Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > But No One Sees the Gnashing Teeth of My Heart [Frerard]
I awake on the stiff park bench at about a quarter 'til noon. The sun had made an appearance, but it was already battling for dominance with the grey-tinted clouds placed high above.
"Ughnh..." I groan. My back had paid the price for my spontaneity; I can already feel the sharp shoots of white hot pain from the uncomfortable way I slept.
Not too far up the park's trail, I can hear a collective laugh coming from one of the pick-nick benches. It took me a moment to spot the exact place, but once I did I noticed the bright blue streamers and too-full balloons. I took this as my cue to leave and stood up. After brushing some of the mulch from my hoodie, I reach in my pocket to grab my headphones and made my way over to the road. I still have no idea what I'm going to do until 3:30, but I'll figure something out. I always do.
I'm still getting used to having feeling back in my feet, when I take a turn and head for the exit beyond the gate. I notice the cars lined up on either side of the street and briefly wonder how old the kid is turning. A gust of wind instantly chills me until I'm practically shivering with my arms tucked far inside of my jacket pockets.
Before too long, I've made it into the small town and start to wonder what I'll do until it's time to go home. Eating is out of the question, on account of the fact that I'm broke. After giving it some thought, I decide on exploring the local music shop. It's a small building that's part of an entire strip of stores. The windows advertise the many genres they carry, and I'm instantly sucked in by it's genuine appeal to anyone who breathes and eats music the way I do.
I push open the glass door and am instantly welcomed by the small bell placed at the top of the frame. I see the manager's gaze settle on me for a moment before his attention is re-focused onto the newspaper in front of him. I'm drawn to the Metal and Rock portion of the CDs. Every plastic box makes me feel lucky to be alive. To have the chance to really feel artwork in such a natural way; to be in the presence of something that carries great potential.
I take my time; gradually making it through row after row of music. The band names and song titles jump out at me as the odd designs and colors of the albums' cover art catch my wondering eyes.
"Shouldn't you be in school, son?" a raspy voice from the far corner calls, pulling me out of my own head and back into the reality of being in his store.
"Probably." I state quietly. He studies me for a moment before uttering a small laugh and returning his attention to his place at the desk. I'm overcome with relief when I realize he has no intention of kicking me out, and quickly turn back around to explore where I left off.
A few hours go by. No food, not a single bathroom break. I'm simply stuck - staring at the merchandise that could hold my attention for years. When I think I've lusted over the contents of this store enough, I start for the door. Right when I step foot on the rug though, I see a familiar face. Though something isn't quite right about this face. It's bruised and bloated. Gerard's blackened eye and fat lip seem to scream every word relating to pain as he strides for the entryway.
I'm frozen. Completely, and utterly glued to my fucking spot on the floor. I hadn't expected to run into the very thing I was hiding from. Does he know I did this to him? Maybe he'll hit me back. He could yell, or simply plot some form of revenge. But as I look at him -really look at him- I can tell there isn't an argumentative bone in his body. Not a single part of him seems to appear as 'tough'. He isn't weak, but his stature is one of peace, and through all of the chaos my mind has stirred up, I happen to find that calming.
I suddenly gain back a little bit of will, and start to move toward the back of the store; far out of his line of vision. I hear the tiny bell ring once again and hide like a guilty child behind one of the shelves. "Hey, Gerard. Oh, God! What happened!" the same raspy voice asks. I take a moment to gawk over the fact that these two know each other, before straining my ears to listen closely to his response.
"Eh, you know. Had a run in with some friends." he answers like it's nothing. His thick Jersey accent reminds me of the locals, and it occurs to me that he's probably lived in this neck of the woods longer than I had thought.
"Bullshit. I call it. What really happened?" the owner asks. His overall concern is nearly paternal. All I hear for a long time is complete silence. Not even the crackling static from the radio overhead is comfortable with making a noise at a time like this. I peak through a crack in the metal shelf and see Gerard visibly mulling things over in his head. Finally, he shrugs and heads over to the Metal category. This triggers a rather exhausted sigh from the older man and signals the end of their conversation.
Now would be the perfect time to leave. While no one's watching, and the exit is completely cleared of people. But something keeps me rooted to my spot. Like an invisible weight -most commonly known by the name of curiosity. I find that I can't help myself. He's just too interesting to forget about with ease. Sure, it's not like I think the guy holds this almighty wisdom, but he's definitely not like the pricks I go to school with. He's sheltered; different.
I watch from a distance as he explores the rows of music. He stops every-so-often to touch a CD case, but then goes back to exploring with his eyes alone. I realize I'm staring a bit too intently soon enough, and try to distract myself with something else. I turn around and finger the straps on a particular guitar case. I'd never get away with buying accessories for my guitar; mom'd only bring my inability to follow the path of God to my attention once again.
