We fear the apocalypse, but it’s already here. Mindless people, with thoughts only to ‘fit in’ or ‘blend’ with the crowd; those are the living dead. Although technically, we all are the word ‘alive’, yet everything we do is dead. Our voice is dead, our actions are dead. Why fear what’s been happening every day? We fear violence, but we are the cause. We fear losing, but we’ve already lost. If you look at the whole picture, fear is impossible. Or, at least, we’re all hypocrites.
There was silence, until Ray decided to speak again. “Wow, did you zone out again?”
Gerard’s eyes relocated to his friend’s face. “S-sorry,” he bit his lip. “J-just th-thinking.”
Ray kicked his feet above the nightstand, his arms resting behind his neck. Ray always did that before he yawned, stretched, and pushed Gerard off the side of the mattress. Without a second thought, Gerard hoisted himself to avoid falling off the bed. “I-I’ve been z-zoning o-out a lot l-lately, huh?”
The teenager nodded. “Don’t forget that stuttering thing too,” he mentioned, very casually. Gerard never enjoyed the fact that others always pointed out his speech disorder. People and their enjoyment to pick at, point their finger, and criticize every little detail. He calmed himself. “Y-yeah.”
“On the bright side, you got that lisp fixed,” Ray gleefully chuckled. Gerard hated that fucking statement, ‘on the bright side’. There is no bright side in his tunnel of darkness; none. He gritted his teeth, upset.
“S-stop b-bringing th-this all u-up,” Gerard muttered.
“Oh right, no, you had a lithsp,” Ray joked, his grin fading away as Gerard frowned. “Bet you’ll fix that stutter in no time. And maybe you’ll stop zoning out, too.”
Gerard sighed and dismissed Ray. He wasn’t a real friend, just a photocopy his mother sent to help her ‘socially challenged (self-acclaimed, but everyone else already could tell)’ son. Maybe he’d find some new friends in school. Conveniently, school started tomorrow, or at least that was going to be Gerard’s first day. In reality, school started a week or two before, but Gerard was waiting in line to buy Assassin’s Creed on the first week or two because he was getting a bit tired of his Heroes of the Pacific and God of War games for his PlayStation.
He thought about his other years in school, the first day of kindergarten up to the final moments of eighth grade (which, he didn’t have much fun remembering). He remembered all the students bawling, wishing they were in preschool so their homework would be to draw a circle or something. Gerard never understood that desire, and probably never would.
He was sick and in the hospital that year, and they were doing some weird shit to his organs. IVs scattered all over his arms, little bald patches on his head where detectors had to be. Batman bandages and Poison Ivy flip-flops. Flash liquid coloring that tasted like shit (you know, glow in the dark paint so docs can see my floppy little guts), but he only drank it so Flash would be proud. Daredevil wristbands with his hospital ID on it. And a Superman poster so he could go home and rip it to shreds (such a fucking good-guy, I never liked him).
Gerard slumped himself into a desk chair, by his art table (or better known as: the-pile-of-useful-shit) and blasted some Smiths through the house. The World Won’t Listen, a B-side. As the piano began to play, his mind began to drift away.

Notes

Guess I'm starting my first story here :) feedback is appreciated