The Way I See It (Frerard)

My name is Gerard Way. Should that be important to you? No, not even the slightest bit. I am an unimportant, overweight, homosexual waste of time, so there's no reason to remember my name. No one does really, but they know who I am. I'm 'that kid.' Every school has one. That kid who never has any friends, that kid who has nothing better to do ever, that kid who always sits alone at all times. I'm that kid. I'll never be anything BUT that kid. But it's not that bad, I'm not one for socializing anyway. I like it better on my own, no drama, no stress, just me and my music.
Sometimes I want to make a friend, just one, just to have someone to talk to. But no one in their right mind would talk to me. Like I said, I'm that kid, I'd ruin their reputation in an instant. I used to have someone to talk to, my little brother, Mikey. But Mikey's nothing like me. He's thin, and as far as I know, he's straight, he also has a lot of friends. Mikey is normal, it's no wonder he doesn't spend time with me anymore. And besides, he doesn't understand me or what I'm going through. And I hope he never will.
I'm sitting at lunch, alone as usual. I'm watching Mikey with his friends. I have to be honest, I'm a bit jealous of how my baby brother can talk to people so easily. Sometimes, I want to be him. He's got so much going for him, he'd be accepted by anyone. As I'm watching Mikey, out of the corner of my eye, I see someone sitting alone. I turn my attention to him, and once I do, I'm instantly amazed. This boy is gorgeous. He's beautiful, and not in the way other people define it, but really beautiful. There are flaws, plenty of them, but it's perfect.he has dark hair, wearing baggy clothes. He's also wearing sunglasses, so I can't see his eyes, but I'm willing to bet that they're absolutely stunning.
I want to talk to him. I wanna talk to him so bad. But for the sake of him and his reputation, I'll leave him alone. So I just sit there, staring at him. I'm sure I look like a freak, but I don't care. If he's anything like how he looks, he's nice. But no matter how nice he might be, no one in the world is nice enough to talk to me. My attention is suddenly taken away from the boy when a person sits at my table. I quickly look at the person, giving him a look as if he has two heads. Right then, I know who it is, and I know why they're here. I also know that no good will cone from what is about to happen.
Bert McCracken, school asshole, sits in front of me, grinning. "Gerard... What do you thing you're doing?" He asks. Bert's actually the only one who knows my name, aside from Mikey. I raise an eyebrow, looking at the empty chairs. "Uh... Sitting," I say. He rolls his eyes, shaking his head. "No shit, Sherlock! I mean what are you doing looking at the new kid. Ya think he's gonna talk to you? The kid would have to be a real idiot to wanna be friends with you! I mean, come on, have you seen yourself? Hell, even your brother is ashamed to admit he knows you! You're pathetic!" He says loudly.
I look at Mikey to see if he's watching this. He is, but that's it, he's not doing anything else. Part of me hopes that he'll break this up, but the rest of me knows that Bert's right. Mikey's ashamed. And who wouldn't be? Mt brother and I make eye contact. I give him a pleading look, and he stands up. I get hopeful, but that goes away as I watch Mikey turn to leave. I turn to face Bert again, and he's laughing. "See? I told you, even your brother is disgusted with you! How tragic, you poor little fag!!!" He exclaims. I look down and stand up, walking away from him as he sits there in triumph. Yes, you've picked on 'that kid' again, good for you. As I leave, I turn back, giving the new kid one last glance.
After school, I'm at home, Mom's at work, and Mikey is with his friends. I'm sitting on the floor, my back pressed up against the tile wall, a small pool of blood accumulating on the linoleum floor. I stare at my wrist, gazing upon the torn up flesh. Somehow, it doesn't hurt, but I really want it to. I want to feel more pain from my self-destruction rather than the pain from the belittling words they say to me day in and day out. I want to bleed my hurt away and pretend it never happened. But no matter how deep I cut, how much I bleed, or how painful it feels now, it's never enough. The hurt inside is still too much, I never win.
But there's a way out, there always is. I can make it all go away, I can make it stop, and I can see for myself if I'm really a waste. If I die, would anyone care? I could scream my way through death, but would anyone hear it? If I die, would Mikey regret caring, and Bert regret hurting me? Or would I reagent dying? Unanswered questions that I want so badly to know. If I do die, and do regret it, there's no going back. And if I don't regret it, then I'm free, far from anything and anyone that's done me wrong. Nothing, no one, could hurt me again.
