FicWad

A/N: Hey guys, how’re you all? I’m really sorry it’s been a while since I updated- school’s really, really hectic at the moment and I’m struggling with depression right now, which doesn’t make the massive amount of work I have any easier. But I guess life’s never a piece of cake. Or cup of coffee. Or cookie. Whatever. Hmmm, I wouldn’t mind if it was a cup of coffee…fucked-up giggles ..sorry, I’m really, really fucking high on a ridiculous amount of caffeine right now :L Anyway, here’s chapter eleven…I hope it’s alright. Thank you all so much for your wonderful support- I can safely say that without it, it would have taken me a lot longer to update. Thank you. I’ve actually managed to respond to all your reviews- I did while I was one of the school computers doing ‘research’ xD hey, it’s not my fault FicWad isn’t blocked…


Chapter Eleven

As I blink blearily open my bloodshot eyes the following morning, I’m greeted by two unusual things. Firstly, my sleep-deprived, scratchy irises are stung sharply by pale fragments of winter sunlight shimmering through my frost incrusted window pane; normally, I’m greeted by dull, defeated rain and dreary greyness that chokes the city and chokes my soul, but now the world outside seems fresh and new and almost hopeful with its shy slivers of watery sun.

It’s not just the outside that’s different. Inside, in the caverns of my worn-out chest, it suddenly feels new too.

For what feels like the first time, I don’t feel clogged and choked and crushed by my own emotions. My chest isn’t raw and gritty with hurt. It’s not defeated and disenchanted with depression. It’s not tainted with tentacles of anger and slithering, faceless serpents of self-hatred.

Instead, it feels lighter and purer. It feels tentative and tender, vulnerable with the unusual space inside it for fresh, new sentiments. But it feels good, somehow, as the unidentifiable feeling seeps, wispy and uncertain, behind my battered ribs, like a thin, shimmery mist of timid protection.

It’s not seething and writhing and loathing, choking on the air of the world; it’s breathing; breathing gently and freely with a completely new feeling.

I think it’s hope. The brand new, untouched, untainted beginnings of hope.

It’s fragile, as if the tiniest little stab will shatter it, but I’m determined not to let that happen.

I was almost certain that my determination from last night would have evaporated by this morning, but I was wrong. It’s still here, it’s still teeming inside me, willing me to fight; fight until I’ve won over these hopes and dreams suddenly all crammed into my vulnerable being.

Usually, I think it’s a seriously bad thing for me to hope, because every time I do, I just get crushed even more brutally, all the tiny little bubbles of positivity shattered on the harsh grey of the sidewalk along with my blood. But maybe, just this once, I don’t need to let my hope get crushed along with my bones.

Maybe, this time, I don’t have to give up. Sure, it won’t be easy, but since when is anything worthwhile easy to obtain?

I think fleetingly of my scrappy old guitar and my callused fingers from years of relentless playing. I think of playing and playing for hours on end in the dark last night as the winter wind and rain howled round the house. I think of a drunken, slurring, vulnerable and slightly wild dark haired teenager completely different to the one I thought I knew, complimenting my playing.

And that’s when I realise something totally freaky. I’m smiling slightly at the memory; at the memory of finally realising just how important music really is to me.

I don’t think I’ll ever let it go now; my music.

And y’know something? It’s not a bad thing at all, to wake up to something other than endless bullets of polluted grey and copious defeat. Bizarrely, I feel better than I have done in years. I feel almost…alive. I feel real again.

Scrabbling blindly under my pillow, I locate my battered old phone and sleepily text out a message.

To: Ocean: Hey, how’re you? Wanna meet up after my guitar lesson? xoxoF

Wondering just why I seem to have had a personality transplant overnight, I blink blearily again, set my phone aside and open my eyes fully to the jumbled surroundings of my messy room. And that’s when I realise; it’s definitely not a good thing that the cold, watery gold sun seeping icily through my window- it’s early December; whenever I wake up for school in the morning, it should be dark.

