Tears
Chapter 4: Try To Be Living As Your Vice And Can You Be My Type (Patrick's Point of View)
'She walked across egg shells
And her feet cut on broken glass
She tried to pick up the pieces
And reassemble her sanity
But she knew that the tape she used wouldn't last.
Picking up spare parts
And spare hearts
Was getting old
Because she would never entirely be her
And it was all because of those who told her,
"You will never be good enough".
Who will her her now
That she will always be good enough for them?'
I looked at the paper in which I had wrote the poem down on. I wrote it for my cousin who had just committed suicide because of her awful abusive boyfriend. I really hated the guy. His name? Darek Lathum. The very same Darek Lathum that bullied me and my friends constantly. He was the only person I had ever wanted to hurt.
I hummed quietly, drumming my fingers on my desk, and then I quickly hid the poem in my notebook once I heard the front door open. I slowly got to my feet and wandered over to my nightstand.
"Holy smokes!" I cried when I saw the time. It was two in the fricking morning!
Someone was coming up the stairs, it was probably my dad, and he was probably drunk.
I whimpered with fear and climbed under my covers.
Just as I expected, a very drunk Martin Stumph (I had my fathers first name as my middle name) staggered into my room. "Patrick, get up." He snapped, turning on my ceiling light. I complied and got out of my warm bed, standing with my heels pressed together, my entire body straight, and my hands to my sides.
He punched me in the gut, and I had to keep a straight face, or it would only get worse. He hit me again, right in the nose, and I heard a loud crack. I bit my lips, and my face contorted in pain. He laughed, and grabbed me by the shoulder. "Time for the belt." He said, "Stay here, and take your shirt off."
I quietly did as I was told, and pulled my shirt off before waiting for my dad to return. I was always self conscious about my body, and I really hated taking my shirt off around people. When my dad walked in, I instinctively wrapped my arms around myself to hide my body. He scowled at me, and I felt a lash against my arm. He had gotten the leather wet, and soaped it. It stung like a lot and the metal spikes were no fun.
I lasted about an hour before I passed out from pain, or blood loss or something like that.
He left after that I think, and I bled out on the floor until my mom came to check on me in the morning. She quickly woke me up, and then got me to the bathroom to clean the cuts all across my chest, stomach, and back.
She applied rubbing alcohol to each room and it made me squirm, and whimper with pain. She was whispering about how much of a scumbag my father was as she dressed the wounds that littered my weak frame.
I spent the rest of the weekend locked away in my room, avoiding calls from everybody, and sleeping most of the time. I was in far too much pain to eat anything, or write anymore, or even listen to music. I just sat in my bed all day.
On Monday, I unhappily dragged myself out of bed. It was 6:30 when I woke up. I had about fifteen minutes to do everything I needed to do. I shuffled down the hallway to the bathroom, shutting the door quietly behind me, and then locking it.
I started the shower, and waited for it to warm up before cautiously taking my clothes off. I stepped under the hot spray and winced at the stinging sensation it caused on my cut up torso. Holy smokes it hurt.
I made the shower as quick as I possibly could, washing my body thoroughly, then scrubbing shampoo through my ginger hair, before rinsing off and conditioning my scalp. I rinsed my hair out once more, before turning off the water.
I grabbed the towel that I had left hanging over the edge of the shower wall thing, and quickly dried off, huddling up under the fabric, seeking its warmth, as the cold air shocked my red skin. That was one of the reasons I hated showers.
I dried off my hair and then ran back to my room. I dug through my dresser and pulled out my favorite pair of black skinny jeans that were too baggy on me, an ac/dc shirt with Angus Young outlined on the front with his guitar, and the words "let there be rock". I threw on my clothes and checked the time. It was 7:00! I was going to be late!
I quickly put my shoes on, then grabbed my jacket and bag before running outside and towards the school.
I got there just in time, skidding through the doors of my first period class. IB Chemistry. Gerard and I were lab partners in Chem, which was actually kind of nice, because Gerard was really cool, and really attractive. I slid into the seat next to him as the bell rang, and our teacher, Mr. Andres walked in, dragging a boy by his sleeve.
That boy was Tom DeLonge. He waved awkwardly at the mass of students in front of him, "This is Tom, and he's new to our class." Our teacher announced. I stifled my groan of disappointment in my sleeve. Gerard frowned as well, I could see it out of the corner of my eye. Neither of us liked Tom, or any of his friends, except for Mikey. He was pretty cool when we got him with us.
