FicWad

Hi there :)
I can’t believe I’m gonna say this again, but sorry about the wait :S
Nope, I haven’t abandoned you all or anything, and there are still several chapters left in the story!
I really really owe you all an explanation.
First of all, you guys are truly amazing for sticking with me and having the patience to wait for ages since I’m obviously shitty at uploading in a reasonable amount of time. I was re-reading all the reviews, and, as I got around to answering the recent ones, tears just welled up in my eyes and I just started crying. It just means so much to me you took time to write what you thought and drop a few suggestions here and there, and your reviews are just so sweet, and I really don’t know how to thank you all. I’m working really hard on a few new stories—I don’t quite know which ones I’ll continue right away, and also several oneshots, and the reason those have been waiting in my Microsoft Word and scribbled in notebooks is because I’ve had a lot going on, and by the time I’ve written half a story another pops out of my head.
But anyways, what happened was I was very evilly banned from the computer, and was eventually able to use the library at school to access the internet, but not to type anything. I went to London on a class trip for a couple of days, and I really enjoyed it. London is a really nice city, and I found the people to be quite friendly and helpful despite getting shoved into walls about fifty times XD. But I really liked it. And well, there isn't a lot of diversity where I'm currently living, and it was really, really nice to see all different cultures and people. And, this is gonna probably going to sound quite stupid to any of you who live there, but I was actually impressed with how nice your subway system is :P. In the US it's all massive grey concrete blocks that scare the shit out of you. In France it’s nice too, although I lived in a tiny village so I didn’t really take it that much, and here, everything is basically within walking distance, so yeah. But on with what I was saying because I must be the only one on this earth that would actually take time to write several lines as an ode to the London Underground. Oh, dearest underground,you-- ehem, right. >_<
Anyways, when I came back, I still wasn’t allowed back on. I am now, but the power keeps going out! I live in an apartment, and someone keeps blowing the power out, and it takes hours to fix. We've had barely any electricity for the last couple of days, so I wasn't able to upload the chapter.
I hope this makes up for the wait :S
I love you all very much, and I just wish I could give you all giant hugs.
Thank you so so much for all your support!


Well, on with the untitled chapter, I hope you guys like it, and I hope it makes up for the (again) lateness.
*]


Frank’s POV

It was then our darkest hour, When everything seemed lost, The hearts of men would not concede, No matter what the cost. I stir slightly, nestled cozily in warm sheets and soft blankets. They forged a sword of sound and steel, upon the Martian doors, the voice of God would thunder there, and “Mars would be no more!” I roll over, feeling the soft cotton pillowcase against uncomfortably sticky cheeks from tears a few hours before. See: the Martian cities fall-- My hand flops numbly on the alarm clock, from which I hastily disconnect my Ipod. I open my eyes, greeted by a soft sheen of muted grey light, a few snowflakes landing against the window, as I remember today’s the last day of term before the holidays. Which means that if I’m able to pull myself grudgingly out of bed, and I’m able to face a few hours in a rotten concrete hell full of perfume and sweat and smoke smelling textbooks, I’ll then have three weeks of freedom. But…is it really freedom at home if your house seems like it’s been put under an everlasting sleep spell? When whenever your mom isn’t locked away in her bedroom she’s bustling nervously around the kitchen trying to magically conjure food because she knows that if your father continues to miss work, he’ll lose his job and there won’t be food to eat on the table? …At home, it’ll be the oppressing silence that’s looming here that I’ll be facing, like the stench of a hundred rotting corpses hovering in the air. A hundred dead bodies, because nothing ever lives in this house. No. Instead, everything dies.

First it was my mother, who slowly began wasting away as the family fell apart; the only signs of her existence are the stale cups of cold coffee everywhere, and bits of dusty scrapbooking material. I’m pretty sure that the only reason she still goes to her scrapbooking club is to listen to the other women chit-chatting about their harmonious family life, and that maybe by listening to it, by being part of the group, she can temporarily pretend her family’s like that too. But then she comes home, and its tired eyes and coffee grains, yells, and screams. And now it’s her husband. A lifeless lump drowning in what used to be a couch full of laughter.