No more than fifteen minutes have passed, and the quiet boy has inched his way closer to my spot near the back. I know I should move. I know I should avoid him like the plague - as I do the rest of the world. But the same thing that's kept me here this far has stopped me again. I find that no matter how hard I try, I can't leave my place and sneak away from him as I have with nearly everyone else.
He glances my way for the first time. Recognition flashes across his dark green eyes and shows on his face for a split second before those same eyes are tragically glued to the old carpet beneath our feet. As I'm standing closer, I'm able to see just how bad the damage truly is. The small cuts surrounding his bruised eye remind me of a blade, and I suddenly feel as sick as I did yesterday. The purpling choke marks on either side of his throat really clash with the intense white of his skin. They're nearly as beautiful as my scars, and it scares me to know that I've found beauty in someone else's pain.
Without giving it an ounce of thought, I stand next to him in the aisle. The weight of every unspoken thing I've ever wanted to say to anyone is thrown and pounded onto my shoulders. It almost hurts to breathe as I'm overwhelmed with such insane, inexplicable feelings.
Quickly, and almost inaudibly, I hear him whisper a faint 'Hi'. I smile and return the salutation, meanwhile feeling my very breath escape me as I notice how attractively his shaggy hair falls over his eye's shiner. It's almost a sin, I think, to have good looks and not know what to do with them.
We stand and bathe in the peaceful silence. Nothing is awkward, but there is the obvious question of "What next?" skittering across my mind right before I see him open his mouth to speak.
"What was the assignment in art today?" his voice asks quietly. I can tell he is apprehensive to speak at all. I clear my throat and answer in a shakier voice than I would have liked.
"Oh, I have no idea. I didn't go." I finally admit. He instantly looks disappointed, and I almost wish I had made something up to appease the poor guy.
"Oh..." he trails off. I shrug and open my mouth to speak again.
"I'm sure whatever it was, she'll let you make it up." I assure him as I gesture to his wounds. He nods solemnly and shoots another glance at the floor.
The tension has reached the degree of unbearable, and as I glance at the wall clock in the corner, I see that it's almost twenty minutes 'til three. I smile a tight grin for the battered guy beside of me and turn to leave for the door. Not another sound is heard until I reach the door and cause the bell to cling a final time as I open it to walk out.
I walk home, scuffing the tips of my converse on the jagged pieces of concrete as I drag my feet along. At one point, my shoelace comes untied, and I focus on it intently and observe how quickly the lace's tip has started to unravel.
By the time I get home, the bus is driving away. This makes it look like I had just stepped off and away. I hope to God I'm in the clear and can simply go up to my room to try and recuperate from such an uncomfortable rest the previous night. I unlock the door before walking through and yelling to see if anyone is home.
No one answers.
Taking this as a sign of good luck, I hurriedly make my way up the stairs and over to my door. As I walk through, I take in the appearance; instantly scoping the place to make sure my mother hasn't gone on another snatching tirade. After becoming comfortable once again, I take my place on the bed and decide to reflect on the day that had just played out.
Gerard. Such a quiet, lonely kid. Some part of me wants to know all about him. To be an expert and remember every single thing that makes him as unique as he appears. I'm so terribly confused with my newfound interest, but there's no time to dwell on something so measly. I'll never understand myself anyway.
And maybe this sudden interest in mankind is for the best.
Everyone, from the beginning of time, has expected some massive impact on the world. Some cataclysmic event that will inevitably swipe away the good and bad mistakes alike, and wash away all of this ugly world's imprinted imperfections.
Apocalyptic theories litter our literature and libraries, and not a day goes by when someone isn't mentioning a new conspiracy in the tabloids. Maybe people have too much time on their hands. Maybe they're at a loss for any social interaction, so they spend their time thinking up outrageous accusations and guessing when this world will meet its end.
And I don't think I understood, 'til now, what it meant to grin and bear it. 'Cause I've never once been able to genuinely smile over something uncomfortable. But really, you're not smiling to fool anyone. You're not putting on a show or an empty and broken face of false excitement. You're grinning to convince yourself, that even for a few moments, you're actually all right. To grin and bear whatever may or may not come is to simply watch as your life decides to crumble apart, and still find something to laugh about. 'Cause the laughs will often cover up the desperate gasps and tears.
Some people expect a fiery explosion, signaling a rapid change on this planet; altering life as we know it. A blast, on-setting a new era with new tastes and experiences. And as I've opened my eyes and mind to this possibility, I'm burdened with a question I'm scared will be answered soon enough. If a world built up by an imaginative mind is just as susceptible to change and destruction as any realistic world is, is it so impossible for Gerard to maybe be the demolition to mine?
