Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Powerless
A/N: I'm working on this again! Yay! I'm happy that I managed to get through the slight writer's block I had halfway through this, but it is after all, my first time updating in a few months. I tried to carry on the overall mood and write well, but if I failed, I do apologize. I'll get back into the swing of it.
“Down on the floor.” Gerard commanded, pointing towards the space of faded green carpet surrounding the bed. “You’re sleeping there tonight.”
I did as he said, and no sooner did my ass hit the ground did he have me handcuffed to each bedpost. My arms were forced to stretch out to both sides in a most uncomfortable position. The blunt metal started to dig into the sensitive skin on my wrists, and I could tell right then and there that it was going to be a long, rough night.
“Why the handcuffs? It’s not like I can fucking escape!” I barked, his demeanor really starting to get on my nerves.
He stood at the edge of the bed and stared down on me condescendingly.
“Well what am I supposed to do?” He laughed. “Take pity on the victim?”
Of ALL the psycho killers in the world, I WOULD have to get stuck with this sassy, cocky little bitch. He’s a walking stereotype and he knows it, he fucking knows it. I think that’s what’s so damn infuriating about him.
“I don’t think you have a fucking clue what you’re even going to do with me, do you?” I asked.
“Well my options are to either kill you or let you live. I think even you could have figured that out.” He answered calmly, as if this was a question he received on a daily basis. “Neither comes without a price though.”
“If you were going to let me live, wouldn’t you have let me go back in Jersey?”
He wandered away to who knows where, without as much as an acknowledgement of my question. A few minutes later, he came back, this time with a hammer in his hand.
“What the hell are you-“
“Ssssh.” He whispered, placing a finger to his lips.
I watched him intently as his steps took him over to the window. Through it, nothing could be seen of the outside world amidst the dust and dirt; yet he stood in front of it for a second or two. Just stood there and stared at it.
“What-“
He glanced over his shoulder at me quickly, before raising the hammer and smashing a hole through the window. Shards of glass flew around the room like projectiles, and it was a miracle I didn’t get one in my eye.
Or was that what he was aiming for?
“The hell was that for?” I asked, confused and frustrated beyond comprehension.
“Thought it was getting a little stuffy in here. They say that you sleep better when the air is cold, y’know.” He grinned.
It’s funny how I almost forget that his most threatening aspect is that he’s a fucking murderer who has the means to end my life at a moment’s notice. Not that he’s a know-it-all, cheeky, patronizing bastard who will send me to the loony bin FAR before he sends me to heaven.
He crawled under the covers and turned off the light. No further words were exchanged between us; nothing more could be said at this point in time. All I could do was try my best to get some sleep and pray that I’m either dreaming, or that he’ll have a moral crisis by morning and decide to let me go.
Fat chance, sucker. This guy doesn’t even know what the word “conscience” means.
I tried to shift myself into a more comfortable position. Definitely not an easy task, as not only were my arms pulled above my head with the added bonus of the metal cuffs piercing my skin, but the closest I had to a mattress was a worn-down carpet, and the back of the bed Mr. Sassy Ass had claimed for himself. The cold night air started to come in through the window, and slowly, I started to understand the purpose of the little hammer episode.
He wants me to freeze to death.
This is what I’m talking about; it’s his subtlety that drives me absolutely insane. If he had straight out said to me, “I’m going to break a window so that you will freeze to death tonight,” it wouldn’t have been even a fraction as annoying as how he did it; casually, with a spell of dead silence.
Now, do I either shut up and let this happen, or do I say something and risk him taking that hammer to my head instead of the window?
I pulled my legs in closer to my chest, hoping for a make-do blanket effect. The breeze creeped in through the hole in the window and danced around the bare skin on my arms, raising the hairs in unison. As the minutes passed and it got colder and colder, I found myself seriously considering asking him to have mercy on me.
Don’t do it, Frank. You’re risking your temporary warmth vs. your life here.
How do I know if I’m even gonna make it through the fucking night?
Your life is in the hands of God, not the psychopath murderer in the bed you’re chained to.
If there’s a God, he’d better show himself damn quick.
I tugged at the handcuffs, hoping in the back of my mind that they might just… break. And I’d be free of this guy, and run off into the sunset and live happily ever after. But alas, the harsh metal scraped against the wood like nails to a chalkboard, and my happily ever after faded away before my very eyes.
