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November 18, 2012
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Gerard and Frank were on their lunch break; they stopped at a Starbucks for coffee.  Gerard brought the cups to his lips, inhaling the steam, then slowly sipped the hot liquid.  Frank mimicked.  The two drank in silence and in pure content.  They loved coffee, after all.  
The first half of their work had been boring-a good sign.  Perhaps nothing would happen today.  And nothing did.  Gerard returned home, a smile on his face.  The rest of his day was spent at the park with his family.  Bandit was overjoyed to have her dad home early, and Gerard’s younger brother, Mikey, also showed up.  They ate sandwiches Lyn-Z had made.  Bandit fell asleep on the way home, so Gerard carried her against his chest.  It felt nice not to be at work all day and to go out with his family.  He hoped every day could be like this one.  
Billie shivered on the floor.  He stared blankly at the wall with the words “hate everyone” written in cold blood, his blood.  He stayed there, not moving the whole day.  The blood on his pale skin had dried and turned a rusty brown.  His hair fell in his eyes, caressing his skin.  His left arm was numb and pulsing.  He breathed through his mouth, exhausted, but pale instead of red.  
Billie was scared.  Scared of people.  Scared of losing control.  Scared of being trapped.  Scared of the world.  Fuck, he was insane.  His mind just acted on its own, leaving him in the dark, and he couldn’t stop it.  Insanity fucking loved to toy with him; he was a marionette on an unbreakable string, wandering through life as it were a stage for the purpose of his audience’s amusement.  And everyone fucking loved him; his show was never stopped.  He had nowhere to go but death, all other doors were sealed shut.  But the corridor was too long; he walked, he ran, but the door to death just got further away each time he went for it.  Fuck, he was performing in a cage.  Billie received no sleep that night.
Gerard was tired when he got home.  A good tired, though.  The type of tired were you feel accomplished and fulfilled, like had given something his all and came out victorious.  It felt good-it was something he hadn’t felt in a while, with his work hours and all.  He put Bandit to bed, whispering good night.  The he himself went to bed.
Gerard woke early the next morning to go to work.  The sun was just rising, and the sky was painted tints of orange, pink, and red with the majority still navy blue.  At work, Gerard received a phone call.  
“Hello?” He answered his cell phone.  
“Geraaaard, my toaster broooooke!”
“Well good for you,” Gerard replied, not seeming to care very much.
“He dieeeeed!” Mikey sobbed.
“When’s the funeral,” Gerard joked.
Mikey, rather annoyed, told him to stop being an ass to his deceased toaster.
“My bass…bumped into him,” Now the toaster was a he…
“What was your bass doing in the kitchen?”
“We were playing hula-hoop,” Mikey choked.
Gerard laughed at his brother.  
“Geeeeee!  It’s not funny!”
“I know, those damn funeral expenses sure aren’t funny!  But it’s okay, Moikey; I’m sure Mom will help you with the bills.”
“Fuck you.  And here I thought I could depend on my brother.  Shows how much you care, really: fuck you.” Mikey hung up.
Frank and Gerard laughed.  They took their shifts guarding the prisoners in the jail.  The caged criminals for the most part stayed silent.  They mumbled and complained, however, but kept pretty quiet.  Except one; he talked to Gerard.  
“Hey,” He said, getting Gerard’s attention.
His name was Tre.  He was a burglar and a drug addict.  Gerard lazily turned his head.  
“Yeah?” He answered.
“You’re gonna die.”
That was very…straight forward.  Gerard wasn’t really sure how to answer.  He settled with,
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I dunno…I just feel it, yeah?”
Gerard looked at him, discust all over his face.
“Are you some kind of fucking fortune teller?
“No, I’m a fucking turkey,” Tre squealed.
“Are you high?  Why do you even care if I die?”
“I don’t.”
“Ok, so why the fuck are you even telling me?”
“I…don’t really know…”
Fuck, now Gerard was scared.  He probably shouldn’t listen to that guy: he was most likely high or drunk or something, but what he said really bugged him.  He fucking told him he was gonna fucking die, who wouldn’t be at least a little bit paranoid?
“How?” He asked after a while.
“I don’t know…”
“When,” Gerard squeaked.
“soon, I guess…I mean, yeah, soon.”
Gerard screeched,
“What the fuck?  All you know is I’m gonna fucking die? No fucking details?  Fuck!  Fuck you!”
“Well, sorry.  Stuff doesn’t always work the way you want it to, fucktard.  Just look at me.  Look where I am,” Tre said, rather pissed off.
Gerard was silent.  He looked down at his feet, felling a mix of guilt, regret, and sympathy for himself.  He couldn’t fucking believe this.  Some delusional asshole tells him he’s gonna die?  What the fuck?  Did he think he was fucking God, deciding he was gonna die like that?  He was less scared now, he was fucking pissed-at Tre and at everything.

Chapter 3 END
And here is chapter three. "Written in cold blood, his blood" That was an MSI reference. And Billie's got that problem Johnny's got...where all his suicide attempts fail. I'm refering to the comic JTHM. I'm playing with your brain meats by giving you two opposite emotions at a time. I think it affected me too, cuz my head started to hurt a tad as I typed this. Aaaaahhh...the bipolar-ness. And some comic relief through Mikey. Tre's criminal profesion: because he said he would be a burglar and burgle people.

Chapter 1: [link]
Chapter 2: [link]
Chapter 3: Here
Chapter 4: [link]
Chapter 5: [link]
Chapter 6: [link]
:iconxxj-laynxx:
XxJ-laynxX Featured By Owner Nov 18, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Hehe...
:iconmikeywayplz::icontoasterplz:
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:iconwriter-in-agony:
writer-in-agony Featured By Owner Nov 18, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
LOL @ Mikey
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