Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance
It was around three in the morning. It was cold, but not violently so, it was the kind of cold that made your bones feel slightly hollow, made you crave the heat where your arms rested against your torso. And quiet, a quiet only experienced in the nights spent awake waiting for the sunrise, a soundtrack of far off sirens and car engines on the road in front of the house. It was peaceful, neutral.
If you asked them neither Frank nor Gerard could explain why they were here, a nondescript hill a short walk from the Way house. The hours spent on the dry grass were not seen as time but as a place, the silence and the dark yielding a whole new identity, an opiate. A place to be. Without school, or parents or the textures of thick concealer covering deep purple, and maize yellow splashes of colour against pale skin, violent bruises on peaceful flesh.
The flesh which now was being delicately traced with soft fingertips, hands covered in their own array of colour, sentiment and memories forever etched into young skin. Despite his mother’s protests the ink was as much a part of the younger man’s skin as lungs or heart and in ways just as vital. Everything that he is, his insides worn on the outside.
‘Frankie?’ The silence briefly broken by a few scattered syllables.
‘Yeah Gee?’ and again by whispered words, displacing air, condensation in the cold causing rolls of smoke, reminiscent of countless cigarettes shared in basement bedrooms and storage closets.
‘Remember me’
The reaction in the tattooed boys body was instantaneous, hazel eyes snapping shut against the sudden wave of moisture, swimming and over spilling, hot wetness flowing down rosy cheeks, leading a trail to leave a bitter taste on pink lips, the taste joining and concocting with a thick, syrupy substance contorting his jaw. The lump in his throat returning with a vengeance, growing and lodging in his neck, choking him- sobs screaming to be released into the air. They were denied. He’d wept enough over the older boys departure, enough tears to engulf the art school of which was the cause of Gerard’s egress.
And there they stayed for what felt like weeks lulled to sleep by sweet symphonies of morning traffic and waking birds. By the close of day Gerard was gone, another car joining endless lines searching for fulfilment to an aching youth, and Frank was left alone, alone with nothing but the ghosts in the walls, the vestige of hours and a place where hours meant nothing at all.
If you asked them neither Frank nor Gerard could explain why they were here, a nondescript hill a short walk from the Way house. The hours spent on the dry grass were not seen as time but as a place, the silence and the dark yielding a whole new identity, an opiate. A place to be. Without school, or parents or the textures of thick concealer covering deep purple, and maize yellow splashes of colour against pale skin, violent bruises on peaceful flesh.
The flesh which now was being delicately traced with soft fingertips, hands covered in their own array of colour, sentiment and memories forever etched into young skin. Despite his mother’s protests the ink was as much a part of the younger man’s skin as lungs or heart and in ways just as vital. Everything that he is, his insides worn on the outside.
‘Frankie?’ The silence briefly broken by a few scattered syllables.
‘Yeah Gee?’ and again by whispered words, displacing air, condensation in the cold causing rolls of smoke, reminiscent of countless cigarettes shared in basement bedrooms and storage closets.
‘Remember me’
The reaction in the tattooed boys body was instantaneous, hazel eyes snapping shut against the sudden wave of moisture, swimming and over spilling, hot wetness flowing down rosy cheeks, leading a trail to leave a bitter taste on pink lips, the taste joining and concocting with a thick, syrupy substance contorting his jaw. The lump in his throat returning with a vengeance, growing and lodging in his neck, choking him- sobs screaming to be released into the air. They were denied. He’d wept enough over the older boys departure, enough tears to engulf the art school of which was the cause of Gerard’s egress.
And there they stayed for what felt like weeks lulled to sleep by sweet symphonies of morning traffic and waking birds. By the close of day Gerard was gone, another car joining endless lines searching for fulfilment to an aching youth, and Frank was left alone, alone with nothing but the ghosts in the walls, the vestige of hours and a place where hours meant nothing at all.
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