Manage me, I'm a mess.
A cut cannot heal, unless you leave it alone.
This starts off kinda slow, but bear with me, I promise it gets better. Enjoy the first chapter. :) :) :)
I’m sick of it.
Living in fear of everyone around me.
Being a burden on my parent’s shoulders.
I let my dad down.
I have no talents.
I am useless.
I am sitting in my room, Guns ‘N’ Roses blasting through my speakers, drawing a simple sketch in my art book.
*Knock, Knock*
“Kobra?” Great, it’s my mum, Kristin, “Your father will be home soon, do you want to help me get dinner ready?”
Ah, Mikey Way, my father. I hate him.
“No I don’t,” I snap, slamming my art book close, and switching off my stereo.
“You okay sweetie?” Great, now she is concerned.
“I am fine. Just go away.”
“KOBRA!” Ugh, I hate that voice. It is so whiny.
“I SAID PISS OFF!” Now I am pissed.
“Don’t use that tone with me young man,” Ha, I’m hardly a man. A shell of one maybe, “Your father will be home in around five minutes, so I want you to fix you attitude.”
“Like I care,” I scoff, turning to face this bitch who claims to be my parent, “He doesn’t give a shit about us, and if he did, why does he leave for months at a time, hmm, because HE FUCKING HATES US!”
“KOBRA GERARD WAY!” She screams, walking over to me, “I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S GOING THROUGH YOUR MIND, BUT IN THIS HOUSE YOU DO NOT SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT, OR TALK ABOUT YOUR FATHER LIKE THAT!”
She turns around and slams the door. Great.
I turn back to my desk, switch back on the music, and open my art book. I flip back to the drawing I was working on. It is nothing special, just a simple sketch of a faceless angel, kneeling in what seems to be mid-air, praying, wing outstretched behind him. I pick up my felt tip pen, and begin to draw a soft pattern as the background.
Okay, maybe I was lying before when I said I have no talents. I got my uncle Gee’s drawing talents, and I can kinda sing. My dad tried to teach me bass, but it is so boring. I prefer playing guitar like Frank and Ray. Maybe that’s why my dad hates me?
My grip on the pen tightens, as I feel rage bubble up inside me.
I throw the pen across the room at my light grey walls. It bounces of the wall, and lands on the bed where my dad’s old fat cat Piglet is sat. He hisses and gives me a dirty look. Just like my dad.
I walk over to my bed, and pick up the pen. The tip has been damaged and covered in fluff. Great, that was my last felt tip.
I push Piglet off the bed, and he hisses and slashed a clawed paw at my ankle.
“OW! SON OF A BITCH!” I yelp, and pull my ankle up to the bed, “STUPID FUCKING CAT! GET!”
I open my bedroom door, and basically throw him out. He lets out a nasty hiss and runs down the stairs.
“I fucking hate that cat,” I mumble as I go back into my room, shutting the door behind me.
I sit back down at my desk, and pull my leg up to inspect the scratch. I roll up my jeans, and pull down my black sock slightly, to get a good look. The cut is pink at the edges, and starting to bleed. Not to mention it stings like a bitch.
I rip some tissues out of the tissue box on my desk and push them against my ankle. After a while, I realise the cut is too deep, and it is going to need a Band-Aid.
Fucking awesome.
I have none up in my room, so I am going to have to go out and get some.
I groan, turn off the music, close my art book and hop over to my door. I pull it open, as quietly as possible, and hop over to the upstairs bathroom. I hop through the door, and open the cabinet, I shuffle through the items, seeing pills, liquids, cough drops, a thermometer, sling, and creams, but no Band-Aids. Not even a bandage.
Great, that means they’re downstairs.
I hop out of the bathroom, grabbing more tissues and wiping up the dripping blood, and hop over to the stairs. I sit down on my ass, and begin to bump down.
“Kobra, is that you?” Shit, I have been rumbled.
My mum walks into view and frowns.
“What are you doing?” She asks, placing her hands on her hips.
“Um,” I blush furiously, ‘cause it’s kinda embarrassing, “Piglet scratched me and there’s no Band-Aids.”
“Well you should be more careful with the cat,” SERIOUSLY! SHE’S DEFENDING THAT FLEA BAG?! “Hurry up, your father will be home, and dinner is almost ready.”
Just as she says that, keys turn in the lock, and the door opens.
“I’M HOME!” My dad calls, walking into the house.