Now it’s just flickering screens and spit bubbles. When you think of it, this house has been dead for a long time. I’m only realizing it now, but the life washed out long ago.

It washed out the day I got Pansy. It’s ironic really, how something that is my entire existence anywhere could’ve killed my whole life at home. But this house died the moment my grandpa plopped me on his lap with a cheery smile on his face, my grandma bringing warm, steamy cups of cocoa as my father’s face paled. That’s when the life in this house was slaughtered—or got sick, rather. I think it was truly executed when my grandfather passed away, leaving behind a bloody puddle weaved in with broken memories. And now, with the death of Grams, it’s been lowered into the ground—buried, so it can rot in peace.

I look around my room as my lips start quivering. Because I’m now scared of being here. That’s why I ran away, isn’t it?—a few weeks ago. I was scared that this house—this family, would kill me. And I still am. It almost already did. But I can’t give it another chance. I can’t let it. I can’t stay here—at least not right now.

If I do, it might kill me to. Drain the life from me, like it’s done with my mom and dad. Like it’s done with everything else.

And it’s scaring me.

It’s scary.

Death is scary.

And I don’t want to die inside.

I shudder as I roll out of bed, scrambling over guitar picks and textbooks until I find my favorite misfits hoodie, and wrap it’s warmth around me. I shuffle over to the mirror, and take a long look at myself in its clear, silvery surface. Tired eyes are staring back at me, heavy purple bags sagging under them…lifeless. Lifeless, dull, and darkened….

…and dying.

I quickly run a comb through my bangs, and then start bustling around my room hastily picking up items and throwing them into my bag as I try and remember what I’ve got today. But really, I’m just throwing everything in; English notebook, biology textbook, guitar pick, pair of socks, a blue ball point pen, a pack of cigarettes, a ten dollar bill, chemistry book, and a pair of post-apocalypse zombie boxers all seem to have found a place in the battered old schoolbag, which I then chuck in direction of the door. I pull on a clean pair of boxers, a crumpled pair of jeans, and the first shirt I find, and pull my hoodie on over my head, along with my fluffy cranberry colored scarf.

I tiptoe quietly down the stairs, schoolbag slung over my shoulder, and then quietly pull on my converse, staring intently at the blob that’s now fallen onto the floor, remote in hand, barely open eyes fixed on the TV. As I watch him, as I remember the day our family died, bile starts to bubble up my throat.

This is his fault. All his fault. He’s the reason we’re all dying. It’s all him. All of it. I can feel small chunks of food start to rise in my throat as I grab my mother’s photo album firmly in my hands. Trembling, I shakily step closer to the sluggish lump that’s entangled in the carpet, as anger and resentment start to rise up in me. I stare at him, disgusted and furious…seething. He’s the reason my mother’s just a ghost, floating quietly along in nothing. He’s the reason I’m the way I am, fearful and dying slowly…slowly, but surely. And he’s just there, slumped on the floor in what looks like a puddle of his own piss with his eyes closed on all of us, not even ever trying to make things right.
“YOU SON OF A-A-A-A—“ WHAM I violently hurl the photo album at his face, which erupts like a volcano as crimson blood spurts everywhere, and I slam the front door behind me, tumbling down the steps and into the snow where I start puking up my insides, vomiting acidic hatred into the angelically white snow, the bile burning in my throat.

But I don’t try and stop it, because it’s the only proof I’ve got that I’m still alive, and breathing.


I sit down, panting, on a small bit of sidewalk that’s already been shoveled, the concrete cold and rough beneath my worn black jeans. I can see down the road to the supermarket that’s right behind the school football and soccer field as I scoop up bits of snow and melt them in my sweaty palms, using the water to wash off the couple of blood drops and chunks of vomit that have started to dry all over me. I must look absolutely horrible to any of the cars passing, disheveled, small and tiny, with crimson and disturbingly orange stains on an overly large hoodie. But I really don’t care at the moment, because each car passing by—every time I smell the mingled polluted scent from the exhaust it’s a welcome reminder that I’m in fact living—somewhat.

