world would come to if all transportation was like this. If no cars existed and instead, poorly-air conditioned buses were used to shuffle people from town to town. In that case, I'd stick to walking full-time. I can hardly stand the eyes of the people who look at me like I'm some kind of gloomed-down freak. I wouldn't want that layer of suffocation around me everywhere I went.
The bus is nearly ready to leave the parking lot, when the principal climbs aboard to give the driver some instructions. He motions his hands in an indicating manor as if he's trying to give her directions. She nods a few times and jots down a note on her clipboard. After I see Mr. Clemons step off, in his place is none other than the mystery boy from Block 1. I turn my head immediately in hopes of losing interest. It just isn't like me to stare. From the corner of my vision, I see him take a seat diagonal to mine. Sheer human nature takes over and I start to watch as he slides his bony finger over the volume button of his mp3. He starts to drift off into a place I might like to visit as the wheels begin to roll and we're all being taken home.
I fail to see where his stop is because I'm dropped off first. I quickly wrap my earphones up and stick them in my messenger bag before pulling out my house key and stepping inside. Very rarely is my mother out of the house, so when she is I like to take advantage.
I run up the stairs with an energy I don't usually possess and open the door to my room. From behind my headboard, I pull out a creamy white Les Paul and start to strum it in the most delicate way imaginable. It's just so beautiful beneath my fingertips, and I suddenly get the odd impulse to clean it.
I lose myself in the music I'm so elegantly performing, that I fail to notice the lapse of time. As I play riff after riff, messing up here and there but still considering it a song well-played, the clock ticks on and before I know it my mother's coming through the door.
I feverishly lunge to un-plug the guitar from it's miniature amp while simultaneously ripping off the supportive strap from my shoulder. I quickly hide the guitar back in it's safe place and busy myself in something else.
Later that night, when dinner's made and bedtime is creeping closer and closer still, I'm called into the living room for a traditional talk from my parents.
"Franklin, we'd like to know why you refuse to play your guitar for Sister Bethany's choir in Sunday service. You used to beg us to let you play for the congregation, and now it's like you've forgotten how lucky you are to have such a gift. God has blessed you with this, Frank. And if you don't start utilizing your talents for His glory, you're sure to lose them." my mother finishes. I silently curse myself for thinking I'd ever be able to get away with a little fun, and begin working out an suitable argument in my head.
"I just don't feel like playing in front of people anymore." I say lamely. My mother gives me a 'Bullshit' grimace, and I get the sudden urge to just scream in her face. I'm sick of the absolute shit I go through because of her. Her passive aggression is more than what I can tolerate. I habitually go to clasp my arm and nonchalantly sink my nails deep inside where they can act as a stress-reliever.
"Frank, you're throwing away something beautiful." she argues. "I'm not throwing anything away! I still play when I want to." I retort. "Exactly. When you want to. Not when Jesus wants you to." she replies. I fight back the sarcastic eye-roll I've been dying to perform since the beginning of this conversation and wait for the lecture to run its course.
"I over-heard you playing when I came home this afternoon. Why won't you play like that for your father and me?" she nags. My dad stares blankly up at me, probably fantasizing about the dinner he has yet to scarf down in the next room.
"That should be my choice." I say firmly. A smirk slides over her face and makes each and every one of her features as unattractive as possible.
"We're your parents, and what we say is final. Don't start telling us what you can and cannot do." she says in her best mocking tone. I want so badly to mention how I'll only be a minor for just a few short months, but think better of it in order to prevent an even bigger argument.
I nod in agreement and ask if I can leave the room to eat my dinner. She scoffs and mutters "Just go." to herself. I take that as permission granted and hurriedly leave to grab a plate and pile a mountain of salad and macaroni on it. After finding a can of soda, I leave the kitchen and head up to my room to claim the peace I should never have had taken from me in the first place.
The food grows bland the longer I allow it to sit untouched. I've lost my appetite and would love nothing more but to run away. There's just a point in time when the weight of empty and demanding expectations make you do daring and desperate things. Never in my life have I felt so asphyxiated on this lack of hope. Will things ever get better? Even when I turn eighteen, I still won't be able to move out until I've gathered enough money to support myself. Work is something a person of my age hardly ever comes by in this town, because the jobs are few and the pay is shit.
I sigh heavily and try my hardest to release some of this self-pity. It isn't good to dwell on all things negative, but it's gotten to the point where I really don't know how to stop.
The slashes on my arm have scabbed over and are starting to heal. As badly as I'd like to re-open and explore them, I can't be assed to clean up the blood. I settle for picking them raw and marveling in the cheap release of a cloudy pain I crave to intensify.
An hour goes by, and all I've accomplished is a few bites of food and some nasty gashes. When did life become this boring? I regret ever letting go of the few friends I had. There just comes a time when a relationship loses that special bond which holds a false illusion of forever. All the same, it would be nice to have a fall-back; to know that someone out there cares about you in some shape or fashion.
My room is cold, and my thoughts grow frigid. The only people in this world who show interest are the ones who've tried to recruit and convert me for the Lord. I'm sick of getting caught up in this religious battle. Life is hard enough to live without the threat of impending and imminent doom upon denying the one true route to the afterlife. It stings to know I've fallen away from something that should supposedly hold all of the answers, but what's done is done and there's nothing anyone can say to change my mind.
After shrugging off my clothes and climbing into bed, I'm tortured and harassed by these scattered thoughts and worries. Some people's greatest fear is to walk this earth alone, but mine is to take that same walk with someone who hides away the things that make me unique.
A/N: I just want to thank you few who are following along with this story. I know it seems slow for now, but it will progress and I really hope you decide to tag along for the ride
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