Tom was assigned lab partners with one of the strangest, most off putting kids in school. He honestly acted kind of like a dog, so I guess his last name is fitting. Travis Landon Barker, second time junior who sat at the table, alone, right next to Gerard and I.
I suppose I'm being a little harsh, but the kid scares everyone. He has no friends, and he is the most avoided kid in school, people don't even like him enough to bully him, and give him what little attention that provides. They just avoid him, pretend he's not there, and whisper behind his back.
Tom looks disgusted.
I don't blame him, though I wouldn't make my disgust so clear. Travis doesn't react to the fact that Tom puts like a five foot gap between them, he simply focuses on what the teacher is saying. He looks completely uninterested though, like the rest of us.
Tom cringed as Travis reached over the table with his long, tattooed arms in order to grab a beaker. Travis simply smiled, flashing his teeth. He was missing some.
I turned my attention back to Gerard when he started swearing rather loudly (loud enough to draw the teachers attention). "What's wrong?" I questioned, before seeing he had spilled the chemicals that we were given all over his hands which had suddenly gone from paper white to bright red.
"Mr. Andres!" I squeaked like a frightened mouse. The teacher ran over, and grabbed Gerard's wrist, tugging him over to the sink. "Wash with warm water and soap before your hands gets a full on chemical peel." He instructed.
Gerard did as told, and then spent the rest of the class period focusing on his hands, and the dead skin that now clung to them. He sat next to me picking at his hands, and it made me squirm uncomfortably, because it was disgusting.
Second, third, and fourth period when by quickly. Break, gym, then world history. I walked to lunch by myself, and I saw Gerard in the hallway. He was holding one of Darek's friend, Greyson I think, up against the wall by his collar, glaring into his eye. Frank was crumpled up on the ground by Gerard's feet. "Tell Darek that I hope he's ready for a fire fight, because the devil's got his number tonight." And with that Gerard spun, dropping Greyson to the floor, and picking Frank up.
Then he saw me, and beckoned me over, "Tell the others that Frankie and I are up in the nurse, okay?" He asked me.
I nodded slowly and then ran off towards the tree.
"Woah! Slow down there Patrick!" Ray shouted as I crashed into him, causing us both to topple over. I stayed in my place for a moment, laying on my back, trying not to show pain in my face because of the cuts that were opening on my skin from my fall.
"Hey guys!" I said waving to everyone one, once I stood up, "Gerard told me tell you guys that he and Frankie were up in the nurse." Everyone frowned, "Why?" Ryan questioned, "I think one of Darek's stupid friends got to Frank." I responded.
Everyone sat quietly, contemplating things.
We sat there for about ten minutes before we heard sirens. We all looked up and Gerard was crossing the field with his hands shoved in his pockets. There were flashing lights in front of the building.
"Guys, Frankie's going to the hospital." He said as he approached us.
Ryan fell out of the tree he was so surprised. He fell like you see in those movies like if someone was pushed backwards out of a window, and he landed on his back with a thud, and a groan before sitting up.
We all asked questions, and Gerard didn't know half the answers we wanted, but answered best he could.
"Why is he going to the hospital?"
"Concussion, broken ribs, and I think they broke his arm."
"Who's they?"
To this question, Gerard just gave a blank stare.
Everyone got the memo.
"Do you think they caused any other damage?" I asked, quietly.
Gerard shrugged, "I don't know."
"Who's going to take care of his mom?" Ray asked.
Gerard got this really confused look, "What do you mean? She's a grown ass woman... can't she take care of herself?" He asked.
Ray laughed darkly. "The woman went insane when he was three. He had to have his aunt live with them until he was sixteen, and now he juggles two jobs so he can feed her, and keep the house, and all she does is scream and cause trouble." He explained, "They only time Frank eats, unless someone is buying, is here at lunch, and sometimes not even then." He explained. Gerard looked mortified.
"Wow... so that's why she throws shit at me, and bites me when ever I knock on the door." He muttered.
Ray laughed, "You're pretty fucking oblivious!" He scoffed.
And her feet cut on broken glass
She tried to pick up the pieces
And reassemble her sanity
But she knew that the tape she used wouldn't last.
Picking up spare parts
And spare hearts
Was getting old
Because she would never entirely be her
And it was all because of those who told her,
"You will never be good enough".
Who will her her now
That she will always be good enough for them?'
