Gerard Way: Serial Killer
I choked, unable to bring in air. My mouth and nostrils filled with dirtied water, lungs expanding ignorantly, bringing in H2O instead of O2. Frantic bubbles sprayed from my mouth as my eyelids flashed open, stinging, as I shot straight up out of the water, coughing and spluttering.
I must've dozed while I was laying in the tub, the shower head turned off while I basked in my own filth-water. My lack of sleep may explain why I nodded off, I observed as I gently tugged on the fleshy, prominent, dark bags under my eyes. If I were seen in public, I'd probably get shot down by the authorities because of my inhuman appearance.
Ah, yes. Speaking of the wondrous* outside world, my favorite person had invited me to join him at his work later. At about seven o' clock, he had said. The current time was 2:44pm.
I was somewhat reluctant to agree; again with the whole public anxiety thing. It pissed me off; the fact I still can't stand people after 23 years of being alive. Somewhat.
*(Sarcastically wondrous. So actually like real shitty.)
I stood up in the shin-deep water, the droplets trailing over my overly pale, now pruny skin. I unplugged the drain and stepped over the rim of the tub and onto the rug, the touch of the flattened memory foam somewhat comforting. I swiped a fluffy black towel from the sink countertop and began to dry myself. Finished, I wrapped it around my waist and scuttled out of the bathroom, flicking the light switch into the "OFF" position.
'I should dye my hair soon.' Was my initial thought as I stepped into my bedroom and shut my door behind me, passing the vanity mirror near the door. I mean, how bad can change be? A fresh, new look offers many new opportunities. I could quit my lousy job at the café and change my identity again. Winston Davis was getting to be a monotonous ID. Working in the same place as Frank would be scintillating. Plus, I could surprise him with a rejuvenated style.
What color do I want? I have already adorned the hair colors of red and black, both of the hairstyles being of medium-length. Hm. I don't like orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet, brown or pink, so that leaves only a few choices. Black--no, did that; red--also did that; grey; or white.
White. White sounds cool. Shortlike, white hair. Yeah. I can cut my hair; I have for the past five or so years. Cutting hair is easier than cutting tendons, too. And I have white hair dye. I dropped the towel from my hips, letting it airily drop around my feet and slipped into an old black pair of boxers. I excavated through my bottom dresser drawer, where I kept my miscellaneous items.
I saw the bottle of white hair dye and grasped it, deciding whether to cut or dye my hair first. I'll dye it first, mainly because I want to view my hair colored differently before I cut it.
I assumed a spot over the bathroom sink, handheld mirror handy, ecstatic to begin my well-awaited transformation.
-A COUPLE OF HOURS LATER-
I all but burned a hole into my face by staring at my reflection after I finished snipping my now silvery strands of hair to a closely cropped length.
I looked stunning. This hairstyle definitely struck me as attractive. I adored the way it framed my face and made my eyes seem larger. I smiled a cheeky-as-fuck grin. Frank was probably either going to barf his insides out violently or marry me on the spot.
I finished getting dressed and slipped into my black Converse, leaving the hair-cutting/dying mess for me to clean up later. I basically danced out the door and flitted down the stairs, excited to visit my 'crush'; I, bearing a newly-acquired-hopefully-more-attractive look.
I merrily flung the front doors of my apartment building open, stepping out into an uncomfortably chilly, almost-as-dark-as-my-thoughts evening. The only sources of light remaining since the sun went to rest were those goddamned streetlights. I fucking hate streetlights. They can either help you inspect possible victims of murder or foil your corpse disposal plans.
Huh. Ironic; I was high on love while skipping joyfully down the avenue to meet my crush, yet I was fantasizing of carrying out a nicely-performed evisceration.
Frank'd mentioned a while ago that he worked at a music store downtown, not far from here. I gathered all my senses that were not captivated by the sheer beauty of Frank- and eviscerations- and wandered briskly southbound on the sidewalk until I all but stumbled upon the small, rag-tag, ruck-shack of a music shop. Standing across the walk in front of it, I observed. It was obvious that first impressions were not important to the owner. The large, white-plastic sign read "Culture Clash Records". Only a few of the large plastic letters were lit, though, so it read "Cult Cas ecod". Whispering "cult cas ecod", I noted that it sort of sounds like a satanic ritual spell or a black magic chant. I smirked.
The small store looked closed. No lights were on inside and the neon 'OPEN' sign was not flashing its usual curly, fluorescent red and blue letters. I sidled up to the glass door and pushed lightly on it, testing to see if it was locked. To my surprise, it was not. It swung on its fabulously greased hinges without one creak. That bewildered me. Of all the things they could've made presentable, they chose the fucking door hinges?