I sit up abruptly, blinking in the brightness as I glance over to Mikey’s little mattress. It’s empty and unmade. I also catch sight of my bedside clock, which kindly informs me that it’s nearly quarter past eight. Which means that I need to be leaving for school. In ten minutes.

“Shit!” I groan, flinging back my duvet and leaping out of bed, stumbling slightly as I crash around my room frantically, grabbing my black skinnies, stained school shirt and safety-pin distorted school tie from a crumpled heap on the chaos of the carpet. After snatching my favourite scruffy black hoodie from the back of the door and my eyeliner and foundation from my desk, I stagger sleep-drunkenly out onto the landing, along in the direction of the shower room, vision still hazy with sleep as I make my way along the soft carpet of the landing.

The familiar blend of singed toast, coffee, Steve’s freshly applied aftershave, and sleepy murmured morning conversation drifts up the stairs from the direction of the kitchen, and reminding me of all those dreaded mornings before school of churning adrenaline and queasy stomachs with a shiver.

Shaking off the creeping beginnings of routine anxiety, I continue resolutely in the direction of the shower room and bolt the door behind me, determined not to let something as trivial as a familiar situation and smell make me retreat back into my angry, raw shell of defensive scowling and stubbornness.

The bathroom is steamy and smells distinctly of a horribly familiar cinnamon shampoo, along with strong minty toothpaste and soap. There’s also a little grinning vampire drawn in the steamed-up mist of the mirror.

From all these things, I deduct that it was my elder stepbrother who was last in here. The one who I encountered in the living room in the small hours of this morning. The one who was drunk out of his skull. The one who has seemed determined to make me loathe him since he arrived. The one that constantly puts me down and the one who, infuriatingly, has everything I long for; confidence, popularity, good looks and almost certainly much more.

However, after seeing him last night, I wonder if perhaps he’s not all perfect.

Trying very hard not to dwell him, I strip off my pyjamas and clamber into the shower, shaking off the slightly repulsed crawling of my bare skin at the thought of the arrogant, hiding teenager with such carefully dishevelled hair.

I may have glimpsed a completely different person beneath all those layers of reckless black leather and smoky eyeliner last night, but no where near enough to change my feelings towards him, just perhaps my opinion.

As I hurriedly shampoo my hair, I fleetingly wonder if our little unintentional after midnight meeting will make any difference to the way Gerard treats me. I somehow doubt it; I just can’t picture a sober Gerard being anything other than rude and arrogant and mask-like. But hey, I could be wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Five minutes later, I’m showered and dressed in record time, and my stomach has started to tie itself into tiny little nervous knots at the prospect of the looming day and what awaits me, only this time the nerves are more excited than dreading.

Taking a deep breath, I wipe the misty mirror clear and look up into the glass.

A small, skinny and stubborn looking boy stares defiantly back at me. The exposed skin on his pale arms, face and neck is riddled with yellowing bruises and scabby cuts and slashes of fading scarlet. His eyes look swollen and bloodshot, but there’s something of rebellious determination in them that couldn’t be an illusion of scruffy hair and eyeliner; it’s something carved a lot deeper than mere appearance, something more permanent. He looks more human than I’ve seen him in a very long time; a lot less like some kind of broken ghost and more just like a scruffy little misfit with too much sarcasm and serious height issues.

I still smudge a little black under my eyes and conceal my wounds with foundation, but for once, I feel a tiny, minute little bit of self-confidence before the make up goes on.

After chucking my pyjamas in the laundry basket, I take another deep breath, shake my damp hair in front of my face, try to block any negative thoughts, and go out of the bathroom onto the landing, staring a the green carpet as I try and ignore the slowly increasing panic rising inside of me at the prospect of yet another school day. With a guitar lesson at the end of it.

Of course, the guitar lesson is something I’d usually be looking forward to, but knowing that a certain smug stepbrother will be there too, I’m more just apprehensive, despite my new-found determination.

“Oi, out of my way, midget,” I’m shoved off course into the wall by a violent shove. The familiar scent of cinnamon and cigarettes hits me as hard as the wall I’ve been shoved so carelessly into, letting me know exactly who accosted me before I have the chance to look up into his empty, hiding eyes of carefully careless emerald.