I looked at the paper in which I had wrote the poem down on. I wrote it for my cousin who had just committed suicide because of her awful abusive boyfriend. I really hated the guy. His name? Darek Lathum. The very same Darek Lathum that bullied me and my friends constantly. He was the only person I had ever wanted to hurt.
I hummed quietly, drumming my fingers on my desk, and then I quickly hid the poem in my notebook once I heard the front door open. I slowly got to my feet and wandered over to my nightstand.
"Holy smokes!" I cried when I saw the time. It was two in the fricking morning!
Someone was coming up the stairs, it was probably my dad, and he was probably drunk.
I whimpered with fear and climbed under my covers.
Just as I expected, a very drunk Martin Stumph (I had my fathers first name as my middle name) staggered into my room. "Patrick, get up." He snapped, turning on my ceiling light. I complied and got out of my warm bed, standing with my heels pressed together, my entire body straight, and my hands to my sides.
He punched me in the gut, and I had to keep a straight face, or it would only get worse. He hit me again, right in the nose, and I heard a loud crack. I bit my lips, and my face contorted in pain. He laughed, and grabbed me by the shoulder. "Time for the belt." He said, "Stay here, and take your shirt off."
I quietly did as I was told, and pulled my shirt off before waiting for my dad to return. I was always self conscious about my body, and I really hated taking my shirt off around people. When my dad walked in, I instinctively wrapped my arms around myself to hide my body. He scowled at me, and I felt a lash against my arm. He had gotten the leather wet, and soaped it. It stung like a lot and the metal spikes were no fun.
I lasted about an hour before I passed out from pain, or blood loss or something like that.
He left after that I think, and I bled out on the floor until my mom came to check on me in the morning. She quickly woke me up, and then got me to the bathroom to clean the cuts all across my chest, stomach, and back.
She applied rubbing alcohol to each room and it made me squirm, and whimper with pain. She was whispering about how much of a scumbag my father was as she dressed the wounds that littered my weak frame.
I spent the rest of the weekend locked away in my room, avoiding calls from everybody, and sleeping most of the time. I was in far too much pain to eat anything, or write anymore, or even listen to music. I just sat in my bed all day.
On Monday, I unhappily dragged myself out of bed. It was 6:30 when I woke up. I had about fifteen minutes to do everything I needed to do. I shuffled down the hallway to the bathroom, shutting the door quietly behind me, and then locking it.
I started the shower, and waited for it to warm up before cautiously taking my clothes off. I stepped under the hot spray and winced at the stinging sensation it caused on my cut up torso. Holy smokes it hurt.
I made the shower as quick as I possibly could, washing my body thoroughly, then scrubbing shampoo through my ginger hair, before rinsing off and conditioning my scalp. I rinsed my hair out once more, before turning off the water.
I grabbed the towel that I had left hanging over the edge of the shower wall thing, and quickly dried off, huddling up under the fabric, seeking its warmth, as the cold air shocked my red skin. That was one of the reasons I hated showers.
I dried off my hair and then ran back to my room. I dug through my dresser and pulled out my favorite pair of black skinny jeans that were too baggy on me, an ac/dc shirt with Angus Young outlined on the front with his guitar, and the words "let there be rock". I threw on my clothes and checked the time. It was 7:00! I was going to be late!
I quickly put my shoes on, then grabbed my jacket and bag before running outside and towards the school.
I got there just in time, skidding through the doors of my first period class. IB Chemistry. Gerard and I were lab partners in Chem, which was actually kind of nice, because Gerard was really cool, and really attractive. I slid into the seat next to him as the bell rang, and our teacher, Mr. Andres walked in, dragging a boy by his sleeve.
That boy was Tom DeLonge. He waved awkwardly at the mass of students in front of him, "This is Tom, and he's new to our class." Our teacher announced. I stifled my groan of disappointment in my sleeve. Gerard frowned as well, I could see it out of the corner of my eye. Neither of us liked Tom, or any of his friends, except for Mikey. He was pretty cool when we got him with us.
Tom was assigned lab partners with one of the strangest, most off putting kids in school. He honestly acted kind of like a dog, so I guess his last name is fitting. Travis Landon Barker, second time junior who sat at the table, alone, right next to Gerard and I.
I suppose I'm being a little harsh, but the kid scares everyone. He has no friends, and he is the most avoided kid in school, people don't even like him enough to bully him, and give him what little attention that provides. They just avoid him, pretend he's not there, and whisper behind his back.
Tom looks disgusted.