“Hi honey,” My mum runs off to go greet him.
I take this as my cue, and finish sliding on my ass down the stairs. I jump up from the stairs, and hop over the downstairs bathroom. I rip some more tissues from the box, once in, and use them to wipe up the blood, again. I open the cabinet, and straight away see the Band-Aids.
“Finally,” I mumble, and I take them out, and apply one to the cut on my ankle.
“DINNER!” My dad calls.
“Ugh,” I don’t respond, I just walk into the dining room.
“What’s up with you?” My dad asks, setting the final plate on the table.
We are having steak, mash potatoes, peas, beans, and carrot. My least favourite dinner.
“Your stupid cat,” I mutter, sliding into my chair.
“The cat scratched him again,” My mum clarifies.
“No shit Sherlock,” I snap.
“KOBRA!” My dad yells, “Your mother told me how you have been behaving, and it will NOT, I repeat, will NOT, be tolerated. Understand?”
“Yes,” I hiss, “I’m not five.”
“Well you’re acting like it,” My dad growls.
I roll my eyes, and glare at my dinner. I pick up my fork, but instead of eating it, I just push the food around on my plate, mushing it together, slowly making an art work.
“Eat your dinner,” My mum tells me firmly, stopping me in my tracks.
“But I don’t like it,” I groan, flopping back in the chair.
“I don’t care,” She holds her voice firm, “You will eat what I made.”
“Ugh.”
“Oi, what did I just say?” Great, now my dad is getting involved, again.
“I don’t CARE!” I yell, sitting up now, “I DON’T GIVE A SHIT WHAT YOU THINK DAD! AND MUM, STOP TRYING TO CONTROL ME! IT’S MY LIFE, AND I’LL EAT WHAT EVER SHIT I DAMN WELL PLEASE!”
“GO TO YOUR ROOM NOW KOBRA WAY! NOW” My dad is fuming now. He is the ‘take no shit’ type of guy, so he defiantly won’t back down on this.
“FINE!” I yell, and tip my plate over, food spilling all over the floor, as I run up the stairs to my room.
“YOU ARE GROUNDED KOBRA GERARD WAY! GROUNDED!” And that’s the last thing my dad says before I slam the door shut.
I’m sick of it.
Living in fear of everyone around me.
Being a burden on my parent’s shoulders.
I let my dad down.
I have no talents.
I am useless.
I am sitting in my room, Guns ‘N’ Roses blasting through my speakers, drawing a simple sketch in my art book.
*Knock, Knock*
“Kobra?” Great, it’s my mum, Kristin, “Your father will be home soon, do you want to help me get dinner ready?”
Ah, Mikey Way, my father. I hate him.
“No I don’t,” I snap, slamming my art book close, and switching off my stereo.
“You okay sweetie?” Great, now she is concerned.
“I am fine. Just go away.”
“KOBRA!” Ugh, I hate that voice. It is so whiny.
“I SAID PISS OFF!” Now I am pissed.
“Don’t use that tone with me young man,” Ha, I’m hardly a man. A shell of one maybe, “Your father will be home in around five minutes, so I want you to fix you attitude.”
“Like I care,” I scoff, turning to face this bitch who claims to be my parent, “He doesn’t give a shit about us, and if he did, why does he leave for months at a time, hmm, because HE FUCKING HATES US!”
“KOBRA GERARD WAY!” She screams, walking over to me, “I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S GOING THROUGH YOUR MIND, BUT IN THIS HOUSE YOU DO NOT SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT, OR TALK ABOUT YOUR FATHER LIKE THAT!”
She turns around and slams the door. Great.
I turn back to my desk, switch back on the music, and open my art book. I flip back to the drawing I was working on. It is nothing special, just a simple sketch of a faceless angel, kneeling in what seems to be mid-air, praying, wing outstretched behind him. I pick up my felt tip pen, and begin to draw a soft pattern as the background.
Okay, maybe I was lying before when I said I have no talents. I got my uncle Gee’s drawing talents, and I can kinda sing. My dad tried to teach me bass, but it is so boring. I prefer playing guitar like Frank and Ray. Maybe that’s why my dad hates me?
My grip on the pen tightens, as I feel rage bubble up inside me.
I throw the pen across the room at my light grey walls. It bounces of the wall, and lands on the bed where my dad’s old fat cat Piglet is sat. He hisses and gives me a dirty look. Just like my dad.
