Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Recollection
A/N: Hi y'all! I'm sorry, and I realize that I'm still in the middle of my story "Bruised Memories," but I've found myself losing interest and inspiration for it. Maybe some time soon I've find it. Anyway, I've found a new plot I've found to be very interesting, so I've decided to write it! I find it a little difficult, so don't be expecting much :P
I’d look at my house sometimes, staring at the beautifully paneled roofs and sleek, modern features. I’d watch the sunlight gleam against the wide, blue-tinged windows, showing a great view of the Rocky Mountains, and how unnecessarily large the building was, wondering how I could have possibly gotten this far, able to easily afford such a grand house as this one, living only an hour drive from Los Angeles with the fresh pacific breeze greeting me each time I stepped outside.
Living in New Jersey while growing up, I never aspired to even leave the area, staying in the notoriously dangerous areas of the state and commuting to New York once I graduated high school to go to university, the School of Visual Arts in the City. I caught a job at Cartoon Network for a few years, not achieving much with my art, or rather, lack thereof, but I found my passion, my inspiration, soon after I left the job, unsatisfied with the pay, but mostly disappointed that having an art major at an art school didn’t live up to the glorified name successful artists seemed to give it. Life was hard then. I barely scraped by after college, finding myself buying art supplies instead of paying rent, eventually having to move back home with my parents. Contrary to what Hollywood makes people think, or maybe just because my parents are compassionate people, they welcomed me with open arms and allowed me the entire basement as a studio.
I spent all hours of the day in that basement, rarely getting out of the house for only art supplies, so naturally, I needed money. I started working part time at a convenience store, getting better pay by working the night shift, and painting and drawing all day once I got home. Coffee really does help you function with only a few hours a sleep every day. I found myself taking real interest in abstract impressionism using oils that were suitable for my meager pay. I worked hard every day, slaving over canvases, cleaning my tools, and fighting to keep my eyes open. I experimented with several different styles, never being satisfied with any of them. As the months passed, I found myself growing tired of the same patterns of paint, and one day, I placed my brush down, and walked out of the house. I headed mindlessly for the park, and sat on a bench staring over a polluted little pond. I spend the night there, sleeping on the same bench, but surprisingly having the best sleep I had had in weeks. I stayed in the park for hours, hopelessly looking over my paint-stained hands and praying that I would have some kind of future in art. No matter what I tried to tell myself, I ended up disheartened with the fact that like many art students, I would never succeed.
I eventually went back home, being greeted by my mother, who gently smiled at me as I made my usual descent into the basement. I flicked on the lights to the dank place to discover every canvas I’ve ever painted on being hung on the walls, covering almost every inch of gray cement. Each one was bursting with color or standing out with the lack of it, portraying the precise emotion I intended it to be and filling the room with an explosive aura. My mother had hung up each of my paintings, explaining afterwards that she felt I didn’t appreciate my skill enough and that I needed a little push to start an undoubtedly bright future.
Looking back at the memory, I realized that I never would have gotten to where I was now if it weren’t for that tiny shove my mother gave me. I will always be grateful for that. She gave me the needed confidence to start to sell my art. Only in small shops at first, raising money to buy to buy some better supplies, but soon I received notice from several people that my art was in somewhat of a demand, and before I knew it, I stood in front of my very own art gallery in New York. Surprisingly, more and more of my work was sold and I went into a frenzy of painting and ideas, producing one of the best pieces of art I never thought I would have the skill to make.
Life is good now. I’m a much better person: controlled and content. My girlfriend, Lindsey just moved in with me and I believe sincerely that I’m going to marry her. I’m convinced she’ll say yes and I catch myself daydreaming about our wedding and how wonderful the experience would be. I sat down on one of the chairs on our patio amongst the flourishing garden, enjoying the fragrant smell of the eucalyptus trees mixed with the sweet-smelling roses. I frequently relaxed in the backyard to calm my nerves. Lately, I’ve had irrational anger flood my mind over nothing, and Lindsey started to become frightened at what I might become, looking at the infamous situations in which people would snap and become a raging, hate-blinded monster. I thought to myself how ridiculous the notion was. Me, violent? I didn’t think so. Still, I was put on medication. I’d rather take a few pills than hurt anyone I love. On top of the cautionary medicine and preliminary scare for my anger, I continuously felt lightheaded throughout the week, getting dizzy every time I rose from a sitting or lying position. About a week before, I fell backwards after slipping on a piece of paper and hit the side of my head on the side of a table. Thankfully, all that came from it was a little pain, but it worried me that I still felt dizzy and got usually painful headaches. Hopefully it would all go away soon. I wasn’t too worried, so I didn’t say anything to Lindsey. She didn’t need to be any more concerned than she needed with my anger problems. Nonetheless, I wasn’t worried. The extent of my illnesses weren’t that severe and I was almost positive it was only a short chapter of my life.
Lindsey came strolling out, barefoot, onto the patio. She died her hair black recently, and I have to say, it suits her very well, contrasting with her usual bright red lip stick. Like me, she was an artist, pretty successful at that, too.