I took an uneasy step into the seemingly empty store, foot landing on the shitty, flat carpet with a light 'tap'. A song was playing softly, presumably in the corner. It was "Helena 2" by The Misfits. I loved that song. I froze awkwardly on the balls of my feet like a deer in headlights when a small desk lamp flicked on from behind what I assumed was the checkout counter, which was against the wall to my right, about ten meters away. The extremely attractive face of Frank Iero was illuminated by the light, giving his already angelic features a warm, sunny glow. I swear, this boy looked damn near edible. He glanced up at me, face twisted in confusion.
"Who the hell do you think you are? Do we fucking look o-"
He paused, probably because he got a clear view of my familiar face. His mouth was trying to form words that wouldn't come out.
"G....... Gerard? Is that.. you?" He called softly, carefully, cautiously; the frustration fading from his godlike features.
I nodded. "Was I invited to see you at work or were you just fucking with me?"
His jaw might as well have smacked onto the desk it was gaping so wide.
"What? Are you trying to catch flies?" I sneered light-heartedly at his reaction to my fresh appearance.
I swear Frank even blinked a few times in disbelief. "Wow, Gee. That hair looks so good on you, like, spontaneously good.. Like, your hair looks so good on you that I would f-"
"Gee? That's a cute nickname," I cut him off, grinning a toothy grin as I sauntered up to his desk. He was grinning like a fool along with me. I rested my elbows on the countertop and leaned my chin on my hands.
"A cute nickname for a cute person." He replied, smoother than ice.
The butterflies in my stomach flipped shit. Oh, what is Frank doing to me? One day I'm having fun being senile and murderous and the next day I'm dreaming of shoving my tongue down his throat.
I circled behind the counter and stood next to Frank, who swiveled in his puffy grey computer chair to face me.
"So, uh what's with the lights turned off?" I mused, gesturing to the darkened light fixtures.
"Well, three reasons," he explained, holding up his fingers and ticking off each reason as he went. "Número Uno: to save money. This place, if you haven't already noticed, is pretty poor as is. Número Dos: to ward off... uninvited... guests. And Número Tres: you like the dark as much as I do."
How thoughtful of him. I teasingly planted a quick kiss to the right corner of his perfect lips. He blushed more than the sky does during a sunrise. This light made him purely sexy, like his skin was made of caramel or something, adding to his in-humane attractiveness. The angels must be so damn jealous.
Suddenly, he set down the pen he was fiddling with and his hands shot up to my head, groping to feel my hair. I jerked backwards, I not expecting his sudden movement.
"Lemme just feel it." he whined. I leaned down and he began running his thin fingers through my new crop.
"Wow.." he observed. "So fucking soft.."
"Stop before I scream 'hair rape'!" I smirked. He just rustled my hair with renewed vigor, messing it up.
A different song began playing from the scratchy radio in the unlit corner. It was "Rape Me" by Nirvana. How motherfucking ironic.
Frank burst out laughing, letting his hands drop from my hair. I just blushed, standing up fully, new thoughts about Frank coming to mind. Oh, how uncomfortable it is to stand in front of someone while fantasizing dirty things about them. It's almost like imagining slitting someone's throat while sitting across from them in a café. While making eye contact.
Frank shot a glance up at me, noting my sudden hush. "You cool?"
I nodded, but a straight face wouldn't cooperate with me, so my face twisted, suppressing a giggle. I let it out, laughing rambunctiously. Frank yet again looked at me weird, a small smile playing at his lips.
"I wonder what your pretty little mind is dreaming up when you give me that strange look," I pondered semi-seductively, stroking my chin with my wrapped-up hand.
"Mainly kissing you." He replied, suave as hell, clicking the pen he was holding on the counter.
My heart felt like it migrated to my throat. I wanted to scream like a thirteen year old getting stabbed to death. Only out of joy instead of horror.
"Dreams can come true," I stated, hopefully as smooth as he was, then leaning in to kiss him. Our lips met, and I swear sparks flew, even though we'd done this only several hours ago. His lips moved expertly against mine, mainly because I had no goddamn clue of what I was doing. I hadn't ever kissed anyone besides him, and I hope I never do. One of my bandaged hands tangled itself in his hair, pressing his face even closer to mine. His hands went for my hips, pulling me closer and closer until I was in his lap, straddle-style. Managing to not break the kiss, his hands slid upwards to my shirt's neckline, slipping his warm fingers in and tracing my collarbones. My heart exploded. His hands slid a tad further, skimming along my bare chest until they couldn't go down any further.
