Cold wind whipped around me, stabbing at every scrap of skin it could find. I pushed my hands deeper into my trench coat pocket, and buried my face in my scarf, hoping to repel the icy blades cutting through the air. Not that it helped, I was still freezing. Stupid weather. A woman passed me, hand in hand with a little girl. They spoke as they walked, about the little girl’s day at school, I think. Poor kid. School translated quite quickly into hell in my mind. They had laughed at me there, when I talked about what I saw. I didn’t understand what it was then, so I talked about it freely, blinded by ignorance. I still didn’t understand it now, to be honest. Sure, they had explained it to me, over and over again, but it’s all BS, as far as I’m concerned. They told me I’m mentally screwed-up. Well, they didn’t quite say that, but all their fancy medical terms meant the same thing, just worded differently so I couldn’t sue them. I dream, that’s all. I call it dreaming, anyway. They call it hallucinating. The first time I saw anybody, I was seventeen. My parents forced me into this woman’s office, and expected me to talk to her about what I saw. I tried, just to stop momma frowning. I didn’t like her worrying, so I made an effort with this psychiatrist, I tried to tell her about my dreams. I told her about the little girl in the ripped dress, who I would see crying in corners or dark spaces. I told her about the blood that sometimes dripped down my bedroom walls in the dead of night. I told her about the shadows that stalked me, just waiting to put me through all kinds of pain. I didn’t get a chance to tell her the rest, because at that point she called Mom and Dad in and gave them some papers and stuff for a place that was ‘more suited to my needs’. The crazyhouse, as I found out later. That’s when it all really hit the fan. I was pushed into meeting after meeting after meeting with people who wanted to poke and prod into my personal life, in offices displaying framed certificates on the walls. They threw around all these phrases like ‘psychosis’ and ‘delusionary’ and some other stuff. They were awful, I couldn’t stand a single one of them. Eventually they declared me insane, and prescribed me a bucket-load of antidepressants and other medicines. They wanted to put me in some asylum or something, but I put my foot down at that point. No way in hell. I’m not insane, I don’t need a room in Crazy Hotel. They frowned at me for that, but what could they do? Force me there? Nope. God bless Human Rights. So they gave me enough pills to make a dealer’s day, and told me I had to live with someone responsible. All of that lead to where I am now. My name is Gerard Way, I am twenty-two years old, I live with my mother, and I am classified insane. But I’m not really insane. I’m just… different. Yeah, I’m different to everyone else, that’s all. Very different.

Notes

Yay, new fic!!! I'm not abandoning my old one or anything, I just had this idea last night and I thought, why the hell not? Please tell me what you think, is this plot okay?