Words Mean Nothing.

Gerard Way was the sex at Belleville High. His eyes, his hair, his lips; the very sex. He wandered the halls like he owned the place. Confidence hung around him like a cheap whore's perfume. He strode up to the poor short boy humbling through his locker as if he were a cheetah.

"Hey Faggot." Gerard slammed the locker shut, just missing the boys hand and leaning against it.

The boy exclaimed dropping the book in his hand onto the tile floor.

"Fuck any cute boys thus weekend, faggot?" Gerard sneered, his best friend Johnathan coming up behind him.

" 'Course he didn't." Johnathan interjected, "He was probably too busy slicing his wrists open, like the emo he is, to even bother."

"Just leave me alone, okay? You two know nothing about my weekend."

The boy's sad eyes looked up at the tormentors on the verge of tears. They knew nothing about him. Who were they to say those things if they knew nothing? If they did know him, they would have known that Frank Iero was at his father's funeral that weekend. His father, the poor sad man, had lost his fight to the bottle, shooting his brains out onto the ceiling. All because his 't good enough. The poor drunk.

Frank sunk to the floor of his hallway beneath his locker watching Gerard's black boots dissapear down the hallway. They dissapeared beyond the corner just as Frank began to sob. The young boy sobbed like a frieght train had hit him loosing whatever essance of little hope he had left in the world. And why shouldn't he? He was never accepted by anyone and the whole world was out to get him, doing anything in its power to defeat him and kill him off. Why shouldn't the poor boy just let it?

Frank got to his feet and rain as fast as he could to the bathroom. He ran into the boy's bathroom blindly, and immediately sunk to the floor sobbing. Out of his control, big, red hot tears fell from his eyes onto the floor leaving burning paths down his icy cold cheeks. Nothing seemed better to him then going out the same way his old man had. The bastard was the nicest person you'd ever meet, but, his sweet alcohol brought out his depression. Depression was his addiction, and too much depression kills. Nothing would stop him from pooring the sweet liquid down his throat, not even the thought of his son not having a father through his final years in high school.

Frank opened up his backpack and pulled out the item his hands were searching for. His "life" line. He floors open the pocket knife and the shining metal reflected his tear stained face in it. His last resort if he ever needed it.

Maybe, today was his day.