I scowl crossly at his uncaring sneer and mockery of my height.

“Don’t call me that,” I hiss crossly, shaking my hair further in front of my eyes, disappointment dropping through me as my prediction of Gerard’s attitude not having changed is proved right. Strangely, though, his uncaring words don’t stab into me the way they did before; instead of feeling hurt, I’m just annoyed.

“Whatever elf,” he sighs, pushing past me before I can properly see him.

I guess it’s not exactly unexpected; I mean, since when has alcohol induced vulnerability been good for anyone? Not to mention the fact he’s probably hung over and has probably just had a lecture from Steve and Mom over breakfast. He’s probably feeling like shit.

Saying that, I feel in no way sorry for him- I mean, the dude just shoved me into a wall and called me ‘midget’, and has seemed determined on ruining my life ever since he got here.

However, as I scowl and rub my bruised shoulder, watching him strut towards the bathroom, I can help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, he’s scared instead of smug.

Suddenly he turns round, face shrouded with dishevelled raven.

“What are you looking at, freakface?” he spits.

I sigh heavily and turn round, making my way towards the stairs.

Then again, maybe he’s just a dickhead.

*

By the time I’ve collected my guitar in it’s beat-up old case from my room and stumbled my way down the stairs and into the hall with damp hair and a fluttering stomach, the clock reads nearly half eight, so I tug on my converse, not bothering with their trailing laces as my stomach wriggles sickeningly with nerves, which are nearly as unpleasant as the thick, condensed churning of dread that usually clogs up my body and weighs me down every morning.

In my new, oddly light state, I more just feel dizzy.

“Morning Frank,” someone says behind me, and I jump, whirling round to see Steve pulling on his boring beige coat and grey scarf, still chewing his breakfast and smelling of coffee and his typical aftershave.

“Umph,” I mumble in response, trying to hide my shakiness behind my ratty old guitar case and the oversized black hoodie I’m huddled into.

“Want a lift to school with me and the boys?” Steve asks, holding up his car keys before shoving them into his coat pocket and pulling on his gloves.

My instinctive response is no, but when Steve unlocks and pulls open the front door, icy cold winter air sweeps right through me, making me shiver violently and nod grudgingly in reply.

“Great,” Steve smiles a little nervously at me. “I’ll just go and get the car going- we’ll leave in a minute.” And with that, he grabs his briefcase from the hall table and sets off down the drive that’s sparkling with fresh frost and early morning winter sun, shy and shattered in the bitterly cold cloud.

“H-hi,” a nervous little voice mumbles from behind me and I turn round to see a shaky looking Mikey nibbling at his lower lip, his mousy hair tufty and freshly straightened. He looks almost as pale and queasy as he did yesterday in the pale sunlight seeping over the threshold and into the warmth of the hallway.

“Hey,” I find myself half-smiling, and in return receive a slightly shaky smile from the shy younger Way brother.

“A-are you riding with us to school?” Mikey asks tentatively, pulling on his navy blue duffel coat and grey fingerless gloves, shivering in the cold air that’s seeping into the hallway from the open door and hitching his rucksack onto his back.

“Um, I think so,” I reply nervously, clutching the strap of my guitar case as I take a deep breath and start towards the door with Mikey close behind me.

The air is crisp and golden with unexpected, pale sun fragmenting its way through the bitter cloud, making the thick layer of icing-sugar like frost shimmer and glitter in its watery light.

I can taste the purity of the frost on my tongue as I stumble down the frost coated front steps, intermingled with the lingering, sour aftertaste of colourless pollution and murky skies of tainted ice, which somewhat tarnishes the magic of the glittery ground before me.

Letting out a shaky sigh, I watch my adrenaline curl up into the icy winter air, sparkling like condensed cobwebs and then melting away into the bitterly grey cloud as I try very hard not to think of the day ahead and focus keeping my new-found determination strong and potent.