I don't blame him, though I wouldn't make my disgust so clear. Travis doesn't react to the fact that Tom puts like a five foot gap between them, he simply focuses on what the teacher is saying. He looks completely uninterested though, like the rest of us.
Tom cringed as Travis reached over the table with his long, tattooed arms in order to grab a beaker. Travis simply smiled, flashing his teeth. He was missing some.
I turned my attention back to Gerard when he started swearing rather loudly (loud enough to draw the teachers attention). "What's wrong?" I questioned, before seeing he had spilled the chemicals that we were given all over his hands which had suddenly gone from paper white to bright red.
"Mr. Andres!" I squeaked like a frightened mouse. The teacher ran over, and grabbed Gerard's wrist, tugging him over to the sink. "Wash with warm water and soap before your hands gets a full on chemical peel." He instructed.
Gerard did as told, and then spent the rest of the class period focusing on his hands, and the dead skin that now clung to them. He sat next to me picking at his hands, and it made me squirm uncomfortably, because it was disgusting.
Second, third, and fourth period when by quickly. Break, gym, then world history. I walked to lunch by myself, and I saw Gerard in the hallway. He was holding one of Darek's friend, Greyson I think, up against the wall by his collar, glaring into his eye. Frank was crumpled up on the ground by Gerard's feet. "Tell Darek that I hope he's ready for a fire fight, because the devil's got his number tonight." And with that Gerard spun, dropping Greyson to the floor, and picking Frank up.
Then he saw me, and beckoned me over, "Tell the others that Frankie and I are up in the nurse, okay?" He asked me.
I nodded slowly and then ran off towards the tree.
"Woah! Slow down there Patrick!" Ray shouted as I crashed into him, causing us both to topple over. I stayed in my place for a moment, laying on my back, trying not to show pain in my face because of the cuts that were opening on my skin from my fall.
"Hey guys!" I said waving to everyone one, once I stood up, "Gerard told me tell you guys that he and Frankie were up in the nurse." Everyone frowned, "Why?" Ryan questioned, "I think one of Darek's stupid friends got to Frank." I responded.
Everyone sat quietly, contemplating things.
We sat there for about ten minutes before we heard sirens. We all looked up and Gerard was crossing the field with his hands shoved in his pockets. There were flashing lights in front of the building.
"Guys, Frankie's going to the hospital." He said as he approached us.
Ryan fell out of the tree he was so surprised. He fell like you see in those movies like if someone was pushed backwards out of a window, and he landed on his back with a thud, and a groan before sitting up.
We all asked questions, and Gerard didn't know half the answers we wanted, but answered best he could.
"Why is he going to the hospital?"
"Concussion, broken ribs, and I think they broke his arm."
"Who's they?"
To this question, Gerard just gave a blank stare.
Everyone got the memo.
"Do you think they caused any other damage?" I asked, quietly.
Gerard shrugged, "I don't know."
"Who's going to take care of his mom?" Ray asked.
Gerard got this really confused look, "What do you mean? She's a grown ass woman... can't she take care of herself?" He asked.
Ray laughed darkly. "The woman went insane when he was three. He had to have his aunt live with them until he was sixteen, and now he juggles two jobs so he can feed her, and keep the house, and all she does is scream and cause trouble." He explained, "They only time Frank eats, unless someone is buying, is here at lunch, and sometimes not even then." He explained. Gerard looked mortified.
"Wow... so that's why she throws shit at me, and bites me when ever I knock on the door." He muttered.
Ray laughed, "You're pretty fucking oblivious!" He scoffed.
Notes
So this was a poem, among others, that I wrote during my depressive state. I actually quite like it, so yeah.
If anyone would like to hear any more of my poems, or maybe even the song I wrote, in this story, tell me!
I feel really mean for the way I portray Travis ><<br> Has anyone noticed that Gerard uses "motherfucker" in such unnecessary spots in his lyrics? "We can live forever if you have the time, you motherfucker!" or "lalalalala. lalalalala. lalalala. oh motherfucker!" I mean, come on Gee!
Also the crop thing on my phone doesn't recognize Patrick's face as a face. Maybe it's just because he's too perfect.
I don't know why I'm saying so many random things. Hehe...
Comment, rate, subscribe, and all those nice things. I love you all!
Sorry for spamming you here with a bunch of stupid shit~!
Do you guys have a favorite lyric?
I would like to know what it is!
Mine is "it ain't love if it's just fucking" -Gerard Way "No Shows"
@headfirstfxrhalos
Haha. Wow!
It was really weird to think of myself in a fic XD
1/24/15