“Hello, Sweetie,” she said, handing me a Diet Coke, and kissed the top of my head. I smiled and watched her as she sat down on the chair next to me. “Schedule?” she asked.
“Nothing this weekend. Showing on Tuesday and studio visit on Thursday.” Every Sunday, it was almost routine for us to tell each other our weekly events so there’d be no misunderstandings.
“Just studio work,” she said in response. I nodded, flipping the sunglasses I had perched on my head to lay comfortably on the bridge of my nose. Feeling content in her presence, I closed my eyes, falling into a light sleep in the soothing daylight.
______________________________________________________________________________________
“Gerard…” I heard my name being called. Groggily, I lifted the sunglasses off my face, and squinted in the dull sunlight. Based on where the sun was, I could tell that I had been asleep for at least a couple of hours. The clouds in the sky started to become tinted with pink and red from the lowering sun. Above me, Lindsey held the phone out to me. Assuming I had a call, I took the phone and thanked her, holding it up to my ear.
“Hello?” I said after clearing my throat.
“Hey, Gerard. It’s Brian.”
“Oh, hey!” I said. Brian was my long running manager and one of the most trusted people I’ve had in my life.
“I’ve got some bad news…” he said, a little hesitantly. My heart lurched, and every possibility of what could have gotten wrong flew through my mind. Thankfully, I tried to tell myself, the problem couldn’t have involved Lindsey since she was right here with me.
“What?” I said warily.
“Your studio’s been broken into. Everything you’ve been working on’s been destroyed…” I lowered the phone from my ear, my mouth gaping open.
“What?” Lindsey whispered urgently. “What happened?” The tinny voice from the phone reached my ear, barely audible, saying,
“Gerard? Hello?” All my art, everything that I was working on anyway, was destroyed.
“Sweetie…?” Lindsey said, putting her hand on my shoulder. I stood up, disregarding her gesture. I made a generic goodbye to Brian, thanked him, and hung up. Lindsey had a worried looked on her face, and I knew, though she didn’t know the reason why, that she thought I was going to have an angry outburst. It made me so much more enraged than I already was with the destruction of my art. I didn’t want to be treated differently. I didn’t want to be held like there was a monster inside of me waiting to come out. I wanted to be normal. I wanted to be stable! Lindsey shouldn’t have to feel the least bit scared of me, and the fact that I saw it so clearly in her face made me even more furious. Trying to control my inner fury, I walked away stiffly, leaving Lindsey standing alone on the wooden patio, not looking back.
A/N: It's pretty cliché, but hopefully you'll keep reading at enjoy! Thanks for reading and Rate and Reviews would be very nice so I would know what to improve on!
I’d look at my house sometimes, staring at the beautifully paneled roofs and sleek, modern features. I’d watch the sunlight gleam against the wide, blue-tinged windows, showing a great view of the Rocky Mountains, and how unnecessarily large the building was, wondering how I could have possibly gotten this far, able to easily afford such a grand house as this one, living only an hour drive from Los Angeles with the fresh pacific breeze greeting me each time I stepped outside.
Living in New Jersey while growing up, I never aspired to even leave the area, staying in the notoriously dangerous areas of the state and commuting to New York once I graduated high school to go to university, the School of Visual Arts in the City. I caught a job at Cartoon Network for a few years, not achieving much with my art, or rather, lack thereof, but I found my passion, my inspiration, soon after I left the job, unsatisfied with the pay, but mostly disappointed that having an art major at an art school didn’t live up to the glorified name successful artists seemed to give it. Life was hard then. I barely scraped by after college, finding myself buying art supplies instead of paying rent, eventually having to move back home with my parents. Contrary to what Hollywood makes people think, or maybe just because my parents are compassionate people, they welcomed me with open arms and allowed me the entire basement as a studio.
I spent all hours of the day in that basement, rarely getting out of the house for only art supplies, so naturally, I needed money. I started working part time at a convenience store, getting better pay by working the night shift, and painting and drawing all day once I got home. Coffee really does help you function with only a few hours a sleep every day. I found myself taking real interest in abstract impressionism using oils that were suitable for my meager pay. I worked hard every day, slaving over canvases, cleaning my tools, and fighting to keep my eyes open. I experimented with several different styles, never being satisfied with any of them. As the months passed, I found myself growing tired of the same patterns of paint, and one day, I placed my brush down, and walked out of the house. I headed mindlessly for the park, and sat on a bench staring over a polluted little pond. I spend the night there, sleeping on the same bench, but surprisingly having the best sleep I had had in weeks. I stayed in the park for hours, hopelessly looking over my paint-stained hands and praying that I would have some kind of future in art. No matter what I tried to tell myself, I ended up disheartened with the fact that like many art students, I would never succeed.
I eventually went back home, being greeted by my mother, who gently smiled at me as I made my usual descent into the basement. I flicked on the lights to the dank place to discover every canvas I’ve ever painted on being hung on the walls, covering almost every inch of gray cement. Each one was bursting with color or standing out with the lack of it, portraying the precise emotion I intended it to be and filling the room with an explosive aura. My mother had hung up each of my paintings, explaining afterwards that she felt I didn’t appreciate my skill enough and that I needed a little push to start an undoubtedly bright future.