Determined not to succumb to my fears, I crunch my way down the icy drive to where Steve is sitting in the car, waiting, the exhaust fumes spiralling up into the crisp coldness, staining the sparkly frost around the car with the filth of pollution.

“Okay, boys?” Steve asks, rubbing his gloved hands together as we both clamber into the lukewarm, minty smelling interior of the car, shivering violently that probably isn’t only due to the icy temperature.

We both nod silently. Mikey’s looking dangerously pale again, and I seriously hope there isn’t going to be a repeat of yesterday- I could really do without being showered in vomit right now. I feel bad enough without having the contents of someone’s stomach emptied over me.

However, for once, I don’t think I’m the most scared one sitting in the car.

Mikey looks ready to pass out, die, or have a mental breakdown; he’s breathing unevenly and I can see him shaking with fear, which, strangely, calms my own jittery apprehension as I stare out at the shivering, shimmery world of silver frost and pale rays of sun trying to break through the bitterness.

“Um, you okay?” I mumble nervously, looking briefly at a trembling Mikey huddled into his duffle coat, feeling awkward and almost choked with nerves, but also empathising with the quivering fear of the mousy-haired boy beside me.

Mikey nods frantically, taking short, panicky breaths of the cold air.

Steve glances round worriedly at him from the front seat, and then back towards the front door which is still open, sighing impatiently and drumming his fingers on the dashboard as the steamy windows gradually clear and the outside world of tentative December sun, red berries, frozen trees and a polluted skyline become more sharply defined.

“Have either of you two seen Gerard?” he sighs again, turning the heat up.

Mikey shakes his head, practically hyperventilating by this point.

“Um, I saw him on the landing just before we left,” I mutter in reply, twisting my clammy hands anxiously in my lap as my body is flooded with a different type of overwhelming adrenaline; usually it’s anxiety and fear and dread, all congealed together, but this time, it’s more just pure nervousness mixed in with a dash of fear and determination.

I’m actually not feeling quite as bad as usual, and Gerard’s lack of appearance is almost letting hope that he’s not coming, or perhaps won’t actually be going to the guitar lesson after all. Perhaps I imagined it all…

Yeah right. I fucking wish.

Mikey suddenly lets out a panicked gasp and I glance round apprehensively at his violently shaking body and clammy complexion.



I frown worriedly and try and think of something, anything to numb his fear slightly. Remembering the constant times my iPod and battered old headphones have soothed my writhing soul, I scrabble in the pocket of my hoodie and draw out my iPod, untangling the wires and offering the trembling teenager beside me one of the earbuds.

“T-thanks,” Mikey stammers, looking up and accepting the earbud gratefully with shaky fingers.

“You’re welcome,” I mumble as I scroll down the playlist. “Um, you like The Misfits?”

Mikey nods, nibbling at his lower lip but not breathing quite so fast.

I select ‘American Psycho’ and turn the volume up.

Mikey’s breathing gradually eases a little as the music plays and I’m almost certain I see Steve throw me a grateful smile in the mirror to which I nod in acknowledgement but shake my hair nervously across my face, not forgetting that he now knows what lurks behind my unkempt hair. Hopefully though, with the chaos of last night, he’ll have forgotten and won’t try and talk to me about it again.

I want to pretend it doesn’t exist, and I can’t do that if people ask me about it.

Pretending is so much easier, so much simpler than the truth.

…And so much less painful.

It takes at least a further five minutes of more than slightly awkward silence and slightly reduced trembling before Steve’s eldest son finally saunters out of the front door and pulls it shut behind him, a cigarette dangling from his long, spidery fingers, hair teased into a gothic tangle of raven and hairspray, beat-up, badge-adorned black leather jacket zipped up against the cold air.

Sadly, he has a black guitar case slung over one shoulder along with his schoolbag, plastered with various band stickers and scrawled lyrics.

My stomach drops in disappointment, but I try and ignore it.

Deep down, I knew there was no escaping this.

“Finally,” Steve sighs as Gerard makes his way towards the car at an irritatingly casual pace, taking a drag of his cigarette and letting the poisoned grey smoke of cancer drift up into the slowly thinning silvery cloud and strengthening sun.