I walk over to my bed, and pick up the pen. The tip has been damaged and covered in fluff. Great, that was my last felt tip.
I push Piglet off the bed, and he hisses and slashed a clawed paw at my ankle.
“OW! SON OF A BITCH!” I yelp, and pull my ankle up to the bed, “STUPID FUCKING CAT! GET!”
I open my bedroom door, and basically throw him out. He lets out a nasty hiss and runs down the stairs.
“I fucking hate that cat,” I mumble as I go back into my room, shutting the door behind me.
I sit back down at my desk, and pull my leg up to inspect the scratch. I roll up my jeans, and pull down my black sock slightly, to get a good look. The cut is pink at the edges, and starting to bleed. Not to mention it stings like a bitch.
I rip some tissues out of the tissue box on my desk and push them against my ankle. After a while, I realise the cut is too deep, and it is going to need a Band-Aid.
Fucking awesome.
I have none up in my room, so I am going to have to go out and get some.
I groan, turn off the music, close my art book and hop over to my door. I pull it open, as quietly as possible, and hop over to the upstairs bathroom. I hop through the door, and open the cabinet, I shuffle through the items, seeing pills, liquids, cough drops, a thermometer, sling, and creams, but no Band-Aids. Not even a bandage.
Great, that means they’re downstairs.
I hop out of the bathroom, grabbing more tissues and wiping up the dripping blood, and hop over to the stairs. I sit down on my ass, and begin to bump down.
“Kobra, is that you?” Shit, I have been rumbled.
My mum walks into view and frowns.
“What are you doing?” She asks, placing her hands on her hips.
“Um,” I blush furiously, ‘cause it’s kinda embarrassing, “Piglet scratched me and there’s no Band-Aids.”
“Well you should be more careful with the cat,” SERIOUSLY! SHE’S DEFENDING THAT FLEA BAG?! “Hurry up, your father will be home, and dinner is almost ready.”
Just as she says that, keys turn in the lock, and the door opens.
“I’M HOME!” My dad calls, walking into the house.
“Hi honey,” My mum runs off to go greet him.
I take this as my cue, and finish sliding on my ass down the stairs. I jump up from the stairs, and hop over the downstairs bathroom. I rip some more tissues from the box, once in, and use them to wipe up the blood, again. I open the cabinet, and straight away see the Band-Aids.
“Finally,” I mumble, and I take them out, and apply one to the cut on my ankle.
“DINNER!” My dad calls.
“Ugh,” I don’t respond, I just walk into the dining room.
“What’s up with you?” My dad asks, setting the final plate on the table.
We are having steak, mash potatoes, peas, beans, and carrot. My least favourite dinner.
“Your stupid cat,” I mutter, sliding into my chair.
“The cat scratched him again,” My mum clarifies.
“No shit Sherlock,” I snap.
“KOBRA!” My dad yells, “Your mother told me how you have been behaving, and it will NOT, I repeat, will NOT, be tolerated. Understand?”
“Yes,” I hiss, “I’m not five.”
“Well you’re acting like it,” My dad growls.
I roll my eyes, and glare at my dinner. I pick up my fork, but instead of eating it, I just push the food around on my plate, mushing it together, slowly making an art work.
“Eat your dinner,” My mum tells me firmly, stopping me in my tracks.
“But I don’t like it,” I groan, flopping back in the chair.
“I don’t care,” She holds her voice firm, “You will eat what I made.”
“Ugh.”
“Oi, what did I just say?” Great, now my dad is getting involved, again.
“I don’t CARE!” I yell, sitting up now, “I DON’T GIVE A SHIT WHAT YOU THINK DAD! AND MUM, STOP TRYING TO CONTROL ME! IT’S MY LIFE, AND I’LL EAT WHAT EVER SHIT I DAMN WELL PLEASE!”
“GO TO YOUR ROOM NOW KOBRA WAY! NOW” My dad is fuming now. He is the ‘take no shit’ type of guy, so he defiantly won’t back down on this.
“FINE!” I yell, and tip my plate over, food spilling all over the floor, as I run up the stairs to my room.
“YOU ARE GROUNDED KOBRA GERARD WAY! GROUNDED!” And that’s the last thing my dad says before I slam the door shut.
Ooh this is interesting! Update soon please!
(And about the BFF video, I'm pretty sure it's Miles. I don't know anything for sure but it would make sense if it was.)
10/16/16