Without faltering his lips' pace, he slowly undid the first button of my shirt.
Then the second.
Then the third.
Until all of my buttons were undone, and he was still managing to make out with me. I am guessing that takes mad skill to do. He even slipped my shirt off for me, tossing it behind him in a way that said 'we won't be needing THIS anymore'. His hands skimmed my chest and stomach, tracing back around my sides and connecting at my spine. His warm yet bony fingers spread out on my back. Ooooh, I swear I have been missing out on human contact. This felt great. I smiled against his lips.
Out of nowhere, Frank's mouth broke away from mine, a string of saliva still connected inbetween our lips like a small bridge. I vocally whimpered. Yes. I motherfucking whimpered because the kiss was that fantastic. Fabulous. Spontaneous. Excellent. Exciting. Scintillating. Preposterously amazing.
Frank arched a brow at my little protest, panting hard, eyes filled with something along the lines of lust.
I gazed right back into his pupils, not sure what emotion was flooding my eyes at the given moment. My eyes always looked hollow, empty, and emotionless whenever I saw my reflection in the mirror. I had basically trained my eyes to disguise themselves of feelings. Also, staring aimlessly into the dark for long periods at a time can ruin your emotion receptors in your eyeballs. Limited human contact may have contributed to my eye's emotionlessness. Maybe it was different now. Maybe not.
His eyes flickered down, and he leaned in to kiss me along my jawline. He placed, small, light kisses down my neck. He continued to kiss me down, lower and lower. Down my chest. I suppressed a moan. Down my stomach. Until he got to an obstacle.
He looked up at me expectantly, nibbling on his lower lip. I shifted nervously, arching an eyebrow, unsure of what to do in this sort of situation. I could cover up murders. I could get bloodstains out of bedsheets. I could peel the flesh off of a dead body without disturbing the muscles or blood vessels. I could dismember a decedent flawlessly and pack its remains into a burlap sack without any mistakes. But I couldn't figure out what to do with a horny 23-year-old boy hovering over my crotch.
Frank gave my uncomfortable expression a knowing look and leveled his face back up with mine, kissing me lightly once more.
I was still seated in his lap, fondling with his sweatshirt strings, my forehead leaned against his as he ran his fingers up and down my bare back. We sat that way for a while, until he mentioned I was getting heavy on his legs and that his thighs were now numb. We switched positions; he was in my lap now.
I was so glad to have met him.
"I'm glad I met you, too, Gerard," he stated. Shit, I'd said that out loud?
Then, a fleeting thought made its way to the front of my brain and through my lips. "Why are you so settled with me being a serial killer? If I met someone who would willingly draw a knife across my vocal chords and not spare any emotion on it, I would stay as far away from them as possible."
Frank gazed down, his eyes fixing their sight on his black combat boots.
"My family was pretty fucked up. My mom and dad were bank robbers, and they often had to kill to get the job done. Some nights, they'd come home with a body and hand me a shovel and tell me to bury the corpse in the neighbor's back yard. I eventually got used to covering up their crimes, but I never had to kill anyone. When they got caught in the middle of their game, the police never suspected me of doing anything. They went to jail and I was sent to live with my aunt and uncle. Who were terrible, cruel people, to say the least," he finished, taking in a deep breath. I pat his back lightly; empathetic.
"Was it fun?" I asked. SHIT SHIT SHIT DO NOT ASK PEOPLE IF BURYING CORPSES WAS FUN! IT'S NOT OKAY GERARD! THE EXPERIENCE PROBABLY FUCKED HIM UP BAD! HE WAS A KID FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!
"Uh, not the digging. That part sucked because I had no upper body strength," Frank replied nonchalantly.
I shot him a doubting look. "I'll bet you have wicked upper body strength now. I bet your muscles are bigger than my thigh," I joked.
He rolled his eyes. "No."
I reached for the bottom of his sweatshirt, pulling it up and revealing his Black Flag t-shirt.
He flapped his arms around crazily, still sleeved, attempting to stop me, voice muffled because the sweatshirt was blocking his face. "No, Gee, stop it!"
"C'mon! I'm here fucking shirtless and all I want to see is your arms!"
"N-no! I. Said. Stop it. I'm serious!" He sounded nervous. He was still flailing.
I ripped the sweatshirt free of his arms and dropped it next to me, gripping his wrist to calm him down.