“Hurry up, Gerard,” Steve says impatiently as Gerard opens the passenger door and slides easily into the car along with a fresh blast of icy air.

My jaw clenches automatically at the smoky cinnamon scent lingering about his person, and I clutch tightly at the neck of my guitar, reminding myself of why I’m here, why I’m fighting, and why I can’t give up. Why I won’t give up.

Gerard says nothing in apology, merely takes another lazy drag of his cigarette, fastens his seatbelt and leans back carelessly in his seat while Steve revs the engine and the car trundles down the driveway.

The interior of the car is rapidly filled with the copious grey smoke from Gerard’s cancer stick, making me choke slightly on the tainted air.

“Gerard, put that out,” Steve sighs as we turn onto the road, towards the murky grey of the frozen city centre.

Gerard scowls and does nothing, just rakes a pale hand through his raven hair and stares defiantly out of the window at the passing city, insolently exhaling a puff of smoke slowly and undeniably deliberately in my direction.

“Gerard!” Steve snaps as I cough again.

“What, I have to put it out just because the poor little elf has weak lungs?” he scoffs, glancing in my direction with a small snort of contempt.

I grit my teeth, determined not to let him get to me, but I can feel the familiar hot anger writhing up inside me in hatred for the gothic boy in the passenger seat.

“Don’t be rude, Gerard- put that out right now or I’ll stop the car,” Steve says anxiously, glancing back at my gritted teeth and his then his younger son, who is breathing slightly less alarmingly, but still looks ready to vomit out his insides all over Steve’s immaculate car.

“Like I give a shit,” Gerard sighs, raking a hand through his hair again and turning towards his window.

“Don’t use that sort of language!” Steve says crossly, stomping on the break pedal slightly haphazardly as we reach the junction at the bottom of our road and the car jerks to a sudden stop.

Gerard remains silent, but if I could see his face, I’m almost certain he’s be rolling those glitteringly green eyes of his.

“Gerard, please just put the cigarette out,” Steve says tiredly.

Grudgingly, Gerard sighs heavily, leans forwards and stubs the cigarette out on the dashboard. Steve doesn’t look happy, but decides not to say anything.

Mikey’s still alarmingly pale, his eyes wide and fearful behind his glasses, but as he looks round at me, he attempts a small, trembling smile which once again calms my jittery insides slightly for some strange reason. Somehow, it’s strangely reassuring to know that I’m not the only person in the world that gets scared.

However, I still feel almost sick with nerves, and jiggle my leg up and down impatiently to try and release some of the excess adrenaline building up inside of me like bubbles of metallic fear. I can’t stop worrying that Gerard’s going to be better at me at guitar. I could bear living in the same house as him, having the same guitar lessons as him, almost anything… but I couldn’t stand it if he’s better at me at the thing I love; he’s already better at almost everything than me- I’m not sure I could bear it if he could triumph over the only thing I feel I’m any good at in life.

“Stop fucking twitching,” Gerard snaps suddenly.

“Why should I?” I snap back, irritated.

“Because it’s fucking annoying,” Gerard growls without turning round.

“I don’t really give a shit,” I say through gritted teeth, surprised to find that his words and rudeness don’t hurt me like they did before; my new determination is like a steely shell around my soul preventing Gerard’s venomous words. Without getting hurt, I’m just irritated and snappy, especially with all these new emotions and determination fizzling in my bruised body.

Gerard turns round to face me, wild hair black and streaked across his ghostly face, lips dry and chapped from the cigarette, brow furrowed, his eyes rimmed with smoky black to conceal what lurks beneath the emerald irises, but they still don’t cease to intrigue me, despite my loathing for their owner.

They’re mask-like and carefully uncaring once more, unlike last night, but they’re raw and red and bloodshot, swollen in the way eyes can only be from the recent ghost of true emotions; real, agonising emotion like hurt and hate and fear.

“What are you staring at?” he snarls, snapping me out of my thoughts.