I heard a long time ago – when I was no more than 12 – that when victims of torture are enduring the act, often they will retreat into their own little fantasy world. This world of theirs is just like the real world, except for one cornerstone detail; in it, they are not being tortured. What if I were to do that? Is it a voluntary action? Because surely… surely, this counts as torture. He’s basically doing everything he can to kill me as slowly and as painfully as humanly possible. Essentially, that’s it.
My mind wandered off, almost as if I actually were in my own little fantasy world. I thought about my life when I was a child, and what happened that caused me to turn out like I did. I thought about my friends (what few I had) and who they are, and the lives that they are leading. I thought about God, if there is a God up there somewhere, and decided to take a chance and pray that he would save me from this monster whose grip I’ve fallen into. And without even realizing it, I ended up thinking about Gerard. About the life that he’s leading, and what really brought him there. Does he regret his past decisions? Does he wish he didn’t have to slit throats in order to keep himself alive and well? Before all this, what kind of a person was he? And then I thought about myself, and put myself in his shoes. What if I were him, and he was me? How would I be able to do the things to him that he’s done to me in such a short time, and not have the conscience to plead myself guilty? What hardened his heart for so many years that he can do what he does, seemingly with the ease that he would have while taking a shower or walking the dog?
Take a shower, walk the dog, plunge a knife into someone’s chest. Y’know, the usual.
I awoke from my daze of thoughts and glanced over at the clock. 4:11am. I must have dozed off in the midst of my mind’s wanderings. I suppose I can kill another half hour or so trying to figure out how the fuck that happened.
Gerard’s cell phone broke the dead silence in the room as it’s ringer went off like crazy. He hopped out of bed, took a quick look at it, and answered it hurriedly.
“Hello?” He panted, sounding almost vulnerable.
With the aid of the moonlight shining in through the broken window, I watched him as he walked like a zombie towards me. He looked down on me, his face contorting into an expression of disgust. Then, of fear and once again, near vulnerability. He ran out of the room and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
“By tomorrow night.” I faintly heard him say.
That was the last thing I heard until he wandered out again, looking less distraught and more annoyed. I didn’t dare ask what that was all about; by the look of it, he was ready to take his knife to my throat at any given moment. Turns out though, that he had already read my mind.
“Keep your fucking mouth closed, and you’ll live until Friday.” He sneered, climbing back into bed.
Friday. That’s two days from now.
By tomorrow night? What?
He crawled back under the covers, and his feet kicked the blanket towards me; nearly allowing it to cover my forearms. No doubt that this was accidental, but if there is a God somewhere up there, he’s a good guy.
“Down on the floor.” Gerard commanded, pointing towards the space of faded green carpet surrounding the bed. “You’re sleeping there tonight.”
I did as he said, and no sooner did my ass hit the ground did he have me handcuffed to each bedpost. My arms were forced to stretch out to both sides in a most uncomfortable position. The blunt metal started to dig into the sensitive skin on my wrists, and I could tell right then and there that it was going to be a long, rough night.
“Why the handcuffs? It’s not like I can fucking escape!” I barked, his demeanor really starting to get on my nerves.
He stood at the edge of the bed and stared down on me condescendingly.
“Well what am I supposed to do?” He laughed. “Take pity on the victim?”
Of ALL the psycho killers in the world, I WOULD have to get stuck with this sassy, cocky little bitch. He’s a walking stereotype and he knows it, he fucking knows it. I think that’s what’s so damn infuriating about him.
“I don’t think you have a fucking clue what you’re even going to do with me, do you?” I asked.
“Well my options are to either kill you or let you live. I think even you could have figured that out.” He answered calmly, as if this was a question he received on a daily basis. “Neither comes without a price though.”
“If you were going to let me live, wouldn’t you have let me go back in Jersey?”
He wandered away to who knows where, without as much as an acknowledgement of my question. A few minutes later, he came back, this time with a hammer in his hand.
“What the hell are you-“
“Ssssh.” He whispered, placing a finger to his lips.
I watched him intently as his steps took him over to the window. Through it, nothing could be seen of the outside world amidst the dust and dirt; yet he stood in front of it for a second or two. Just stood there and stared at it.
“What-“
He glanced over his shoulder at me quickly, before raising the hammer and smashing a hole through the window. Shards of glass flew around the room like projectiles, and it was a miracle I didn’t get one in my eye.
Or was that what he was aiming for?
“The hell was that for?” I asked, confused and frustrated beyond comprehension.
“Thought it was getting a little stuffy in here. They say that you sleep better when the air is cold, y’know.” He grinned.
It’s funny how I almost forget that his most threatening aspect is that he’s a fucking murderer who has the means to end my life at a moment’s notice. Not that he’s a know-it-all, cheeky, patronizing bastard who will send me to the loony bin FAR before he sends me to heaven.
