No matter how much I wanted to lay under my sheets for the rest of my life, my family (especially Mikey) refused to allow that to happen. The kid dragged me out of bed at approximately 7:00 in the morning, forcing my to shower and put on my cleanest dirty clothes. I groaned loudly in open protest to such vicious oppression, but in the end, there was nothing that I could do to save myself from facing the day.

As if it would be any consolation, Mikey offered me his last cigarette, his lucky, as we stepped out of the aging vehicle. The sun, about a quarter of the way into the eastern sky already, splashed me with its revolting rays, and I cringed against its white light before accepting the fag wordlessly.

I decided that it would be best - easier, if you will - for me to consciously devolve in such a way that I would cease talking. It could be my newest mantra; the refusal to articulate anything as big as an underground terrorist organization or as little as a sliver that needed removal. I have never been particularly good with my words, so I expected this resolution to save my ass from an awful lot of shit.

My brother seemed to accept this MO, as he walked away from me without so much as a backward glance of consideration. Michael probably just wanted to get me out of the house "for my own good", and wasn't concerned with what I did past that, under the impression that I would perk up once I saw "everything that I was missing". The problem was that I wasn't missing anything but pain.

I focused my strained attention on the smoldering cherry of the Marlboro Red, and I let my mind trivially thank Mikey for smoking 100's - a fact which I enjoyed taunting him about - for the first time.

Yes, I have a brand loyalty to Marlboro. Yes, I smoke reds. Yes, my brother smokes 100's and I give him shit for it. Yes, I paralleled that tiny paragraph to my recent situation. Yes, I have begun to parallel Gerard's emotions to the angst I have been feeling lately. No, I do not regret it. Not for a second.

Before stomping out the cancerous tobacco, I attempted to ameliorate my mind of all the negativity that was swelling up inside of it as an infection would inside a cut. My meditative purge was cut short as the muffled chime of the bell rang in my ears.

My breath was reduced to a labored wheeze before I stumbled through the door to my English class. I skidded to a stop and leaned over, supporting my torso by placing my hands on my knees, in spite of the curious stares that I was receiving. Fuck you, Mr. Marlboro

I regained my breath as quickly as a chain-smoker might, walked, shoes squeaking, to my seat, all while retaining my pious (as if) silence. I allowed my rucksack, that I hadn't previously noticed, to remain on my back for whatever reason I couldn't think of, and flipped Bob off in an open response to his stunned scrutiny.

A small while and a fair amount of glares and indirect questions later, while Mr. Burns - who had ignored my unfashionably late entrance with such grace I almost didn't notice my interruption - was speaking about poetic meter, I felt a piece of crumpled paper stab into my shaking hand.

My soul wasn't privy to ambition that morning, so I let the wad linger a while. It was only when about ten of the things were wasted on my ebbing interest that I picked up the original was, assuming it contained a note, and smoothing it out against the corner of my desk.

hey since when did you run track? haha Bob's nearly illegible scrawl joked amicably. I appreciated his callousness toward my recent abnormal behavior.

Anyway its fucking good to see you back here Houdini (see because you escape school all the time and you disappear for days on end, so you're like Houdini) I chuckled at his unnecessary explanation.

Look i no youve got a lot of shit thats gettin you down so will ya come to the game tonight? we can get white boy wasted (WERD) I audibly laughed and your mind will forget bout whatevers wrong. i swear it.

In a much neater hand, if I do say so myself, I penned:

Only because you said, "White-boy wasted".

P.S. You didn't have to explain the Houdini reference for me, thanks though. I know I've been M.I.A for a while, but I've just got to sort some things out right now. Thanks for being cool, Bryar.

Notes

Chapter Title (I'm afraid to tell you guys) Swag Surfin' by Lil Wayne

Hey guys ('nother long note coming your way).

For those of you who have read it, I bet you know what's coming up in the next chapter. For those of you who have not... well, I'll have it up soon.

So, I've been getting into a lot of old music and poetry lately, so if you guys have anything that you like (like vintage artsy fartsy shit) leave me a message or a comment telling me what it is. I would love your suggestions.

Kurt Cobain.

Also, Bob's dialect isn't meant for him to sound stupid, just too lazy for proper punctuation/spelling, and Gerard is just posh.

Also, concerning my mid-chapter author's note, I often push my emotions on my characters if they fit, just because it helps me think about them. I don't regret it because that's one big reason why I write - it's an outlet.

I am also creating a FicWad account to post this story, which I will edit and add to again and again and again (aka it'll be considerably different from my mibbian version) because I want this to be my glory story. It is the first chapter Frerard that I will finish and possible that last one I will ever write. (oh, what excellent legacy)

Lastly, I started a new story, an original fiction call The Edge of Autumn. (i would link it but i forget and am too lazy to look up the code). So if you're not in the mood for Frerard (SACRILEGE) I would appreciate if you would give it a look. I probably won't finish it, because, let's face it, I don't finish anything except food - which is why I weigh as much (156) as I do - and blowjobs. (fuck, I refuse to take that back).

xoBunny