“Nothing,” I shrug, dropping my gaze.

“Yes you were, don’t lie,” Gerard hisses, sounding almost scared, but in a way that’s hastily masked with arrogance and conceit. He sounds scared almost as if he thinks I’ve seen past his faceless mask of green nothingness.

Steve glances worriedly round at us as if he’s scared world war three is about to break lose in the back of his car, which, if Gerard doesn’t leave me the fuck alone when I’m feeling this churned up with this amount of brand new feelings and adrenaline, it might well do.

“What’s it to you?” I ask the older, raven-haired teen, curiosity getting the better of me as I try and look past the protective film of emotionless arrogance.

Before, I wouldn’t have been curious- I would have been too choked up with self-loathing and hurt, but now everything suddenly seems to have so much more to it.

Gerard looks taken aback at my uncharacteristic defiance, but covers it up so quickly I’m almost sure I imagined emotion flashing across the hiding jade of his irises. He shakes his hairspray smothered hair across his expression, concealing it the way I conceal my injuries like they’re my flaws and failings.

Maybe his eyes are like my injuries. Maybe-

“Don’t play clever with me, short-ass,” he growls suddenly, making me jump out of my rambling thoughts.

“Don’t call me short-ass,” I retaliate in annoyance.

His eyes narrow ominously as we pull into the high street and join the slowly chugging queue of traffic moving sluggishly in direction of the school. Mikey glances anxiously in our direction, nibbling at his lower lip.

“I’ll call you whatever the fuck I want,” Gerard spits.

“Why the hell do you think you’re superior?” I ask angrily. “What’s so great about you? All I can see is some insecure dickhead who picks on other people because he’s so fucking weak he can’t face his own issues.” My words linger in the air like silent knives, and I’m hardly able to believe I just uttered them.

I don’t fight back; I get hurt, I go quiet, I hide away and pretend. But here I am, fighting, just like I was determined to do.

There’s a horribly ominous silence, broken only by my heavy, angry breathing.

Steve’s knuckles are white from how hard he’s gripping the steering wheel.

Mikey has practically bitten a whole right through his lip.

They’re both looking at the person in the passenger seat as if he’s about to detonate.

Gerard just glares unblinkingly at me for several agonisingly long seconds, the venom in his empty eyes unnerving, and then he just turns back to face the congested road without anything further.

We trundle along in silence for a few moments, my anger slowly seeping away, leaving me feeling confused and oddly curious.

“So, um, you’ve got your guitar lesson today, right Gerard?” Steve asks awkwardly after a few moments, clearly trying to make conversation.

Gerard nods curtly.

“What time?” Steve persists, once again displaying his wonderful talent of not knowing just when to back the fuck off and leave someone alone.

“Straight after school,” Gerard replies monotonously.

“Oh, you must be in Frank’s class then,” Steve says brightly.

“Fanfuckingtastic,” Gerard says sarcastically. “The midget.”

“I’m not a midget!” I snap angrily, defences shooting straight up again at his words.

“Oooh, aren’t you?” Gerard mimics infuriatingly.

“Fuck off,” I growl, all curiosity replaced by loathing.

“Frank-” Steve starts before he’s cut off by his elder son.

“Dude, you’re like, smaller than one of Santa’s little helpers,” Gerard snorts.

“In case you’re so retarded you didn’t know, SANTA DOESN’T FUCKING EXIST,” I shout, making Steve jump and swerve.

“Really?” Gerard’s voice practically drips with sarcasm.

“Boys-” Steve protests as the car stops at a red light.

“What the hell is your problem?” I spit furiously.

“You are my fucking problem, you stunted little midget! You’re nothing, okay?! Fucking nothing! And-”

“Shut up, Gerard,” Mikey suddenly says behind me. “Just shut up.”

It’s said quietly and his voice is still slightly quivery with nerves, but there’s a steely edge to it, and Gerard falls silent, biting angrily at his lower lip.

I blink and turn to look at Mikey, who’s turned slightly pink and is gazing determinedly out the window.