Looking back at the memory, I realized that I never would have gotten to where I was now if it weren’t for that tiny shove my mother gave me. I will always be grateful for that. She gave me the needed confidence to start to sell my art. Only in small shops at first, raising money to buy to buy some better supplies, but soon I received notice from several people that my art was in somewhat of a demand, and before I knew it, I stood in front of my very own art gallery in New York. Surprisingly, more and more of my work was sold and I went into a frenzy of painting and ideas, producing one of the best pieces of art I never thought I would have the skill to make.
Life is good now. I’m a much better person: controlled and content. My girlfriend, Lindsey just moved in with me and I believe sincerely that I’m going to marry her. I’m convinced she’ll say yes and I catch myself daydreaming about our wedding and how wonderful the experience would be. I sat down on one of the chairs on our patio amongst the flourishing garden, enjoying the fragrant smell of the eucalyptus trees mixed with the sweet-smelling roses. I frequently relaxed in the backyard to calm my nerves. Lately, I’ve had irrational anger flood my mind over nothing, and Lindsey started to become frightened at what I might become, looking at the infamous situations in which people would snap and become a raging, hate-blinded monster. I thought to myself how ridiculous the notion was. Me, violent? I didn’t think so. Still, I was put on medication. I’d rather take a few pills than hurt anyone I love. On top of the cautionary medicine and preliminary scare for my anger, I continuously felt lightheaded throughout the week, getting dizzy every time I rose from a sitting or lying position. About a week before, I fell backwards after slipping on a piece of paper and hit the side of my head on the side of a table. Thankfully, all that came from it was a little pain, but it worried me that I still felt dizzy and got usually painful headaches. Hopefully it would all go away soon. I wasn’t too worried, so I didn’t say anything to Lindsey. She didn’t need to be any more concerned than she needed with my anger problems. Nonetheless, I wasn’t worried. The extent of my illnesses weren’t that severe and I was almost positive it was only a short chapter of my life.
Lindsey came strolling out, barefoot, onto the patio. She died her hair black recently, and I have to say, it suits her very well, contrasting with her usual bright red lip stick. Like me, she was an artist, pretty successful at that, too.
“Hello, Sweetie,” she said, handing me a Diet Coke, and kissed the top of my head. I smiled and watched her as she sat down on the chair next to me. “Schedule?” she asked.
“Nothing this weekend. Showing on Tuesday and studio visit on Thursday.” Every Sunday, it was almost routine for us to tell each other our weekly events so there’d be no misunderstandings.
“Just studio work,” she said in response. I nodded, flipping the sunglasses I had perched on my head to lay comfortably on the bridge of my nose. Feeling content in her presence, I closed my eyes, falling into a light sleep in the soothing daylight.
______________________________________________________________________________________
“Gerard…” I heard my name being called. Groggily, I lifted the sunglasses off my face, and squinted in the dull sunlight. Based on where the sun was, I could tell that I had been asleep for at least a couple of hours. The clouds in the sky started to become tinted with pink and red from the lowering sun. Above me, Lindsey held the phone out to me. Assuming I had a call, I took the phone and thanked her, holding it up to my ear.
“Hello?” I said after clearing my throat.
“Hey, Gerard. It’s Brian.”
“Oh, hey!” I said. Brian was my long running manager and one of the most trusted people I’ve had in my life.
“I’ve got some bad news…” he said, a little hesitantly. My heart lurched, and every possibility of what could have gotten wrong flew through my mind. Thankfully, I tried to tell myself, the problem couldn’t have involved Lindsey since she was right here with me.
“What?” I said warily.
“Your studio’s been broken into. Everything you’ve been working on’s been destroyed…” I lowered the phone from my ear, my mouth gaping open.
“What?” Lindsey whispered urgently. “What happened?” The tinny voice from the phone reached my ear, barely audible, saying,
“Gerard? Hello?” All my art, everything that I was working on anyway, was destroyed.
“Sweetie…?” Lindsey said, putting her hand on my shoulder. I stood up, disregarding her gesture. I made a generic goodbye to Brian, thanked him, and hung up. Lindsey had a worried looked on her face, and I knew, though she didn’t know the reason why, that she thought I was going to have an angry outburst. It made me so much more enraged than I already was with the destruction of my art. I didn’t want to be treated differently. I didn’t want to be held like there was a monster inside of me waiting to come out. I wanted to be normal. I wanted to be stable! Lindsey shouldn’t have to feel the least bit scared of me, and the fact that I saw it so clearly in her face made me even more furious. Trying to control my inner fury, I walked away stiffly, leaving Lindsey standing alone on the wooden patio, not looking back.
A/N: It's pretty cliché, but hopefully you'll keep reading at enjoy! Thanks for reading and Rate and Reviews would be very nice so I would know what to improve on!
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