Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Powerless
Someone tell me why he didn’t kill me. I just don’t understand it.
He had a fucking knife to my arm, he could’ve so easily hit an artery and I would’ve been dead within 10 minutes. So why; why did he do what he did? Why is he keeping me alive?
We’ve been on the road again for 2 hours, give or take. For two hours, we’ve both sat in total silence; apart from the dull roar of the engine and the unsettlingly unceasing sound of the rubber tires running over the pavement. A million questions run through my mind as I watch the world outside pass me by. I wonder if I’ll ever travel this road again; I try to come up with the answer I’ve been asking since I first set foot into that damned alley: Who is he, and what will happen to me as long as I am under his power?
I wonder if anyone has figured out that I’m gone yet. My employees have been fooled into thinking that I’m merely sick… but what about those that know me not solely as “Frank, the comic store owner,” but as the person that I am when I’m not behind that desk, selling rare comics to snot-nosed kids for cheap. Those like Ray or the guy at the convenience store that I discuss vintage TV shows with, yet still don’t know his name. I wonder if they've noticed my absence yet.
You’re no celebrity, Frank. Don’t count on nothin’, you’ll only let yourself down.
“Who are you?” I asked, breaking the deathly silence.
“I’m a lowlife who kills for a living.” He said hesitantly. “Just in case you hadn’t already figured that out.”
“So you’re a hitman. Great, I’m trapped in an El Camino with a fucking hitman!”
“I’m no hitman.” He said. “You don’t have to be a hitman to do what I do. Everybody can kill.”
“Sane people don’t kill! There’s a reason three quarters of them turn themselves in before they even get a fucking trial. They can’t live with the guilt.” I trembled. “Just tell me who you are and what you want out of me. It’s not like I can run and tell anyone.”
As I said that, I remembered my right wrist; swollen, bleeding, and still cuffed.
“And take these off me!” I cried.
He tossed me the key and I freed myself as quickly as I could for fear that he would accuse me of stealing it.
“Good boy.” He smirked.
“What?”
His concentration shifted back to his driving, and my question was left unanswered. Although it wasn’t that question that I had just spent hours piecing together clues and searching for any hint of an answer to.
Keep asking. Piss him off. Maybe he’ll let you go if you become a total fuckwad.
“So you’re a hitman?” I asked.
He let out a sigh and slammed his head against the steering wheel.
Fuckwad. Fuckwad. Fuckwad.
Maybe this is why half of my childhood” friends” actually hated me.
“Why can’t you tell me? Who am I gonna go tell? The last human being I saw, who we passed probably 100 miles ago?”
“My name’s Gerard, okay?” He snapped. “I work for the fucking US mafia. I kill for a living, and that’s all there is to it.”
Hitman doesn’t sound so bad anymore.
“So what, did you tell your parents as a kid ‘When I grow up, I want to kill people and leave their bodies in dark alleys’?”
“If I were you, I’d shut up while you’re already ahead. I’ve been doing this since I was 19, you don’t even want to know the things I could do to you.” He hissed, his eyes focusing intently on the road ahead.
Maybe operation fuckwad wasn’t such a bright move, after all.
We drove for another 2 or so hours before we reached a town. “Welcome to Waverly, Ohio,” the sign said. It was a small, rustic looking place; the streets rough and buildings falling apart as far as the eye could see. We passed a dozen or so people on the road, and it was an inner battle and a half to keep myself from screaming out to them.
Help me; I’ve been abducted by a psycho mafia killer. Who would believe that, anyway?
Another five minutes, and I found myself in the lobby of an old, run-down motel. Not just your average old, run-down motel though; but the kind that is so disgusting and cheap that they’re almost always torn down before it gets that bad.
This feels like a fucking movie. I shouldn’t be finding humor in it, but I am.
“I suggest you don’t leave my sight.” Gerard said, grabbing my arm and dragging me over to the counter where an unkempt man of about 60 stood.
“I see you brought a guest.” He said, first flashing Gerard a half-toothed grin and then staring down at me judgmentally.
“Shit happens.” Gerard replied, tapping his fingers on the counter’s surface. “Rogers called you?”
The man reached below the counter and reappeared with a small vial of clear liquid.
“I’ll tell him you arrived safe and sound. Should I…?” He asked, gesturing towards me.
“I’ll figure it out. Just do what needs to be done.”
The man handed the vial over to Gerard, who stuffed it into his coat pocket inconspicuously.
“Stick with me.” He said, tightening his grip on my arm and leading me up the wobbly-looking staircase to the right. The stairs creaked beneath our every step, and it reminded me of my shitty apartment.
Home sweet home, motherfucker.
