Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance
Mani Del Destino
3 reviewsFrerard foreplay and pseudo-psycho violence and whatnot. Yeah, just read it. (Oneshot)
1Insightful
A/N: I WAS LOOKING THROUGH MY BACKUP EMAIL ACCOUNT AND I FOUND THIS LITTLE PIECE OF WONDER THAT I WROTE LAST YEAR.
So I thought what the hell, might as well upload it. For old times' sake.
Thisishowmymindworks.
"Gerard, what are you doing?" he laughed.
I pushed him down onto the bed and ripped his shirt off his tiny body.
"It's my hands. They have minds of their own."
"That's what you say every time. Just admit it, you want me."
"Hands." I grinned.
He looked up at me and flashed that snow-white smile of his.
"And I suppose your lips have minds of their own as well?" he smirked.
I crawled on top of him and pressed mine against his violently.
"Damn." he whispered between kisses.
"You like that?"
I slipped my hands behind his neck and pulled him in closer.
That was the last thing I remember with any hint of clarity. From there, my life evolved into nothing but a blur of doctors, court sessions, and blood.
They strapped me down to a chair, my arms tied behind my back and my thighs strapped together. They stood around me like vultures, ready to swoop in on their prey at any given moment. Serried stares of judgement and narcissistic superiority closed in on me, and all I could do was breathe while they decided my fate.
They called me insane.
I didn't care.
They said I'm delirious.
I smiled.
They told me I'm a danger to society and to myself.
I shrugged it off.
They told me you were dead.
My heart stopped. I fought back tears as I asked them how.
They told me I strangled you.
It was like running into a brick wall.
I couldn’t understand how it could have been me. You were the only thing in this cold, inanimate world that meant anything to me.
Yet I was the one to take your life.
I hated them. Not the doctors, not the judges, not the police, but them. My hands.
They escorted me home, practically holding my hand like a little child. They stuffed my belongings into duffel bags and suitcases, because apparently I would be needing them where I would soon be going.
I really didn’t care at all. Life isn’t life without you, so why would I care where I’m going or what they’re going to do with me?
I asked to go to the bathroom. They looked around the room at each other, exchanging glances of hesitation and doubt.
“Yes.” One of the policemen said.
He said yes, but the lack of trust they had in me was quite obvious. He followed me all the way down the hall, only leaving me as I shut the door. I pressed my ear to it, the sound of the wood creaking beneath his feet breaking the otherwise dead silence.
“I’ll be out in a minute. I just have one last thing to do.” I whispered.
I yanked the drawer closest to me open and pulled out a glistening dagger. Light bounced off its sharp edge as it caught the light from the window and for a second, I could’ve sworn I saw your eyes looking back at me in the reflection.
I clutched its handle tightly in the sweaty palm of my right hand and pressed it gently to my left wrist, leaving an indent in the thin layer of skin.
But that just wouldn’t do, now would it?
I took one last look at the abhorred, despised beings attached to the ends of my arms, and without hesitation, made that first slash.
10 minutes later, the deed was done.
With the minute remains of my vision, I caught the look on the policeman’s face as he burst in. What he saw must not have been beautiful to him, but it sure was to me.
I said one last goodbye to the former parts of me as they took me away to the hospital.
“It was a miracle you lived.”
“It’s rare to survive with such incredible blood loss.”
“You should be getting down on your knees and praising the dear Lord for keeping you alive.”
So here I am. Wandering mindlessly around this… asylum, bumping shoulders with psycho freaks everywhere I go. How degrading.
They said they'd take the straitjacket off in a week but to be honest, I'm not sure I want it off. I don't want to be able to see the raw stumps where my hands used to be.
I hope they're not out there, hurting someone else. But then again, even if they are, I won't be blamed for it. Not this time.
I always said my hands had minds of their own. I wish I had known just how right I was.
So I thought what the hell, might as well upload it. For old times' sake.
Thisishowmymindworks.
"Gerard, what are you doing?" he laughed.
I pushed him down onto the bed and ripped his shirt off his tiny body.
"It's my hands. They have minds of their own."
"That's what you say every time. Just admit it, you want me."
"Hands." I grinned.
He looked up at me and flashed that snow-white smile of his.
"And I suppose your lips have minds of their own as well?" he smirked.
I crawled on top of him and pressed mine against his violently.
"Damn." he whispered between kisses.
"You like that?"
I slipped my hands behind his neck and pulled him in closer.
That was the last thing I remember with any hint of clarity. From there, my life evolved into nothing but a blur of doctors, court sessions, and blood.
They strapped me down to a chair, my arms tied behind my back and my thighs strapped together. They stood around me like vultures, ready to swoop in on their prey at any given moment. Serried stares of judgement and narcissistic superiority closed in on me, and all I could do was breathe while they decided my fate.
They called me insane.
I didn't care.
They said I'm delirious.
I smiled.
They told me I'm a danger to society and to myself.
I shrugged it off.
They told me you were dead.
My heart stopped. I fought back tears as I asked them how.
They told me I strangled you.
It was like running into a brick wall.
I couldn’t understand how it could have been me. You were the only thing in this cold, inanimate world that meant anything to me.
Yet I was the one to take your life.
I hated them. Not the doctors, not the judges, not the police, but them. My hands.
They escorted me home, practically holding my hand like a little child. They stuffed my belongings into duffel bags and suitcases, because apparently I would be needing them where I would soon be going.
I really didn’t care at all. Life isn’t life without you, so why would I care where I’m going or what they’re going to do with me?
I asked to go to the bathroom. They looked around the room at each other, exchanging glances of hesitation and doubt.
“Yes.” One of the policemen said.
He said yes, but the lack of trust they had in me was quite obvious. He followed me all the way down the hall, only leaving me as I shut the door. I pressed my ear to it, the sound of the wood creaking beneath his feet breaking the otherwise dead silence.
“I’ll be out in a minute. I just have one last thing to do.” I whispered.
I yanked the drawer closest to me open and pulled out a glistening dagger. Light bounced off its sharp edge as it caught the light from the window and for a second, I could’ve sworn I saw your eyes looking back at me in the reflection.
I clutched its handle tightly in the sweaty palm of my right hand and pressed it gently to my left wrist, leaving an indent in the thin layer of skin.
But that just wouldn’t do, now would it?
I took one last look at the abhorred, despised beings attached to the ends of my arms, and without hesitation, made that first slash.
10 minutes later, the deed was done.
With the minute remains of my vision, I caught the look on the policeman’s face as he burst in. What he saw must not have been beautiful to him, but it sure was to me.
I said one last goodbye to the former parts of me as they took me away to the hospital.
“It was a miracle you lived.”
“It’s rare to survive with such incredible blood loss.”
“You should be getting down on your knees and praising the dear Lord for keeping you alive.”
So here I am. Wandering mindlessly around this… asylum, bumping shoulders with psycho freaks everywhere I go. How degrading.
They said they'd take the straitjacket off in a week but to be honest, I'm not sure I want it off. I don't want to be able to see the raw stumps where my hands used to be.
I hope they're not out there, hurting someone else. But then again, even if they are, I won't be blamed for it. Not this time.
I always said my hands had minds of their own. I wish I had known just how right I was.
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