Steve is also staring in shock at his younger, mousy-haired son, but is suddenly jerked back into reality as there’s a loud hooting of a car horn from behind us and Steve stomps on the accelerator, remembering that the car was stationary.

“Fine,” Gerard spits after a moment, turning back round angrily so as I get a glimpse of the anger in his eyes.

I’m instantly filled with pure confusion; he’s acting as if he’s angry, but it’s not really there in his eyes; the writhing, red-hot prickles of fury and loathing are absent. It looks…false. Like it’s just another mask. He still looks just…empty.

I shake my head crossly, trying to shake off my ridiculous thoughts; I don’t want to think of Gerard. I hate him.

But I can’t deny he intrigues me.

My thoughts are suddenly interrupted by a soft buzz from my jeans pocket, and I fumble for a second, before drawing out my phone and looking at the screen as Steve turns rather jerkily out of the city-centre and onto the endless road leading to the dreaded gates of school.

One new message: Ocean: Ohmyfuckingcoffeebeans, did you just text me?! since when do you actually text me, you fucker?! What the fuck is going on? Are you ill? Removed from all sanity? Dying? Seriously, what the fuck, dude?! xxx p.s. yeah, sure- shall I call at yours around five?

I can’t help but smile slightly as I text out a brief reply to reassure my wild-haired, blunt, attitude overloaded best friend that I am not ill or dying, and that I would love to see her at five.

I’ve just put my phone away when the car slows and I look up to see the cast-iron gates of hell looming up into the grey cloud. However, the weak, watery sunlight manages to filter down slightly from the shivering skyline, making the desolate, bleakly grey yard look a little less terrifying.

“Well, there you go, boys…have a good day,” Steve says uncertainly, stopping the car.

The moment it slides to a chugging halt by the sidewalk swarming with chattering students all seeping towards the gates, Gerard unbuckles his seatbelt, grabs his schoolbag and guitar case and scrambles out of the car.

The door slams shut behind him.

Steve lets out a sigh that sounds oddly like one of relief, and rests his head on the steering wheel as I shakily grab my bag and fraying guitar case, pocket my iPod and stumble out into the cold morning air filled with chatter and laughter and the harsh scents of cheap body spray.

I take a deep, shuddery breath and square my shoulders determinedly as Mikey too gets out of the car, visibly trembling as he shuts the door behind him and waves nervously at Steve before the car pulls away, leaving us standing, alone on the sidewalk; two misfits standing like minnows in a sea of vicious sharks.

“C’mon,” I sigh, starting towards the gate as the harsh shrilling of the bell echoes across the grounds and the students speed up, most of them already near the main doors.

Mikey nods shakily and follows me towards the main entrance, breathing unevenly into the icy air.

“Hey, you’ll be alright,” I try for a small smile, and Mikey blinks in gratitude, shaking slightly less as we go through the rusting, chained grey gates. And for a moment, I half believe it myself.

We’re just starting to cross the swiftly emptying schoolyard when I suddenly spot something that makes me stop in my tracks.

A silhouette looms hazily view against the weak, winter sun and little particles of icy dust floating across the timid gold lighting, escaping, floating away from the bleak yard from which all the minimal warmth of December sun has been leeched.

The silhouette is horribly clear now; horribly, brutally clear in the cold yard.

A dark, twisted silhouette that makes my heart turn cold.


Danny.



Hope that was okay…like I said, I’ve had a pretty shitty week and I’m not feeling great, so it’s probably not my best chapter, but I hope it actually made enough sense! If it didn’t, it should become clearer sooner. Things in the next one should be interesting though…what did you think of the eldest Mr. Way in this one? I’d love to know what you all think about him right now (well, and the chapter in general :L). Anyway, I’ll shut up now as I have three essays to do before tomorrow. In French. Oh shit…right, anyway; rate? Review? Please? This was tricky to find the time to do and I’d really like to know your thoughts- I’ll update as soon as I can. Thanks for reading- I love all you guys for sticking with this!
*]
[*CosmicZombie xo

p.s. I’ll update BMD in the next two days (: