Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Powerless
A/N: This will be my first thriller-type fic, so let's see how it goes. Thanks for all the support so far; hope y'all enjoy!
I often compare myself to a clock. Not the kind on your phone or nailed to your wall, but the spectacular, grandiose ones you find here and there. The ones that you would stare up at as a child, and wonder “If I were to climb it, would I be able to touch the stars?” The ones that inside them, hold millions of tiny pieces; intricacies that you’d swear only God himself could have put it together. And each of those pieces has a purpose; not one is able to function without the other. One piece stops working, and the rest have no hope in the world of going on. And after you were done daydreaming about stars and clouds and how it must feel to be on top of the world, you would think “How is it that something so intricate and complicated and monumental was built to just… sit there… and perform such a mundane task as tracking the course of time? Surely it must wish it had been made to do so much more.”
I’m a smart man, I swear it. From the moment I was old enough to understand what their words meant, everyone around me spoke of my potential. I’m not saying I blame them for anything, after all, who would expect the straight-A class valedictorian to not only attend art school (gasp), but drop out 6 months in. Who would have guessed that the child-wonder who could read fluently at five years old would carry out his adult years as a comic book store owner in the shit-hole of Chicago? They all thought I’d be a millionaire with a mansion by the time I was 23, but surprise, I’m 25 and living in a two-room apartment that might as well have “trailer trash” spray painted across the door.
I may be smart. I may be intricate, complicated, maybe even ingenious. Or maybe that’s who I used to be, and I‘ve lost myself somewhere along the way. But I do know that I chose this life for myself, and although some may still see me as a shipwreck of what I could have been; a work of God, wasting away as a mere progression of time… this is the only place that I could ever feel truly on top of the world. And I’m not sure that I’d change it, even if I could.
…
I ran down the stairs and into the apartment lobby and as every other time, I silently prepared for my death as they creaked and cracked beneath my reckless, yet still cautious steps.
Why hasn’t this place installed an elevator yet? I mean the stairs have a certain rustic charm about them, but it’s 2013, electricity has been around for a while y’know.
“Late again, are we?”
I turned around to face the figure that matched the voice. Ray Toro, my good friend who doubles as the weirdo who spends his days hanging around the lobby for no apparent reason. He leaned against the wall; his arms crossed in front of him, and stared at me with that “seriously?” grin spread across his face.
“Clock’s early.” I answered with a chuckle.
He gazed out the building’s foggy glass doors before speaking again.
“It’s raining like the fuckin’ devil’s shower out there. I hope to the dear Lord that you have an umbrella in that backpack of yours.”
“You think I had time to shower?” I said, throwing my hands in the air melodramatically. “Maybe the devil ain’t such a bad guy, after all.”
He smiled and shook his head at me.
“Carry on, my wayward son.” He muttered, pointing towards the doors.
I pushed them open and stepped outside, and immediately got pelted with an army of rain bullets.
Well fuck you, too.
I started running, figuring that I could probably make it there in five minutes with only minimal wet dog odor. Raindrops shot at me from every angle, hitting every square inch of skin not covered by clothing. If it weren't only September, I could’ve sworn it was hail.
This is Chicago. Parkas in July are more common than normal weather patterns.
I slid into the slim, comparatively inviting alley in between two of Jersey’s old brick buildings. I take this little shortcut of mine to work every single fucking day since I opened it four years ago. So of course, I would have no reason to expect anything different; anything unforeseen in any way. So you can imagine the heart-attack I got when in front of me, stood a brooding man with a bloody dagger in his hand; and at his feet, his victim, so mangled and contorted that it was sickening beyond imagination.
The sight in front of me rendered me lifeless, and I found myself unable to run or scream; although my mind begged relentlessly. The man’s dark eyes traced up and down my body, as if he were trying to decide whether or not I should join the victim at his feet.
“Hey there.” He said, far too casually for my already smashed-to-pieces comfort zone.
He took a few steps towards me, the dagger in his hand glistening menacingly.
“How many horror movies have you seen?” He asked, now standing still in front of me.
“L-Lots-“
“Answer me this: is it a good idea to mess with the bad guy?”
His eyes locked with mine, and it was all I could do to keep my knees from giving out beneath me. We stood in silence for a minute or two, his gaze steady and unmovable.
“So you can either do exactly what I say, or you can join all those who chose to fight, and went to a place you don’t even want to imagine.” He sneered, wiping the blood off the dagger with his fingers. “So… are you going to fight?”
I quickly shook my head, my heart pounding inside my chest louder than the drums of the heavens.
“You’re a smart boy.” He grinned. “Let’s go.”
He grabbed my arm and led me out the other side of the alley.
Those rain bullets aren't so bad anymore.
I often compare myself to a clock. Not the kind on your phone or nailed to your wall, but the spectacular, grandiose ones you find here and there. The ones that you would stare up at as a child, and wonder “If I were to climb it, would I be able to touch the stars?” The ones that inside them, hold millions of tiny pieces; intricacies that you’d swear only God himself could have put it together. And each of those pieces has a purpose; not one is able to function without the other. One piece stops working, and the rest have no hope in the world of going on. And after you were done daydreaming about stars and clouds and how it must feel to be on top of the world, you would think “How is it that something so intricate and complicated and monumental was built to just… sit there… and perform such a mundane task as tracking the course of time? Surely it must wish it had been made to do so much more.”
I’m a smart man, I swear it. From the moment I was old enough to understand what their words meant, everyone around me spoke of my potential. I’m not saying I blame them for anything, after all, who would expect the straight-A class valedictorian to not only attend art school (gasp), but drop out 6 months in. Who would have guessed that the child-wonder who could read fluently at five years old would carry out his adult years as a comic book store owner in the shit-hole of Chicago? They all thought I’d be a millionaire with a mansion by the time I was 23, but surprise, I’m 25 and living in a two-room apartment that might as well have “trailer trash” spray painted across the door.
I may be smart. I may be intricate, complicated, maybe even ingenious. Or maybe that’s who I used to be, and I‘ve lost myself somewhere along the way. But I do know that I chose this life for myself, and although some may still see me as a shipwreck of what I could have been; a work of God, wasting away as a mere progression of time… this is the only place that I could ever feel truly on top of the world. And I’m not sure that I’d change it, even if I could.
…
I ran down the stairs and into the apartment lobby and as every other time, I silently prepared for my death as they creaked and cracked beneath my reckless, yet still cautious steps.
Why hasn’t this place installed an elevator yet? I mean the stairs have a certain rustic charm about them, but it’s 2013, electricity has been around for a while y’know.
“Late again, are we?”
I turned around to face the figure that matched the voice. Ray Toro, my good friend who doubles as the weirdo who spends his days hanging around the lobby for no apparent reason. He leaned against the wall; his arms crossed in front of him, and stared at me with that “seriously?” grin spread across his face.
“Clock’s early.” I answered with a chuckle.
He gazed out the building’s foggy glass doors before speaking again.
“It’s raining like the fuckin’ devil’s shower out there. I hope to the dear Lord that you have an umbrella in that backpack of yours.”
“You think I had time to shower?” I said, throwing my hands in the air melodramatically. “Maybe the devil ain’t such a bad guy, after all.”
He smiled and shook his head at me.
“Carry on, my wayward son.” He muttered, pointing towards the doors.
I pushed them open and stepped outside, and immediately got pelted with an army of rain bullets.
Well fuck you, too.
I started running, figuring that I could probably make it there in five minutes with only minimal wet dog odor. Raindrops shot at me from every angle, hitting every square inch of skin not covered by clothing. If it weren't only September, I could’ve sworn it was hail.
This is Chicago. Parkas in July are more common than normal weather patterns.
I slid into the slim, comparatively inviting alley in between two of Jersey’s old brick buildings. I take this little shortcut of mine to work every single fucking day since I opened it four years ago. So of course, I would have no reason to expect anything different; anything unforeseen in any way. So you can imagine the heart-attack I got when in front of me, stood a brooding man with a bloody dagger in his hand; and at his feet, his victim, so mangled and contorted that it was sickening beyond imagination.
The sight in front of me rendered me lifeless, and I found myself unable to run or scream; although my mind begged relentlessly. The man’s dark eyes traced up and down my body, as if he were trying to decide whether or not I should join the victim at his feet.
“Hey there.” He said, far too casually for my already smashed-to-pieces comfort zone.
He took a few steps towards me, the dagger in his hand glistening menacingly.
“How many horror movies have you seen?” He asked, now standing still in front of me.
“L-Lots-“
“Answer me this: is it a good idea to mess with the bad guy?”
His eyes locked with mine, and it was all I could do to keep my knees from giving out beneath me. We stood in silence for a minute or two, his gaze steady and unmovable.
“So you can either do exactly what I say, or you can join all those who chose to fight, and went to a place you don’t even want to imagine.” He sneered, wiping the blood off the dagger with his fingers. “So… are you going to fight?”
I quickly shook my head, my heart pounding inside my chest louder than the drums of the heavens.
“You’re a smart boy.” He grinned. “Let’s go.”
He grabbed my arm and led me out the other side of the alley.
Those rain bullets aren't so bad anymore.
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