It's really dark. That was my first thought. I hate the dark, that's where shadows come from. I hadn't moved at all for the duration of the day, I had remained against that same wall all afternoon. I was numb and cold from sitting on conrete for so long, my face was stinging from the icy air. A few people had walked past me, down the quiet street, and thrown me the strangest looks. Not that I blamed them, I'm pretty sure I looked like crap, slumped down on the sidewalk with a massive bag beside me. I looked like a homeless person. But hey, it was just the truth. I decided maybe it was time for me to move. Sighing heavily, I heaved myself up from the ground, staggering drunkenly and nearly falling. Damn pins and needles. I stood, swaying slightly, until I regained normal feeling in my legs, then bent stiffly and picked up my bag, slinging it over my arm. I needed to get away, find somewhere with light and people to deter the creeping shadows and keep me safe. I began to walk slowly, my eyes darting around and searching every space and crevice for any form of threat. I had no idea where I was, which was embarassing, really. My whole life I'd lived in the town, and yet I could get lost within seconds. I suppose thats what the life of a recluse does to you. I came across and old diner, one that looked run-down and cheap but also gave off a homely sort of air, promising comfort and warm coffee. I hesitantly pushed the door open, causing a light trilling sound to emanate from a tiny bell above me. It was virtually empty, except for a man sat at the counter on a high stool, nursing a mug of warm liquid and writing in a notebook. He was tall and broad, with a cloud of messy, curly brown hair framing his head and bouncing with every movement he made. I deliberated for a moment, before taking a stool two seats away from him. I clasped my hands together and placed them on the counter, studying them intently as if I'd never seen them before. Before long, I was approached by a blonde waitress in a white apron, brandishing a steaming pot. "Coffee, sugar?" she asked kindly. I nodded and she poured me mug. I thanked her and brought it to my lips eagerly. She smiled, and offered a hand. "Grace," she said by way of introduction. "I own this place. Ya need anything, holler at me, 'kay? You look like ya had a tough nigh. Coffee's on the house." I smiled thankfully and she patted my arm and walked away. She seemed nice, almost grandmotherly in her manner. She appeared to be in her forties or fifties, with blonde hair the displayed just a small amount of grey at the roots, pale-pink painted lips, and laugh lines creasing her face. I watched bustle around the place, wiping tables and sweeping the floor. I wondered what it would be like to have such an ordinary life, free to live it as I wished, without the difficulties that hung over my head. I sighed heavily, staring into my mug. "That was one hell of a sigh, dude," a voice said to my left. I glanced up and saw the big-hair guy had turned his attention away from the notebook he'd been furiously scribbling in to look at me. I shrugged. "Rough day?" He asked sympathetically. "You could say that," I replied, laughing, he had no idea. He smiled a little in response, and said "Have you ever tried writing?" I tilted my head curiously, and he held up his notebook. "Helps when you're stressed," he said with another smile. Then he glanced at his watch, and cursed. "I gotta go," he muttered, standing up. "But, um... Here." He reached into a bag he was carrying, and tugged out a slim black notebook and a pen. He placed them down in front of me. "Give writing a try. I'm Ray, by the way, Ray Toro." And he was gone before I could say another word. I looked down at the stationary for a minute. Write? Write what? I thought back to earlier in the day, when Frank had sang to me, trying to ignore the painful pang I felt when I thought of him. Maybe I could write lyrics... I flipped open the book, and began to scribble. I found myself humming a kind of tune as I wrote, and after a little mental tweaking it sounded pretty damn cool. Oblivious to the woman rushing around her otherwise empty diner, I began to sing. "Gonna take off all my skin, tear apart all of my insides, when they rifle in, Mom and Dad think you'll be saved, You never had the time, they gonna medicate your lives, you were always born a crime, we salute you in your grave..." I heard applause behind me, and turned. Grace had stopped what she was doing, and was stood, broom under her arm, clapping her lined hands enthusiastically. "Sugar, did anyone ever tell you you've got a voice like an angel?" I laughed at the passive way she said it, as if it was obvious and not a huge compliment. I shook my head, and she chuckled and resumed her sweeping. "Well honey, you do. And trust me, you wanna take all that talent and do something with it, cause ya only get one life to do amazing things." I smiled and looked down at my lyrics again. Amazing things? It was a sweet sentiment, but how could I, Gerard Way, quiet reclusive freak, do amazing things? I'm nothing special, I just kind of... Exist. Even if I did try singing or comic-book writing, I wouldn't get far. I'd get rejected by people, nobody would be interested. I couldn't. Could I?

Notes

YES GERARD!! YES YOU CAN!!!!!! Hehe. Anyway, here it is!!! I promise I'm bringing Frank back soon! In other news, I read ASOTM for the first time. OHMYGOD. I AM STILL NOT OVER IT. I also realized, I bet you all think that's where I got the idea for this from... I actually had no idea what ASOTM was about when I started this, its just a freaky - and awesomely cool - coincidence. Paranoia Violence out xø