Once only the shadows of a few brown bloodstains are left, I wash my face quickly too, drying it in my sleeves before bringing my bag around and wrapping my arms around it. It’s slightly comforting, and I rock back and forth as I watch students scrambling along the street, hurrying towards school, probably no doubt because it’s heated. I can’t think of anyone who’d love to get there as early as possible because they adore it. Well, come to think of it, most people probably don’t mind it that much—it’s a chance to see their friends, without bullies or humiliation or downright assholes like Anthony. In fact, the only reason I even get up from my now slightly warmer spot on the sidewalk is because I spot two figures in black hoodies slouching along the street. One slightly taller, with mousy brown bangs poking out of his hood, and another, slightly shorter and not as thin with a few wisps of black hair blowing in his beautiful hazel eyes. I dart across the street, narrowly missing getting knocked over by a light blue car that I failed to notice, and start running after the two brothers as the blue car stops abruptly and lets out an extremely loud honk.
“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING KID?” An angry voice growls behind me, I turn around to see a very grumpy-looking guy with a very bushy brown beard leaning out the window, eyes widened in shock.
“Sorry!” I yell over my shoulder and stumble into bony, lanky, arms. I look up to realize that Mikey has just saved me from the numerous rusty bins a few feet ahead of us, and that his hazel eyes are looking at me with sympathy and concern.
“Are you okay?” He asks, his hands still holding onto me as if he was afraid I’d run off and nearly run under another car. Not really sure what to answer, I simply nod briskly, as I notice a softer, sweeter face poke out from behind him, smiling sheepishly.
“H-hey…u-um…y-you o-okay ?” He asks, eyes twinkling slightly. Deciding that I don’t want to worry him, I simply nod again, trying to smile as convincingly as I can. Unfortunately, I must not be very good at it since he suddenly looks uneasy. His mouth opens as if he wants to say something, but then he glances at Mikey, then at the increasing number of teenagers running past us.
“Well…um…we should, you know, get going.” Mikey states, eyes anchored firmly on the tip of his boots. I shake my head reluctantly, but as soon as Mikey is a few steps ahead of us Gerard gently tugs on my arm. I look up at him through my bangs.
“D-did s-something h-h-h-happen?” he asks, his hazel eyes boring gently into mine. I drop my gaze to the ground, focusing on the uneven edges of a sticky wad of gum showing through the sheer cover the snow has provided. His hazel eyes are still locked on me, small golden flecks reflecting the light. Then, with an incredibly guilty look on his face, he asks
“Y-you’re n-not h-h-happy…a-are you?”
I think I stop breathing for a few seconds. When I finally look up nervously, I see tears welling up in his eyes. I look guiltily down the road to see Mikey has stopped to wait for us, but seems to decide not to call us over since he smiles kindly, and then keeps walking away. A tear rolls of Gerard’s cheek, falling onto the snow covered concrete with a barely audible plop, and I decide not to answer him.

I do, though, wrap my arm around his and place my hand over is warm, black gloves, giving his hand a gentle, affectionate squeeze.

My heart jolts as he wraps his fingers around my own, and, right at the moment, a tall, threatening, and horribly I’ve-forgotten-toothpaste-exists- smelling shadow casts itself over us. I can feel Gerard shudder, and, recognizing the minty-mingled-with-sweat smell, I turn around to see a prickly tan chin and a very, very wide grin.
“So.” Anthony chirps proudly, looking down at our interlocked arms. I feel Gerard disentangle himself from me, and stumble backwards slightly, almost tripping over the frosty lamp post.
“Oh don’t injure yourself…it’s beautiful really.” He says, voice heavy with sarcasm. “I mean, it must be quite hard having to hide that little love you share.” His green eyes narrow dangerously. “Fortunately for me,” he adds on a lighter tone, “You’re pretty shit at it.”
“Whaddaya want Anthony?” I grumble. He smirks.
“Want? Me? Nothing...” He says, light and innocent. “Oh, but just be careful” he adds, turning towards Gerard, who is now shivering, eyes wide and full of fear. “You wouldn’t want to trip and impair your speech even further.” His eyes glint cruelly. “You wouldn’t be able to scream our dear Frankie’s name out as you came.” With that, he turns to stride away, burly arms swinging out to his sides. I gulp, and spin around as I hear a quiet, mouse-like sniffle coming from where Gerard is sitting on the curb. It was barely audible, but I caught it, and so did Anthony. He pauses, backs up a few steps, and turns around to face us. I follow his emerald eyes over to wear Gerard is huddled up, his legs shaking as he hiccups into his hands, his raven hair obscuring his face. Anthony’s eyes slide back over to me, and mine to him. The air seems heavier, all of a sudden, as we continue to stare at each other, neither of us even blinking. Everything seems to fall silent, except for the sniffles, gulps, and hiccups from Gerard. Then, as Gerard audibly starts to cry, head falls into his lap, the hundreds of prickly centipedes on Anthony’s chin fold upwards as he smirks proudly. There’s a split second where I can actually fee venom ooze out of every vein in my body, and then there’s a loud crack as my knuckled collide with his nose. Blood spurts everywhere as he howls in pain and staggers backwards, and I swiftly grab Gerard’s hand and pull him quickly to his feet. He stands there for a moment, looking around him, confused, trying to figure out what’s happening. Anthony’s head shoots upwards, and adrenaline starts pumping through me.
“FUCKING RUN!” I yell, grasping Gerard’s hand firmly in mine, and dragging him behind me as I run the fastest I’ve ever run in my life.


---


Our feet are pounding into the snow, as we slip over piles of ice, trip over bushes bump into poles. We can hear Anthony’s angry snarls not too far behind us, as he stomps clumsily through the snow, yelling after us. I’m still holding onto Gerard’s hand as tightly as I can, across streets and driveways, alleyways and backyards. I can hear his teeth clattering out of a mix of cold, fear and adrenaline as I lead us around a fence and into a small backyard, decorated with little glass balls and about twenty garden gnomes, all of different heights. We manage to scurry through them as we hear Anthony try and clamber over the fence. We stop a moment, panting, until his head pops out over the top of the fence, saliva bubbling out of his mouth making him look like a very, very deranged wild boar with rabies.
I spot a very slim hole in the bushy hedge on the other side, and, without really stopping to think twice about it, I struggle through it, pulling Gerard with me, the spiky twigs and branches slashing into our faces. I can hear Anthony yelp out as he crashes into a couple garden gnomes, and yank Gerard straight through the branches. He squeals as he crashes into me, rolling us down the small, shallow hill, nearly sending us straight into a fence. I look back behind us to see the leafy hedge being ruffled quite savagely as Anthony tries to get through it, obviously failing do to his massive size. Gerard looks at me in terror, scratches covering his face and then climbs over the fence, as I follow right behind him. We hear the branches rustle and several grunts, and notice a small white building in front of us. We run towards it, cheeks stinging in the icy air. We scramble frantically up the slippery steps and I yank the door open, both of us stumbling inside and falling down onto the floor, panting and wheezing as we gasp for air. After a few seconds, I turn over onto my side to face Gerard, his eyes twinkling happily as he grins. I sigh, relieved.
“D-di w-we j-just ou-out r-run h-h-him?” he pants.
“Yup.” I say, a smirk forming on my face. I look into Gerard’s sparkling hazel eyes and smile, and then he breaks into the most beautiful giggle I’ve ever heard. It’s like bells chiming on Christmas morning, or birds chirping merrily, or the best Misfits song ever. It’s better than all that. It’s comforting, and reassuring, and when he gasps for air I curse myself for thinking he sounds kind of like a dying chicken, but I still love it. So we’re there, rolling on the floor in hysterics, until my head collides with that feels a large potted plant.

Suddenly, the familiar smell of bubblegum wafts through the air, and, as we slowly stop laughing, I sit up rubbing my hands across my eyes. My eyes widen in horror as I recognize the waiting room with the plastic plants, the tall plastic counter, and, through the open doorway, John Mitch’s duckling colored office.
Oh, Fuck.


Well, I hope you enjoyed that...sorry if it wasn't too great. I'm not really great at judging my own work.
Again, a massive thanks to those of you who left reviews, you're the reason this story is still alive! I hope you had a wonderful easter, and that you all got loads of chocolate!
xx, a.