Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > But No One Sees the Gnashing Teeth of My Heart [Frerard]
After recovering from the initial shock of being left alone after actually having enjoyable company, I decide it's finally time to be on my way. I keep an eye on the street, childishly hoping to catch a glimpse of Gerard's car coming back through. My brain goes through the trouble of guessing where he suddenly had to go and what the huge rush was. It's as if everything was going fine, and then something more important got in the way to where it was all he could think about. I beat myself up for starting to consider myself important in anyone's eyes, namely Gerard's.
My Chucks scuff the asphalt beneath them as if to file a complaint. I do nothing to keep my feet in line and instead scuff heavier, still. Within a good fifteen minutes, I find myself approaching the front of my home, inching closer and closer to the front door and barrier between myself and them. For a moment I start to wonder how far I could get before either of them seek after me. I find the odds to be far from in my favor though as soon as the blinds in the living room are halfway drawn, signaling that my mother is, indeed, home and more than likely about to pounce on me for being out so long.
I take the first step inside, my feet barely touching the tile before her shrill voice takes over and drowns whatever cheer I could still call my own.
"Frank! It's almost eight o'clock! You could have called, you know." my mother yells, her face only a foot from mine but still at its most gruesome expression. I decide to be a smartass because according to her that's all I'm good for anyway.
"With what phone?" I ask coldly, my gaze already lingering on the banister lined along the steps in the next room. My brain won't leave that basement no matter how hard I try, and I know there's nothing at all that can change its focus until I'm in there once again.
"Oh don't be smart with me, child. You know good and well you could have used a payphone, or even the provided phone at the library. One day you're going to have to learn to grow up. People don't just sail breezily through life in the real world."
I flinch. Oddly enough, that stung harshly and now I'm really ready to leave her presence. Lucky for me, she's not finished.
"Your father and I have decided to place you with a curfew if you're going to be so irresponsible. 7:30 everyday or else you won't be leaving the house at all." she says in her calm, collected voice I've grown to despise. I nod without uttering a single word, just clenching my jaw and willing her figure to disappear and leave me to live without the unnecessary stress she likes to place on me. "Are you planning on eating anything tonight?" my mother questions, her voice considerably brighter now that she's enforced the law like every good parent should. I shake my head no and start to back away for the stairs, praying with everything I have inside to make it to my room before I punch a wall or start to cry like a fucking child. Thankfully she allows me to leave with very little resentment, and soon enough I'm where I always should be: my bed, where not a fucking thing can stop me from sleeping away these troubles and finding something different to wrap my head around until real life gets in the way again.
The next morning, I'm as groggy as ever, but that doesn't keep my father from bursting into song like clockwork just as he always does upon waking up for church. I toss and turn to try and find sleep once again, this time only having it for another twenty minutes before my door is opened and my dad has his head poked in to yell for me to wake up and get ready. My body is nestled between a pillow and the wall, making it very difficult to get up without falling back down. I check the clock. 9:30. Sure, I've gotten more sleep than a lot of people could admit to having in one night, but I'd gladly stay in bed all day if it meant being alone instead of facing a group of people and their chants of early-morning praise.
Eventually I find it easier to move around without tripping over nothing and muttering something not so Sunday-morning-friendly. It's when I'm over at my closet facing my drawer full of clothes that some clarity slaps me across the face. I forgot to do my laundry the night before and now I only have my faded jeans to wear. This'll be a problem. Sluggishly, I slide them over my boxer-clad legs and fasten the button and zipper as usual. I just know someone's going to fuss at me for being inappropriate in the eyes of God, so I go over the inevitable dialogue before checking my face in the mirror.
Several minutes and some contemplation later, I'm down in the kitchen fishing the last few gulps of milk from the bottle as I weigh the pros and cons of eating a slice of toast. I know I'm fucking dead when my parents both stomp down the stairs, already in ill-tempered moods at one another and probably the world in general even before they lay eyes on me.
"Go upstairs and change." my mother says calmly, her expression is completely made of stone, making it nearly impossible for me to get out of this without a lecture.
"I can't. None of my other pants are clean." I say simply, waiting for the boxing match to start and for my pride to be shot again. What I don't expect is for none of that to happen. My dad rolls his eyes in apparent disappointment but says nothing either. Then my mother comes-to after taking a sip of orange juice and faces me with those angry eyes and that ridiculously awful snarl. I try, for a moment, to see her as others may. To view her through the eyes of an outsider; objectively and with little attachment. It's too hard, though. That face and her voice... they'll always bear the title of ugly. It's not something I can help and I know that's probably pathetic, but she's simply not someone I can put all bias aside for. She's ugly, and I'm a prick.
"Then go wear something from your hamper. I'll not have you go to church looking like someone off the street. It's bad enough you won't even wear real dress pants. At least go put on something that doesn't have... bleach all over it." she says angrily after giving my jeans a look-over and nearly scoffing with disgust.
So I look at her. Look at the ugly, controlling person in front of me. So many harsh, cruel names run across my mind. So many things I'd like to call her or maybe just carve into her. So many. But I can't say or even clearly think any of that. She's... she's not just a bully at school. She's my mother. My mom. She's that someone that already has society on her side because she's been generalized. So yeah, she's different than most. It'd take an eternity of time to explain how she's not... right. I can barely look at her any longer. That should't be normal.
Quietly I turn away, almost beside myself with disgust for letting another human make me feel so miserable over something so petty. It's not the act itself, it's the principle. That's my relationship with her in a nutshell. It's not what she makes me do or about the feelings she's given me. I can handle all of that; it's not the end of the world. It's the fact that all of this negativity; all of the reasoning behind my masochism and personal-sabotage is from my mother. The woman every child's supposed to learn and grow from. It's like some backwards reality where the hero is actually the villain. It's tainted.
Once I'm upstairs, I sift through my hamper of clothes until I find the pair of jeans I wore two days ago. Dirty, and somewhat wrinkled, they're still as presentable as they're going to get. I pull off the bleached filth I'd been wearing and slip on something more presentable. There. She wins, everyone's happy. I opt to change hoodies given the change of my pants' color. Now it's a grey, drawstring jacket. Simple and protective; like a security blanket I hope to never grow out of. I look in the mirror once again wondering why the fuck it even really matters considering I have no one to impress, then turn away and shut the door before trailing down the steps and waiting in the living room.
The car ride over is silent. Sure, music's blaring; cheerful Christian pop and words of wisdom given from effective inspirational speakers in the meantime. My parents are as happy as can be listening to the people who really know it all. But it's still silent in my head; my scattered thoughts are broken and leave me with nothing to lose myself in. True boredom. I sit patiently, drumming my fingers along the thick seam down the side of my leg. I'd rather endure ten awkward car rides than have to go to church this morning. But something like that's really not at all optional, so I wait until we're pulled up in front of the wide double doors and wearily unfasten my seat belt before leaving the car.
This week's service is on our daily walk with God. I try to listen, I really do... but the paper and pencil in my hand take me away briefly to a world of lyrics and cheesy cartoons; a universe where I still have my iPod waiting for me in my pocket just as soon as the congregation is released. I tune out the music and the shouting, and it's just me and this cheap mechanical pencil, writing nonsense on an offering envelope while the rest of the world and time itself buzzes by above my ducked down head.
Nearly an hour goes by before I've raised up to look around me and see how close we are to finishing. The chances of getting out within the next ten minutes seem pretty high, so I turn my focus back down to the paper I have in my hand and take in the scribbled lyrics and personal to-do lists that I'll probably never look at again. I do the same thing nearly every Sunday and keep them all, but not to look back on or to perfect. Just to keep. Just to stash in a pile on my night table and collect for no reason at all. I stuff the envelope in my pocket before tuning in to the last few minutes of our pastor's long-winded word spew. Beads of sweat drop dutifully down his face, almost as if to show us all that he's literally putting all of his energy into saving our souls. I watch him gasp for air in between each shout of praise and wonder why some were born entirely too enthusiastic, and others -like me- were born to sit back and mock the enthusiastic ones.
"So honey, what'd you learn?" my mother asks as usual once we're all standing by the door and pushing through the huddled mass of people to get outside. I shrug just as I always do and will the conversation to be over. I've still not forgiven her for making the morning unpleasant. I can deal with wearing dirty pants; it's fine. But she put me in a bad spirit and never thought to apologize. I don't need to be brought down and kept there for her amusement, but that's all that seems to happen.
"I think I'm going to take a walk after lunch." I whisper in the back seat as we approach the familiar driveway some fifteen minutes later. My mother's head turns around to give me a very thorough examination as I spot my dad's eye glance my way in the rear view mirror.
"Oh? Well just keep our new rule in mind or that'll be the last of your walks, Frank. There's no evening church tonight because the pastor has to visit his daughter in D.C., but you do have school tomorrow." my mother speaks up. This is her way of saying yes; of approving. I've grown used to her law enforcement, it doesn't bother me quite as much anymore. I simply nod and rest my hand on the handle before opening the door and stepping out into the misty fall air once my dad has parked. Lunch is short and lacking as I find myself not quite hungry enough to eat a meal, but too peckish to skip it all entirely. I rummage through the refrigerator door looking for something edible and easily concealed so I can place it in my pocket and be on my way. Eventually I stumble across some yogurt a can of Mountain Dew. In my hoodie's pouch it goes before I shut the door and face the drawer to the left of the sink for a spoon.
"Bye." I shout halfheartedly, almost hoping no one hears me just so I can really escape unnoticed. No one retorts so I take that as my cue to leave and start for the door. I'm almost excited for this walk. For a few moments to collect myself. Gerard never specified when exactly he'd be there, but I'll wait 'til I absolutely can't any longer and hope he appears somewhere in the meantime. I wish for my dampered mood to be lightened for the sake of our possible time together, but know I'll be going into this as my usual dreary self. Maybe that's okay, though. Maybe that's what keeps him around.
My Chucks scuff the asphalt beneath them as if to file a complaint. I do nothing to keep my feet in line and instead scuff heavier, still. Within a good fifteen minutes, I find myself approaching the front of my home, inching closer and closer to the front door and barrier between myself and them. For a moment I start to wonder how far I could get before either of them seek after me. I find the odds to be far from in my favor though as soon as the blinds in the living room are halfway drawn, signaling that my mother is, indeed, home and more than likely about to pounce on me for being out so long.
I take the first step inside, my feet barely touching the tile before her shrill voice takes over and drowns whatever cheer I could still call my own.
"Frank! It's almost eight o'clock! You could have called, you know." my mother yells, her face only a foot from mine but still at its most gruesome expression. I decide to be a smartass because according to her that's all I'm good for anyway.
"With what phone?" I ask coldly, my gaze already lingering on the banister lined along the steps in the next room. My brain won't leave that basement no matter how hard I try, and I know there's nothing at all that can change its focus until I'm in there once again.
"Oh don't be smart with me, child. You know good and well you could have used a payphone, or even the provided phone at the library. One day you're going to have to learn to grow up. People don't just sail breezily through life in the real world."
I flinch. Oddly enough, that stung harshly and now I'm really ready to leave her presence. Lucky for me, she's not finished.
"Your father and I have decided to place you with a curfew if you're going to be so irresponsible. 7:30 everyday or else you won't be leaving the house at all." she says in her calm, collected voice I've grown to despise. I nod without uttering a single word, just clenching my jaw and willing her figure to disappear and leave me to live without the unnecessary stress she likes to place on me. "Are you planning on eating anything tonight?" my mother questions, her voice considerably brighter now that she's enforced the law like every good parent should. I shake my head no and start to back away for the stairs, praying with everything I have inside to make it to my room before I punch a wall or start to cry like a fucking child. Thankfully she allows me to leave with very little resentment, and soon enough I'm where I always should be: my bed, where not a fucking thing can stop me from sleeping away these troubles and finding something different to wrap my head around until real life gets in the way again.
The next morning, I'm as groggy as ever, but that doesn't keep my father from bursting into song like clockwork just as he always does upon waking up for church. I toss and turn to try and find sleep once again, this time only having it for another twenty minutes before my door is opened and my dad has his head poked in to yell for me to wake up and get ready. My body is nestled between a pillow and the wall, making it very difficult to get up without falling back down. I check the clock. 9:30. Sure, I've gotten more sleep than a lot of people could admit to having in one night, but I'd gladly stay in bed all day if it meant being alone instead of facing a group of people and their chants of early-morning praise.
Eventually I find it easier to move around without tripping over nothing and muttering something not so Sunday-morning-friendly. It's when I'm over at my closet facing my drawer full of clothes that some clarity slaps me across the face. I forgot to do my laundry the night before and now I only have my faded jeans to wear. This'll be a problem. Sluggishly, I slide them over my boxer-clad legs and fasten the button and zipper as usual. I just know someone's going to fuss at me for being inappropriate in the eyes of God, so I go over the inevitable dialogue before checking my face in the mirror.
Several minutes and some contemplation later, I'm down in the kitchen fishing the last few gulps of milk from the bottle as I weigh the pros and cons of eating a slice of toast. I know I'm fucking dead when my parents both stomp down the stairs, already in ill-tempered moods at one another and probably the world in general even before they lay eyes on me.
"Go upstairs and change." my mother says calmly, her expression is completely made of stone, making it nearly impossible for me to get out of this without a lecture.
"I can't. None of my other pants are clean." I say simply, waiting for the boxing match to start and for my pride to be shot again. What I don't expect is for none of that to happen. My dad rolls his eyes in apparent disappointment but says nothing either. Then my mother comes-to after taking a sip of orange juice and faces me with those angry eyes and that ridiculously awful snarl. I try, for a moment, to see her as others may. To view her through the eyes of an outsider; objectively and with little attachment. It's too hard, though. That face and her voice... they'll always bear the title of ugly. It's not something I can help and I know that's probably pathetic, but she's simply not someone I can put all bias aside for. She's ugly, and I'm a prick.
"Then go wear something from your hamper. I'll not have you go to church looking like someone off the street. It's bad enough you won't even wear real dress pants. At least go put on something that doesn't have... bleach all over it." she says angrily after giving my jeans a look-over and nearly scoffing with disgust.
So I look at her. Look at the ugly, controlling person in front of me. So many harsh, cruel names run across my mind. So many things I'd like to call her or maybe just carve into her. So many. But I can't say or even clearly think any of that. She's... she's not just a bully at school. She's my mother. My mom. She's that someone that already has society on her side because she's been generalized. So yeah, she's different than most. It'd take an eternity of time to explain how she's not... right. I can barely look at her any longer. That should't be normal.
Quietly I turn away, almost beside myself with disgust for letting another human make me feel so miserable over something so petty. It's not the act itself, it's the principle. That's my relationship with her in a nutshell. It's not what she makes me do or about the feelings she's given me. I can handle all of that; it's not the end of the world. It's the fact that all of this negativity; all of the reasoning behind my masochism and personal-sabotage is from my mother. The woman every child's supposed to learn and grow from. It's like some backwards reality where the hero is actually the villain. It's tainted.
Once I'm upstairs, I sift through my hamper of clothes until I find the pair of jeans I wore two days ago. Dirty, and somewhat wrinkled, they're still as presentable as they're going to get. I pull off the bleached filth I'd been wearing and slip on something more presentable. There. She wins, everyone's happy. I opt to change hoodies given the change of my pants' color. Now it's a grey, drawstring jacket. Simple and protective; like a security blanket I hope to never grow out of. I look in the mirror once again wondering why the fuck it even really matters considering I have no one to impress, then turn away and shut the door before trailing down the steps and waiting in the living room.
The car ride over is silent. Sure, music's blaring; cheerful Christian pop and words of wisdom given from effective inspirational speakers in the meantime. My parents are as happy as can be listening to the people who really know it all. But it's still silent in my head; my scattered thoughts are broken and leave me with nothing to lose myself in. True boredom. I sit patiently, drumming my fingers along the thick seam down the side of my leg. I'd rather endure ten awkward car rides than have to go to church this morning. But something like that's really not at all optional, so I wait until we're pulled up in front of the wide double doors and wearily unfasten my seat belt before leaving the car.
This week's service is on our daily walk with God. I try to listen, I really do... but the paper and pencil in my hand take me away briefly to a world of lyrics and cheesy cartoons; a universe where I still have my iPod waiting for me in my pocket just as soon as the congregation is released. I tune out the music and the shouting, and it's just me and this cheap mechanical pencil, writing nonsense on an offering envelope while the rest of the world and time itself buzzes by above my ducked down head.
Nearly an hour goes by before I've raised up to look around me and see how close we are to finishing. The chances of getting out within the next ten minutes seem pretty high, so I turn my focus back down to the paper I have in my hand and take in the scribbled lyrics and personal to-do lists that I'll probably never look at again. I do the same thing nearly every Sunday and keep them all, but not to look back on or to perfect. Just to keep. Just to stash in a pile on my night table and collect for no reason at all. I stuff the envelope in my pocket before tuning in to the last few minutes of our pastor's long-winded word spew. Beads of sweat drop dutifully down his face, almost as if to show us all that he's literally putting all of his energy into saving our souls. I watch him gasp for air in between each shout of praise and wonder why some were born entirely too enthusiastic, and others -like me- were born to sit back and mock the enthusiastic ones.
"So honey, what'd you learn?" my mother asks as usual once we're all standing by the door and pushing through the huddled mass of people to get outside. I shrug just as I always do and will the conversation to be over. I've still not forgiven her for making the morning unpleasant. I can deal with wearing dirty pants; it's fine. But she put me in a bad spirit and never thought to apologize. I don't need to be brought down and kept there for her amusement, but that's all that seems to happen.
"I think I'm going to take a walk after lunch." I whisper in the back seat as we approach the familiar driveway some fifteen minutes later. My mother's head turns around to give me a very thorough examination as I spot my dad's eye glance my way in the rear view mirror.
"Oh? Well just keep our new rule in mind or that'll be the last of your walks, Frank. There's no evening church tonight because the pastor has to visit his daughter in D.C., but you do have school tomorrow." my mother speaks up. This is her way of saying yes; of approving. I've grown used to her law enforcement, it doesn't bother me quite as much anymore. I simply nod and rest my hand on the handle before opening the door and stepping out into the misty fall air once my dad has parked. Lunch is short and lacking as I find myself not quite hungry enough to eat a meal, but too peckish to skip it all entirely. I rummage through the refrigerator door looking for something edible and easily concealed so I can place it in my pocket and be on my way. Eventually I stumble across some yogurt a can of Mountain Dew. In my hoodie's pouch it goes before I shut the door and face the drawer to the left of the sink for a spoon.
"Bye." I shout halfheartedly, almost hoping no one hears me just so I can really escape unnoticed. No one retorts so I take that as my cue to leave and start for the door. I'm almost excited for this walk. For a few moments to collect myself. Gerard never specified when exactly he'd be there, but I'll wait 'til I absolutely can't any longer and hope he appears somewhere in the meantime. I wish for my dampered mood to be lightened for the sake of our possible time together, but know I'll be going into this as my usual dreary self. Maybe that's okay, though. Maybe that's what keeps him around.
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