Dying would be scary, it would be thrilling, but painful, it would be my greatest adventure. Dying is a risk, but it's a risk I might just be willing to take. I think about it often. It's a fantasy of mine. The underworld, the afterlife, the other side of the veil, everything that could happen after death. It's grim and dark, but also exciting and romantic. It's something I've always wanted to try. Someday, but not today.
I lay the razor in the sink, grabbing a towel from beside me. I stand up straight and dab at my wrists that gave gained quite a few more battle scars. Once the bleeding stops, I throw my oversized sweatshirt over my head and walk out the door. The house is still empty, aside from me, and I can think of only one thing to do. Draw. I go upstairs to my bedroom and lock the door behind me. I sit at my desk and turn on my lamp. I take a folder out of my backpack, inside are all of the drawings I've ever done. I pull out a new, blank, white sheet of paper, and go to work.
Drawing is the only thing I know how to do, it's the only thing that makes sense to me. It relieves so much stress, and for once, just one moment, I'm in control. No one can tell me that I'm doing it wrong, because I say I'm doing it right. I can draw whatever I want and it's okay. It's a way of telling the world that they can fuck off and that I'm not bad at everything. I like to say I'm good at art, saying it boosts my self esteem. So arts good for me, it kinda keeps me alive, in a way. Having been suicidal for about a year now, art keeps. E going, so yeah, I need art, I need it bad.
Hours pass and I'm finally done. I sit back and look at what I created. There is a man standing in the road, it's midnight, and there's blood on his hands. From the streetlight, you can see the body at his feet. A woman. Her eyes are opened wide, blood is gushing from her neck. The man is smiling as if he'd gotten away with something. But in the back, you can see the dull glow of red and blue lights of a police car. I smile to myself at my accomplishment, and flip it over to put a title on the back. With a mechanical pencil, I scrawl "Life on the Murder Scene by Gerard Arthur Way". Once that's done, I put ti in my folder.
I go downstairs, it's still dark out, maybe ten o'clock. Still, nobody is home, at least from what I can tell. A sudden bang from upstairs startles me. I gaze at the stairway for only a moment, but then head back up stairs. Something bangs again, and I know where it's coming from. And there it is again. I quickly go to Mikey's bedroom and throw the door open, thanking God he doesn't have a lock on that door. There, I see my little brother slamming his bass guitar against everything. He doesn't see me and goes for another swing at his wall. I rush over and grab hold of the guitar as it is in mid-swing. Mikey spins around to face me, and what I see makes my breath catch in my throat.
His clothes are torn, his glasses are broken, and on his face are tons of scrapes and bruises. "What happened How did you get busted up like that?" I ask. He yanks the bass away and glares. "You happened, Gerard. This is all your fault." He says, his voice dripping with hate. I back away from him and ask. "Mikey, what are you talking about?" He scoffs and starts to wander around the room. "I'm talking about how you're a loser! How you are affects me! I just got the living shit beat outta me because your'e my brother! I mean, I did nothing to then, but because I even know you, I'm the one who gets beaten!" He screams.
I don't say anything, I don't know what I could say. I just stand there, staring at him. He's crying now and there's blood suddenly leaking from a gash on his cheek. "Well, what do you want me to do about it? I can't just stop being your brother, I-I don't know how to fix this, okay. I'm sorry that they hurt you, it really wasn't fair." I say. Mikey walks toward me with clenched fists. Once he reaches me, one fist slams hard against my face. And in a low voice, he says, "No, it wasn't fair, but I know what you can do. You can stay the hell out of my life, faggot, and if you can't do that, it's better for all of us if you just die."
I walk out and the door slams in my face. Tears pour out soon after. Well there you have it. You now have a taste of what my normal life is like. Now I've got absolutely no one at all. There used to be rare times where Mikey wasn't ashamed of me, and he'd talk to me, sometimes even in public too. But clearly, any chance of that happening now is next to nothing. They're long gone now. I can't easily stay out of his life, not when I live with him. But to make him happy, and to keep myself alive, I'll do the best I can. For now, I have to hunt down those motherfuckers who beat up my brother, because even if he hates me, he's still my baby brother, and I still love him. But it's late, I'm tired, and I'm going to go to bed.

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