"Ughnh..." I groan. My back had paid the price for my spontaneity; I can already feel the sharp shoots of white hot pain from the uncomfortable way I slept.
Not too far up the park's trail, I can hear a collective laugh coming from one of the pick-nick benches. It took me a moment to spot the exact place, but once I did I noticed the bright blue streamers and too-full balloons. I took this as my cue to leave and stood up. After brushing some of the mulch from my hoodie, I reach in my pocket to grab my headphones and made my way over to the road. I still have no idea what I'm going to do until 3:30, but I'll figure something out. I always do.
I'm still getting used to having feeling back in my feet, when I take a turn and head for the exit beyond the gate. I notice the cars lined up on either side of the street and briefly wonder how old the kid is turning. A gust of wind instantly chills me until I'm practically shivering with my arms tucked far inside of my jacket pockets.
Before too long, I've made it into the small town and start to wonder what I'll do until it's time to go home. Eating is out of the question, on account of the fact that I'm broke. After giving it some thought, I decide on exploring the local music shop. It's a small building that's part of an entire strip of stores. The windows advertise the many genres they carry, and I'm instantly sucked in by it's genuine appeal to anyone who breathes and eats music the way I do.
I push open the glass door and am instantly welcomed by the small bell placed at the top of the frame. I see the manager's gaze settle on me for a moment before his attention is re-focused onto the newspaper in front of him. I'm drawn to the Metal and Rock portion of the CDs. Every plastic box makes me feel lucky to be alive. To have the chance to really feel artwork in such a natural way; to be in the presence of something that carries great potential.
I take my time; gradually making it through row after row of music. The band names and song titles jump out at me as the odd designs and colors of the albums' cover art catch my wondering eyes.
"Shouldn't you be in school, son?" a raspy voice from the far corner calls, pulling me out of my own head and back into the reality of being in his store.
"Probably." I state quietly. He studies me for a moment before uttering a small laugh and returning his attention to his place at the desk. I'm overcome with relief when I realize he has no intention of kicking me out, and quickly turn back around to explore where I left off.
A few hours go by. No food, not a single bathroom break. I'm simply stuck - staring at the merchandise that could hold my attention for years. When I think I've lusted over the contents of this store enough, I start for the door. Right when I step foot on the rug though, I see a familiar face. Though something isn't quite right about this face. It's bruised and bloated. Gerard's blackened eye and fat lip seem to scream every word relating to pain as he strides for the entryway.
I'm frozen. Completely, and utterly glued to my fucking spot on the floor. I hadn't expected to run into the very thing I was hiding from. Does he know I did this to him? Maybe he'll hit me back. He could yell, or simply plot some form of revenge. But as I look at him -really look at him- I can tell there isn't an argumentative bone in his body. Not a single part of him seems to appear as 'tough'. He isn't weak, but his stature is one of peace, and through all of the chaos my mind has stirred up, I happen to find that calming.
I suddenly gain back a little bit of will, and start to move toward the back of the store; far out of his line of vision. I hear the tiny bell ring once again and hide like a guilty child behind one of the shelves. "Hey, Gerard. Oh, God! What happened!" the same raspy voice asks. I take a moment to gawk over the fact that these two know each other, before straining my ears to listen closely to his response.
"Eh, you know. Had a run in with some friends." he answers like it's nothing. His thick Jersey accent reminds me of the locals, and it occurs to me that he's probably lived in this neck of the woods longer than I had thought.
"Bullshit. I call it. What really happened?" the owner asks. His overall concern is nearly paternal. All I hear for a long time is complete silence. Not even the crackling static from the radio overhead is comfortable with making a noise at a time like this. I peak through a crack in the metal shelf and see Gerard visibly mulling things over in his head. Finally, he shrugs and heads over to the Metal category. This triggers a rather exhausted sigh from the older man and signals the end of their conversation.
Now would be the perfect time to leave. While no one's watching, and the exit is completely cleared of people. But something keeps me rooted to my spot. Like an invisible weight -most commonly known by the name of curiosity. I find that I can't help myself. He's just too interesting to forget about with ease. Sure, it's not like I think the guy holds this almighty wisdom, but he's definitely not like the pricks I go to school with. He's sheltered; different.
I watch from a distance as he explores the rows of music. He stops every-so-often to touch a CD case, but then goes back to exploring with his eyes alone. I realize I'm staring a bit too intently soon enough, and try to distract myself with something else. I turn around and finger the straps on a particular guitar case. I'd never get away with buying accessories for my guitar; mom'd only bring my inability to follow the path of God to my attention once again.
