You Know What They Do To Guys Like Us In Prison

Frank Iero was lethal. Everyone knew that. At first, they thought he was perhaps a little backward, a little too into his horror movies. People were suspicious when the dogs and cats started to disappear; but no one said a word. It was New Jersey, after all. But when the small bones of animals appeared on the street, their skins on neighboring doorsteps, therapy was arranged. He continued to get away with little acts of killing animals, sometimes sculpting their bones into structures.
Until he killed his parents at fifteen years old with a smile.
That's when action was taken; the weird kid that others were told to avoid was taken to court, and taken to a mental hospital. He could be changed, they said. The night he was released, he celebrated. It was his twenty first birthday, too. When a couple of newly weds settled down to sleep that night, they didn't think that their beginning was also their end. With the blood on the silk white gown still fresh, everyone had decided Iero had had enough second chances.

~

The prison is of the highest security; a tall, large, sterile building with 24 hour patrols, the only color coming from the tiny patch of green of the middle of the courtyard that the triangular building makes up. It is silent, so deathly silent, that many wonder if anyone inhabits it at all; but they do, of course, and I have been there for three years without seeing anyone but white sterile walls and wishy-washy therapists that shake at the sight of me. My hair is black and short, and my skin almost glows with its sickly paleness, although adorned with many tattoos that tell my story; my eyes are chocolate brown but seeped in darkened shadows. I’m not tall, particularly, but skinny, very skinny. So much so that you can count every rib, even under the white uniform that I wear with bare feet. I look at my fingernails, disinterested, and frown at the bland room. A splatter of red could improve it to a great extent in my opinion. I glance at the door at the sounds of guards talking to an unfamiliar voice; a voice that was gentle, but with a surprisingly dark tone. A knock on the door surprised me; normally people just burst through the door as if they owned the place. A handsome man, with a lanky frame and dyed red hair walks in. He wears a black button down shirt and black dress trousers. I suddenly feel a little under dressed. The cell was cruel and cold; all white. The man sits at the little table, and gestures for me to join, silently.
"My name is Gerard Way. Please call me what you wish." I was a little taken aback at how steady he is, how calm. How his hands stay, folded on the table. I note the change. Anyone else would have brought in a weapon, or a guard, but this man just surveys me through his hazel eyes.
"I don't know why I should bother telling you my name, Gerard." I sneer the words, and why shouldn't I? I knew those little bits of paper could tell anyone everything about me.
"What would you prefer me to call you?"
I started. A choice. I hadn't had one of those in a while. I don’t trust this handsome stranger, and I cross my arms over my chest. Gerard smiles a little; he knew this particular patient would be a tough one. They'd called him mad for trying. But still, he wanted to give him a shot.
"So you drew the short straw, hm?" I drawl. Gerard gives a short chuckle.
"No one else drew. Not when they found out I'd be drawing, anyway. Besides, I'd heard about you. Amazing how handsome the wicked can be." I narrow my eyes. He looks down at a silver revolver in his hands, with a single bullet. A dummy. I watch his deft fingers load it, and know the gun would not fire. He slides the gun to me; treats it as if the shot was live. I pull the trigger quickly, the barrel facing Gerard's head. The gun clicks lamely, and I spin the silver around my finger and blow the top comically. He smiles.
"My, you're a clever one, aren't you?"
I stand, and take a short bow, my eyes not leaving Gerard's.
"Well at least we know where we stand now. Why do you kill, hm?"
"I like to free people from their lives. I like to release people from the fleeting nightmare that is life, until the dawn comes and death ensures peace." Suddenly, I grab Gerard's throat, tired of him. He doesn't flinch, as such, simply pushes my thumb into my fist until my grasp was weakens.
"You just have to wait until the sunrise. If you only looked at the clouds, life would be grey and dark, yes? It's matter of perspective, you see." I scowl.
"I am the storm" I say.
"You're not dark enough for a storm, Frank. Your history surprises when put to a face."
"What's with all the compliments?" I am nervous; I stand and pace.
"If you'd rather, I could be one of those dreary shrinks who asks you how you feel, day in, day out. Or I you could enjoy some company that is prepared to acknowledge you on an equal level.”
I stop my pacing and look at Gerard.
“Equals?”
Gerard nods.
“As a fellow human. I’m sure you, and others like you, are almost ‘sub human’ in society. That’s the trend; hell, even some of the people here do it. This job is for helping people, not for the pay check at the end of the week. So why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?”
“What can I tell you that isn’t on those clipboards and charts? I’m a killer.”
“Why though?”
“I free people from their lives.”
“Who says they want to be freed? You just get to live out your life in this white shoebox, and the friends, the family of the people you killed…That feeling doesn’t go away, Frank.”
I suddenly feel very childlike; I sit on the bed, fatigued.
“Can we stop now?” I ask.
“Not once have I asked you to answer me, Frank. So why do you see it as ‘freeing’ someone? Surely you just imprison them in death’s cold grasp?”
“Stop.” My voice shakes a little.
“Why?” Gerard looks me dead in the eyes. My eyes flood unexpectedly and I draw my knees up to my chest. This man has succeeded in stripping away my tough exterior with a few well asked questions. He smiles in his bittersweet victory, but still, rests a gentle hand on my shoulder. I pull away.
“What do you want?” I ask in a choked voice. Tears! I felt them cut hot tracks into my cheeks. I must look weak, foolish.
“Rather, what do you want?”
“I want…to die. I think.”
Gerard frowns, and folds his hands in his lap.
“Why’s that?”
I don’t answer. Like hell did I want him to know he was getting to me, making me feel. Not remorse, more of an empty sadness.
“You dying would be a terrible waste, you know. What do you think your death would bring to me?”
“You don’t care. Nobody fucking does!” I hit my thighs hard and feel the bruises form. Gerard takes my wrists swiftly and pins me against the wall, pulling me up a little in the process.
“Liar” he hisses. “If I didn’t care, I’d have sat and droned on about how you are a disappointment and you should be ashamed, how much better your life would be if you didn’t kill.” He drops my wrists and catches me, encircling his arms around me. I stiffen, ready to kill him, but his heartbeat remains steady, despite holding a serial killer in his arms.
“You’re not as mean as you make yourself out to be, are you hm?” He makes comforting shushing noises and waits until my tears stop flowing. I pull away and sit up.
“Despite your bloodlust, Frank, you are a handsome young man, begging to be cared for, begging to be loved.”
He puts a hand on my shoulder. He has gained an undesirable amount of power over me in such a short time; I have had enough. I wrench his wrist away with hidden strength.
“Get out.”
“If that’s what you want.” Although he could make me talk, he doesn’t. He walks out of the room and leaves me to consuming thoughts.

Notes

Hello, I'm back!
This is something new. It was from an RP I did last year, and I found the concept rather fresh and interesting.
Please let me know what you think, as always on twitter @teapartypoison or in the comments box below - I try and respond to all feedback. The updates will probably be less frequent than usual, as it has a more complex plot.
That's about it, I think. So I'll see you whenever.
em xo