He pushed the first door at the top of the stairs open and dragged me inside.
“What are we doing here? This place should’ve been torn down eons ago…”
“What do you expect? A five-star motel?” He laughed patronizingly. “Now go shut up and go sit down over there.”
He pointed over to the set of chairs in what must have once been the living room area, and I did as he said.
I sat down and took a look around the place. And the more I looked, the more I yearned to know how in heaven or hell this place was still on its feet.
“We’re staying here overnight.” Gerard called from the bathroom. “So you’d better learn to live with this place for a few hours.”
I pulled up my sleeve, just now feeling the pain of the open wound on my arm rubbing against my clothing. Looking at it now, it’s not as deep as I thought it was. It’s long and ugly looking and will probably leave quite the scar, but he’s right… it couldn’t have killed me.
As much as I hate to admit it, I think he knows best of the two of us when it comes to killing.
My thoughts were interrupted by a blood curdling scream coming from the bathroom.
Instinctively, I ran it to see what was going on. I burst through the door and saw Gerard standing in front of the mirror, clenching his fists and crying like a little child. The vial – now empty – lay on the counter with its contents spilled over the dusty tile surface.
“Gerard, what are you-“
“I told you to fucking sit down!” He screamed at me. “I warned you…”
He grabbed my hand and stuck my index finger in the spilled liquid on the counter. Whatever it was, it burned through my skin like fire… and the blood curdling scream was no longer a mystery.
I shrieked and cried for what felt like hours until he let me go. Tears poured from my eyes and I clasped my finger in my hand, praying to God to stop the pain. I expected him to say something to me, but he just stared; his face stained with tears and hair across his dark eyes.
It was acid.
“Wh-Why-“ I started.
“You’re gonna disobey me, you can live the mafia life with me. I didn’t obey the rules and that’s why I took my first life at 19. You deserved that.” He said, his voice cracking as he spoke.
I looked closely at my finger to confirm my guess. Sure enough, my fingerprint was gone, and in its place was a raw, smooth sheet of fresh skin. I then looked over at Gerard’s hands; all his fingers looked the same as mine.
“H-How often do you have to do that?” I asked.
“Once a week. I can’t get strong enough acid to get rid of them for any longer.”
“Why-“
“Frank, just go sit down.” He ordered. “If you’d listened to me in the first place, you’d still have that fingerprint. I thought you would’ve learned by now to not fuck with me.”
He had a fucking knife to my arm, he could’ve so easily hit an artery and I would’ve been dead within 10 minutes. So why; why did he do what he did? Why is he keeping me alive?
We’ve been on the road again for 2 hours, give or take. For two hours, we’ve both sat in total silence; apart from the dull roar of the engine and the unsettlingly unceasing sound of the rubber tires running over the pavement. A million questions run through my mind as I watch the world outside pass me by. I wonder if I’ll ever travel this road again; I try to come up with the answer I’ve been asking since I first set foot into that damned alley: Who is he, and what will happen to me as long as I am under his power?
I wonder if anyone has figured out that I’m gone yet. My employees have been fooled into thinking that I’m merely sick… but what about those that know me not solely as “Frank, the comic store owner,” but as the person that I am when I’m not behind that desk, selling rare comics to snot-nosed kids for cheap. Those like Ray or the guy at the convenience store that I discuss vintage TV shows with, yet still don’t know his name. I wonder if they've noticed my absence yet.
You’re no celebrity, Frank. Don’t count on nothin’, you’ll only let yourself down.
“Who are you?” I asked, breaking the deathly silence.
“I’m a lowlife who kills for a living.” He said hesitantly. “Just in case you hadn’t already figured that out.”
“So you’re a hitman. Great, I’m trapped in an El Camino with a fucking hitman!”
“I’m no hitman.” He said. “You don’t have to be a hitman to do what I do. Everybody can kill.”
“Sane people don’t kill! There’s a reason three quarters of them turn themselves in before they even get a fucking trial. They can’t live with the guilt.” I trembled. “Just tell me who you are and what you want out of me. It’s not like I can run and tell anyone.”
As I said that, I remembered my right wrist; swollen, bleeding, and still cuffed.
“And take these off me!” I cried.
He tossed me the key and I freed myself as quickly as I could for fear that he would accuse me of stealing it.
“Good boy.” He smirked.
“What?”
His concentration shifted back to his driving, and my question was left unanswered. Although it wasn’t that question that I had just spent hours piecing together clues and searching for any hint of an answer to.
Keep asking. Piss him off. Maybe he’ll let you go if you become a total fuckwad.
“So you’re a hitman?” I asked.
He let out a sigh and slammed his head against the steering wheel.