I gaped at the sight of his mangled, torn flesh. Around and under his inked tattoos, there were inch-long, faded cuts. He used to self-harm. His arm was riddled with small slices. I sympathetically looked up to his face. He couldn't even make eye contact.
I just lightly kissed each of his little, faded cuts. He sat awkwardly in my lap, embarrassed.
"It's okay, Frankie," I coaxed, moving my hands around to his back, "Just please stop, for me."
He nodded. "I only did it when I was younger; like 15. My aunt and uncle were abusive."
"Your arms are sexy." I winked, squeezing his biceps. He giggled, lightening up some.
"You know, Frank, I should come work with you. Quit my job and come work here."
He met my gaze and smiled, eager. "That'd be fucking awesome! Nobody else besides me and some other old guy work here, so some company would rock."
I grinned. I should; it's not that much farther away from my apartment than the café is.
I nodded, eyes glinting.
I can't wait to start my new job, and I'm never excited to start a job. I'll probably have to make a new fake ID to go along with my hair.
Plus, I get to go over to Frank's for coffee in the morning. Ah, this was going to be fun, starting anew.
It was getting late; 9:23. Yes, I've been here for two goddamn hours and twenty-three minutes.
I had a random idea. I slid my chilly hands up his warm back, arousing a shiver from him.
"Dude! The f-"
I shut him up by kissing him. As I kissed him, I yanked his shirt off, curious to see the rest of his tattoos.
I dangled his shirt above my head. "Nice ink, Frankie."
He sort of just crossed his arms over his chest, trying to hide the fact that he was the most sexually attractive bastard ever. He stood up and pouted, holding out his hand and demanding his shirt.
A plan brewed in the depths of my crazed brain.
I swiftly stood up and in one motion, grabbed his sweatshirt off the floor and dashed for the other side of the store. I stopped behind what I believe is a giant book case, like in a library, only it was full of records. I tried to contain my frenzied breaths.
"Oh, you wanna be that way, Way?" he called, "Fine." he reached over to the small desk lamp, the only thing lighting the dark store, and clicked it off. Not that the light had offered much, I now had a major disadvantage. He knew his surroundings; I did not.
I heard his soft, cautious footsteps coming closer. I shifted to the side, feeling along the shelf so I didn't run into it. I got to the end of the aisle and tiptoed to the large, empty space in the front of the store, gripping his shirt and sweatshirt tightly.
The music had ceased playing.
As I paused to listen for him, I felt a weight powerfully ram into my chest, forcing me to the floor on my back. Frank's shirt and hoodie flew from my grasp. I was winded. Groaning, I lay paralyzed.
I heard a chuckle from my attacker. He was on top of me, hands planted on either side of my head to hold him up, hovering approximately four centimeters away from my face, and I couldn't shake him off. His weight was slightly crushing me.
"Frank, alright, you got me, now g-" I began to grunt, but he silenced me with a kiss. That suave little punk. My hands went for his back, rubbing it gently. His hands tangled in my hair, but they soon slid down my sides, causing goosebumps to rise, and down to my waist. They rested on the hem of my jeans.
I drug my hands down to his waist, too, but with different ambitions. I touched the hem of his pants, too, but dipped my finger in and got a hold of his underwear, tugging out it as hard as I could.
He yelped, and in that yelp, he chomped on my lower lip. I yelled in pain, back arching as a reflex, smashing into Frank. That little fucker can bite hard.
"What the hell, man? I thought I could trust you!" Frank protested, getting up off of me and sitting crisscross with his back facing me, feigning betrayal.
"Okay, well, my lip is now bleeding," I spat, the coppery liquid seeping from my lower lip. I glared at him. "I oughta sock you in the jaw. Softly. With my lips. Because I forgive you."
"At least I didn't tear your asscrack open another inch by giving you a wedgie," he giggled, "It's getting late. Let's head home."
I stood up and picked up Frank's shirt, handing it to him. He had gotten mine for me and I slipped my arms into the sleeves and buttoned up. Frank slid into his hoodie and grabbed something by the likes of keys, jingling around and such, off of the counter.
We left and he locked up the store, whistling an annoying tune as he did, like the janitors do in movies to seem casual. Walking home was more fun than a killing spree because we were telling jokes & stories and goofing off and such.
As I said my goodbyes, I anticipated the day to come. I was going to make a new fake I.D. tonight, visit Frank in the morning, quit my job, and possibly start a new job at Frank's little music joint.
And maybe I would get him that present I'd forgotten to give him on his birthday
Well, this is quite a long one.