He crawled under the covers and turned off the light. No further words were exchanged between us; nothing more could be said at this point in time. All I could do was try my best to get some sleep and pray that I’m either dreaming, or that he’ll have a moral crisis by morning and decide to let me go.
Fat chance, sucker. This guy doesn’t even know what the word “conscience” means.
I tried to shift myself into a more comfortable position. Definitely not an easy task, as not only were my arms pulled above my head with the added bonus of the metal cuffs piercing my skin, but the closest I had to a mattress was a worn-down carpet, and the back of the bed Mr. Sassy Ass had claimed for himself. The cold night air started to come in through the window, and slowly, I started to understand the purpose of the little hammer episode.
He wants me to freeze to death.
This is what I’m talking about; it’s his subtlety that drives me absolutely insane. If he had straight out said to me, “I’m going to break a window so that you will freeze to death tonight,” it wouldn’t have been even a fraction as annoying as how he did it; casually, with a spell of dead silence.
Now, do I either shut up and let this happen, or do I say something and risk him taking that hammer to my head instead of the window?
I pulled my legs in closer to my chest, hoping for a make-do blanket effect. The breeze creeped in through the hole in the window and danced around the bare skin on my arms, raising the hairs in unison. As the minutes passed and it got colder and colder, I found myself seriously considering asking him to have mercy on me.
Don’t do it, Frank. You’re risking your temporary warmth vs. your life here.
How do I know if I’m even gonna make it through the fucking night?
Your life is in the hands of God, not the psychopath murderer in the bed you’re chained to.
If there’s a God, he’d better show himself damn quick.
I tugged at the handcuffs, hoping in the back of my mind that they might just… break. And I’d be free of this guy, and run off into the sunset and live happily ever after. But alas, the harsh metal scraped against the wood like nails to a chalkboard, and my happily ever after faded away before my very eyes.
I heard a long time ago – when I was no more than 12 – that when victims of torture are enduring the act, often they will retreat into their own little fantasy world. This world of theirs is just like the real world, except for one cornerstone detail; in it, they are not being tortured. What if I were to do that? Is it a voluntary action? Because surely… surely, this counts as torture. He’s basically doing everything he can to kill me as slowly and as painfully as humanly possible. Essentially, that’s it.
My mind wandered off, almost as if I actually were in my own little fantasy world. I thought about my life when I was a child, and what happened that caused me to turn out like I did. I thought about my friends (what few I had) and who they are, and the lives that they are leading. I thought about God, if there is a God up there somewhere, and decided to take a chance and pray that he would save me from this monster whose grip I’ve fallen into. And without even realizing it, I ended up thinking about Gerard. About the life that he’s leading, and what really brought him there. Does he regret his past decisions? Does he wish he didn’t have to slit throats in order to keep himself alive and well? Before all this, what kind of a person was he? And then I thought about myself, and put myself in his shoes. What if I were him, and he was me? How would I be able to do the things to him that he’s done to me in such a short time, and not have the conscience to plead myself guilty? What hardened his heart for so many years that he can do what he does, seemingly with the ease that he would have while taking a shower or walking the dog?
Take a shower, walk the dog, plunge a knife into someone’s chest. Y’know, the usual.
I awoke from my daze of thoughts and glanced over at the clock. 4:11am. I must have dozed off in the midst of my mind’s wanderings. I suppose I can kill another half hour or so trying to figure out how the fuck that happened.
Gerard’s cell phone broke the dead silence in the room as it’s ringer went off like crazy. He hopped out of bed, took a quick look at it, and answered it hurriedly.
“Hello?” He panted, sounding almost vulnerable.
With the aid of the moonlight shining in through the broken window, I watched him as he walked like a zombie towards me. He looked down on me, his face contorting into an expression of disgust. Then, of fear and once again, near vulnerability. He ran out of the room and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
“By tomorrow night.” I faintly heard him say.
That was the last thing I heard until he wandered out again, looking less distraught and more annoyed. I didn’t dare ask what that was all about; by the look of it, he was ready to take his knife to my throat at any given moment. Turns out though, that he had already read my mind.
“Keep your fucking mouth closed, and you’ll live until Friday.” He sneered, climbing back into bed.
Friday. That’s two days from now.
By tomorrow night? What?
He crawled back under the covers, and his feet kicked the blanket towards me; nearly allowing it to cover my forearms. No doubt that this was accidental, but if there is a God somewhere up there, he’s a good guy.
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