Fuckwad. Fuckwad. Fuckwad.
Maybe this is why half of my childhood” friends” actually hated me.
“Why can’t you tell me? Who am I gonna go tell? The last human being I saw, who we passed probably 100 miles ago?”
“My name’s Gerard, okay?” He snapped. “I work for the fucking US mafia. I kill for a living, and that’s all there is to it.”
Hitman doesn’t sound so bad anymore.
“So what, did you tell your parents as a kid ‘When I grow up, I want to kill people and leave their bodies in dark alleys’?”
“If I were you, I’d shut up while you’re already ahead. I’ve been doing this since I was 19, you don’t even want to know the things I could do to you.” He hissed, his eyes focusing intently on the road ahead.
Maybe operation fuckwad wasn’t such a bright move, after all.
We drove for another 2 or so hours before we reached a town. “Welcome to Waverly, Ohio,” the sign said. It was a small, rustic looking place; the streets rough and buildings falling apart as far as the eye could see. We passed a dozen or so people on the road, and it was an inner battle and a half to keep myself from screaming out to them.
Help me; I’ve been abducted by a psycho mafia killer. Who would believe that, anyway?
Another five minutes, and I found myself in the lobby of an old, run-down motel. Not just your average old, run-down motel though; but the kind that is so disgusting and cheap that they’re almost always torn down before it gets that bad.
This feels like a fucking movie. I shouldn’t be finding humor in it, but I am.
“I suggest you don’t leave my sight.” Gerard said, grabbing my arm and dragging me over to the counter where an unkempt man of about 60 stood.
“I see you brought a guest.” He said, first flashing Gerard a half-toothed grin and then staring down at me judgmentally.
“Shit happens.” Gerard replied, tapping his fingers on the counter’s surface. “Rogers called you?”
The man reached below the counter and reappeared with a small vial of clear liquid.
“I’ll tell him you arrived safe and sound. Should I…?” He asked, gesturing towards me.
“I’ll figure it out. Just do what needs to be done.”
The man handed the vial over to Gerard, who stuffed it into his coat pocket inconspicuously.
“Stick with me.” He said, tightening his grip on my arm and leading me up the wobbly-looking staircase to the right. The stairs creaked beneath our every step, and it reminded me of my shitty apartment.
Home sweet home, motherfucker.
He pushed the first door at the top of the stairs open and dragged me inside.
“What are we doing here? This place should’ve been torn down eons ago…”
“What do you expect? A five-star motel?” He laughed patronizingly. “Now go shut up and go sit down over there.”
He pointed over to the set of chairs in what must have once been the living room area, and I did as he said.
I sat down and took a look around the place. And the more I looked, the more I yearned to know how in heaven or hell this place was still on its feet.
“We’re staying here overnight.” Gerard called from the bathroom. “So you’d better learn to live with this place for a few hours.”
I pulled up my sleeve, just now feeling the pain of the open wound on my arm rubbing against my clothing. Looking at it now, it’s not as deep as I thought it was. It’s long and ugly looking and will probably leave quite the scar, but he’s right… it couldn’t have killed me.
As much as I hate to admit it, I think he knows best of the two of us when it comes to killing.
My thoughts were interrupted by a blood curdling scream coming from the bathroom.
Instinctively, I ran it to see what was going on. I burst through the door and saw Gerard standing in front of the mirror, clenching his fists and crying like a little child. The vial – now empty – lay on the counter with its contents spilled over the dusty tile surface.
“Gerard, what are you-“
“I told you to fucking sit down!” He screamed at me. “I warned you…”
He grabbed my hand and stuck my index finger in the spilled liquid on the counter. Whatever it was, it burned through my skin like fire… and the blood curdling scream was no longer a mystery.
I shrieked and cried for what felt like hours until he let me go. Tears poured from my eyes and I clasped my finger in my hand, praying to God to stop the pain. I expected him to say something to me, but he just stared; his face stained with tears and hair across his dark eyes.
It was acid.
“Wh-Why-“ I started.
“You’re gonna disobey me, you can live the mafia life with me. I didn’t obey the rules and that’s why I took my first life at 19. You deserved that.” He said, his voice cracking as he spoke.
I looked closely at my finger to confirm my guess. Sure enough, my fingerprint was gone, and in its place was a raw, smooth sheet of fresh skin. I then looked over at Gerard’s hands; all his fingers looked the same as mine.
“H-How often do you have to do that?” I asked.
“Once a week. I can’t get strong enough acid to get rid of them for any longer.”
“Why-“
“Frank, just go sit down.” He ordered. “If you’d listened to me in the first place, you’d still have that fingerprint. I thought you would’ve learned by now to not fuck with me.”
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