Chapter Text
Soft gray sheets are the first thing I see when I open my eyes this morning. I look around my dilapidated, cramped bedroom; there is a black desk covered in unfinished drawings, novels, and songs. On the walls, I have dozens of drawings and posters overlapping each other. My room is dimly lit by the light coming from my window, blanketing its contents in a warm yellowish white tone. My apartment isn't much, but I'm hubristic about what I have made it. It fits my style, sort of lazy, clean-lined, neutral, and comfortable. I slide out of my warm bed, wincing when my feet touch the gelid floor. Quickly, I run to get some clothes out of my practically microscopic closet, picking the first t-shirt and pair of black skinny jeans I distinguish from the sea of black and gray. I gyrate around to walk to the bathroom to take a quick shower; walking briskly to escape the frozen ground under my feet.
I set my clothes down to turn the faucet on, sticking my hand under the water testing its warmth. I step in after vapor begins fogging the mirrors and glass of the shower. I grit my teeth when the scorching water touches yesterday's cuts, yet, I stay in the same spot. The water is draining down my body, along with a few streams of blood is poetically excruciating, I don't want to move. I'm a psychopath, I'm insane, I need help. I'm not going to get help. I have no one to help me anyway; I don't have friends, family, I don't have anyone but myself. The reason I cut myself is because it reminds me that I am alive, it gives me control that I wouldn't have otherwise. It helps me to feel something when my mind is numb.
Sometimes it takes days for the cuts to scab over, soaking my sheets and clothes in blood. When I do go out of my apartment, which isn't often, I always bring extra clothes, just in case. It's really quite sad honestly; my life. I won't talk to people, I just draw, listen to music, and write. I am alone, I have been for years. My parents would be so disappointed if they could see me now, alone, depressed, demented; even more disappointed than they were when I got F's in school and told them I'm gay. I feel bad for Mikey, he's a good brother, and I kind of abandoned him. I just couldn't stand my parents anymore, they would call me a faggot, stupid, worthless. I couldn't take it anymore, so I got a job, dropped out of high school, and now I'm a lonely, socially anxious author, who's barely getting enough money for groceries every month.
I am taken out of my head when the water starts to turn colder; I turn it off. I hate the cold, the cold reminds me of all of the nights I spent sleeping outside because my parents wouldn't let me in. My parents were the epidemy of munificent, I am of course being sarcastic because frankly, my parents are the biggest dipshits I have ever known in my life. I haven't known many people in my life, but my parents were harrowing. I feel so bad for Mikey, I should've taken him with me. I am a terrible brother. I hope he can forgive me for leaving. I step out of the shower and dry off with a red towel, dabbing on the areas I have cuts and scabs as oppose to rubbing them. I look in the mirror, first at my face, dark circles under my eyes from sleep deprivation, I look so, so tired. Next, I look down at my arms and torso, both littered with overlapping, endless, cuts, bruises, and scars, the same goes for my legs. The sad thing is, I don't regret a single cut.
Unhurriedly, I put on my clothes, jejune pain from the friction of fabric against my cuts. I'm used to it, the pain of walking, standing, showering, everything. I look forward to the pain now; it makes me feel alive. After I get dressed, I walk into my kitchen to get rum; skipping breakfast as I do every morning. I pour one shot, which leads to three, which leads to 7. It's funny, I drink so I don't feel, but I cut so I do, what a fucked up psyche I have. I open the thick, black curtains masking the sunlight that will burn my eyes tomorrow. I really should get out more often, I won't, but I should. Maybe I will go to that old, brick library I pass by every once in awhile, today, maybe. Oh, what the hell do I have to lose? I may as well get out of this place once a month.
Grabbing a pair of socks and shoes, putting them on while I think about what I'm about to do; mentally preparing myself for possible social interaction. I grab a leftover mint out of my pocket to suck on, purging my breath of the strong whiskey sent. I grab my apartment keys, opening, closing, and locking my door. It's a warm day, around 70°F, the sky is a light cerulean, there is not a single cloud in sight. I wish it were raining, I adore rain, it's so calming; I wish it never stopped raining. I put my headphones into my ears and turn on some Queen, quietly humming along to the words as I stroll down the sidewalk.
I walk up to the library that has always caught my interest in past times, but I've never gone inside. It's a red, brick building, white pillars in front of the entrance making it look more extravagant than it really is. There are a few trees and flower beds in the front, clearly displaying bright greens, blues, reds, and pinks. I walk up the steps to the front door of the place which is open, inviting anyone intrigued by the place right in. When I walk in the structure is much larger than I expected, hundreds of shelves of different stories, it's beautiful. The walls are an off-white color and the ceiling is vaulted with a chandelier hanging over a desk in the middle of all of the shelves, a single clerk working at the desk. He's cute, he has black hair, a Misfits t-shirt on, tattoos littering his arms, piercings, black eyeliner surrounding his hazel eyes. I can't take my eyes off of him.
"Can I, uh, help you?" he asks me, with a questioning look on his face. I freeze, realizing I was staring at him, I look at my feet.
"Um, yeah... May you help me find the uh, like, depressing, gore-oriented section?" I ask, quietly; still looking at my feet.
"Yeah, follow me," he says after only a moment and stands up motioning for me to follow him. We walk to the left corner of the building to a corner that is substantially darker than the rest. He turns to be and points to a shelf which seems to have cobwebs on it adding to the gore effect. It almost seems fictional, the way this corner is so dark, like something out of a movie. "Well, here are the darkest books we've got," he says, voice sounding slightly deeper than before. He clears his throat. "If you, um, need anything I'll be at the front desk." and with that, he walks away; leaving me in this dark corner to find what I desire.
I skim through the vast selection of novels before I grab a few that interest me piling them in my arms. I glance at the shelf once more and walk back to the desk where the guy is sitting. He looks up at me and smirks ever so slightly, "Did you find what you wanted?" he asks, I set the books down on the desk carefully. I nod. "I've never seen you before, so I'm guessing you don't have a card." he looks at me, waiting for a response.
"Yeah, I uh, don't have one," I tell him after a second. He stands up and bends down to dig through a drawer. I try not to stare at his ass in those tight skinny jeans and fail, miserably. I make sure I look away before he turns back around and puts a new card on the table. He sits down and starts typing and clicking at the laptop on the desk.
"I need to know your name and phone number," he says still typing and looking at the screen.
"Gerard Way," I tell him along with my phone number.
He looks up at me and smiles slightly, "Gerard Way? Nice name, I'm Frank Iero. Oh, I like your shirt by the way." he motions down towards my Black Flag shirt.
"T-thanks," I respond inwardly stabbing myself for studdering. He nods and types what I am assuming is the information I just gave him into the computer. Then he grabs the card and scans it with some unknown device. He hands me the card and grabs a bag, putting the books into it.
"I expect to see you back eventually. Thanks for dropping by, we don't have people in here often," he tells me.
"Yeah, you will. Thanks, uh, Frank." I tell him and he smiles in response. I slip the card into my pocket and grab the bag.
"Oh, please don't do that," he says and points to my marked up arms, "you're too pretty to ruin your skin like that." I blush and nod. Even though I think we both know I can't stop.
"Have a n-nice day," I tell him and turn away, leaving the building.