No more than fifteen minutes have passed, and the quiet boy has inched his way closer to my spot near the back. I know I should move. I know I should avoid him like the plague - as I do the rest of the world. But the same thing that's kept me here this far has stopped me again. I find that no matter how hard I try, I can't leave my place and sneak away from him as I have with nearly everyone else.
He glances my way for the first time. Recognition flashes across his dark green eyes and shows on his face for a split second before those same eyes are tragically glued to the old carpet beneath our feet. As I'm standing closer, I'm able to see just how bad the damage truly is. The small cuts surrounding his bruised eye remind me of a blade, and I suddenly feel as sick as I did yesterday. The purpling choke marks on either side of his throat really clash with the intense white of his skin. They're nearly as beautiful as my scars, and it scares me to know that I've found beauty in someone else's pain.
Without giving it an ounce of thought, I stand next to him in the aisle. The weight of every unspoken thing I've ever wanted to say to anyone is thrown and pounded onto my shoulders. It almost hurts to breathe as I'm overwhelmed with such insane, inexplicable feelings.
Quickly, and almost inaudibly, I hear him whisper a faint 'Hi'. I smile and return the salutation, meanwhile feeling my very breath escape me as I notice how attractively his shaggy hair falls over his eye's shiner. It's almost a sin, I think, to have good looks and not know what to do with them.
We stand and bathe in the peaceful silence. Nothing is awkward, but there is the obvious question of "What next?" skittering across my mind right before I see him open his mouth to speak.
"What was the assignment in art today?" his voice asks quietly. I can tell he is apprehensive to speak at all. I clear my throat and answer in a shakier voice than I would have liked.
"Oh, I have no idea. I didn't go." I finally admit. He instantly looks disappointed, and I almost wish I had made something up to appease the poor guy.
"Oh..." he trails off. I shrug and open my mouth to speak again.
"I'm sure whatever it was, she'll let you make it up." I assure him as I gesture to his wounds. He nods solemnly and shoots another glance at the floor.
The tension has reached the degree of unbearable, and as I glance at the wall clock in the corner, I see that it's almost twenty minutes 'til three. I smile a tight grin for the battered guy beside of me and turn to leave for the door. Not another sound is heard until I reach the door and cause the bell to cling a final time as I open it to walk out.
I walk home, scuffing the tips of my converse on the jagged pieces of concrete as I drag my feet along. At one point, my shoelace comes untied, and I focus on it intently and observe how quickly the lace's tip has started to unravel.
By the time I get home, the bus is driving away. This makes it look like I had just stepped off and away. I hope to God I'm in the clear and can simply go up to my room to try and recuperate from such an uncomfortable rest the previous night. I unlock the door before walking through and yelling to see if anyone is home.
No one answers.
Taking this as a sign of good luck, I hurriedly make my way up the stairs and over to my door. As I walk through, I take in the appearance; instantly scoping the place to make sure my mother hasn't gone on another snatching tirade. After becoming comfortable once again, I take my place on the bed and decide to reflect on the day that had just played out.
Gerard. Such a quiet, lonely kid. Some part of me wants to know all about him. To be an expert and remember every single thing that makes him as unique as he appears. I'm so terribly confused with my newfound interest, but there's no time to dwell on something so measly. I'll never understand myself anyway.
And maybe this sudden interest in mankind is for the best.
Everyone, from the beginning of time, has expected some massive impact on the world. Some cataclysmic event that will inevitably swipe away the good and bad mistakes alike, and wash away all of this ugly world's imprinted imperfections.
Apocalyptic theories litter our literature and libraries, and not a day goes by when someone isn't mentioning a new conspiracy in the tabloids. Maybe people have too much time on their hands. Maybe they're at a loss for any social interaction, so they spend their time thinking up outrageous accusations and guessing when this world will meet its end.
And I don't think I understood, 'til now, what it meant to grin and bear it. 'Cause I've never once been able to genuinely smile over something uncomfortable. But really, you're not smiling to fool anyone. You're not putting on a show or an empty and broken face of false excitement. You're grinning to convince yourself, that even for a few moments, you're actually all right. To grin and bear whatever may or may not come is to simply watch as your life decides to crumble apart, and still find something to laugh about. 'Cause the laughs will often cover up the desperate gasps and tears.
Some people expect a fiery explosion, signaling a rapid change on this planet; altering life as we know it. A blast, on-setting a new era with new tastes and experiences. And as I've opened my eyes and mind to this possibility, I'm burdened with a question I'm scared will be answered soon enough. If a world built up by an imaginative mind is just as susceptible to change and destruction as any realistic world is, is it so impossible for Gerard to maybe be the demolition to mine?
Sign up to rate and review this story