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Self Portrait	By : NHB Category: My Chemical Romance > General Views: 782 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of My Chemical Romance. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Self Portrait
- 1
Title: Self-Portrait

Author: Normal Human Being

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: The idea of me owning My Chemical Romanbce is as probablt as it is legal. This fic, what with ‘fic’ being short for ‘fiction’ and all, is not based on fact or any actual people or events. It just happens to feature characters named after celebrities.

AN: The Obligatory Gerard-is-a-fuck-up Fic. Everyone has to write one and I, quite fittingly, wrote this while drunk. That’s the only excuse I can offer.

It’s a crime for attention.

Or at least, it’s a bid for attention. Although most of what you do is illegal, you wouldn’t go so far as to call it criminal – it’s not like you’ve beaten a guy to death for his wallet or molested a child or anything, you just struggle to apply the breaks sometimes. All the time, actually. It would bother you, but what you don’t remember you can’t regret and what you do remember you really enjoyed, so it’s not like it’s a problem.

Not for you, anyway. Your parents might think differently. There’s this silence you’ve started to notice, this special silence that occurs every time they introduce you to someone. It comes right after “This is Gerard,” and replaces “we’re very disappointed in him.” Whichever parent you’re with at the time smiles fixedly throughout the silence, pushes you forward slightly to distract from the fact that their show of paternal pride has been getting less and less convincing of late. You’re a good at being distracting, what with the stench of booze and the saucered eyes and the black-on-black-on-white-as-death ensemble. Then there’ll be another silence while the stranger assesses you – gawps at you, actually – before stammering something along the lines of, “So what do you do?”

“I draw,” you tell them. Maybe add, “I’m thinking of going to art school.”

“Ohhh,” they croon, a wave of realisation washing over them and leaving them warm and relieved. Art student. Obviously. It all makes sense to them now.

If they look too pleased, or if they make some fucktard remark about having to get something by you before it’s worth anything, you show them your drawings. Now, while your parents’ friends are probably wonderful human beings who will live out happy and fulfilled lives (much like ranch cattle or battery chickens), they don’t have particularly strong stomachs. So when you start taking out sheet after sheet of exploding heads and reanimated corpses, either garish streaks of colour or exquisitely detailed gore, most of them stop smiling. Some look sick. All go silent. Again, it’s the kind of silence you like.

One or two of them have tried to shrug it off. “Self portrait, is it?” they said, laughing even as they gripped their coffee mug (or beer can, or meds bottle) until their knuckles were white.

“Yeah,” you’d say, fixing them with that mental patient stare you’d perfected in front of the mirror. “Took me hours.”

And then the silence would settle like fresh snow in an open grave.

There were the looks, too. Not the oh my gosh, whisper behind your hands glances you got in corridors at school or the tight-lipped almost-retching gasps of the people you took to the basement, but the looks from the people who know you and who know you’ve failed.

An example. Remember last night, when you stopped asking and just vacuumed up whatever your ‘friends’ laid out in front of you? Remember how when you’d staggered home at some awful pre-dawn hour and the key and the lock hadn’t wanted to make friends? Well, there was this moment between Mikey opening the door to find you in a puddle of your own festering sick and Mikey picking you up out of it. It was quite profound, really: you gazed up at him, trying your hardest to keep him in focus; he stepped out of the doorway, trailing dim light and warm air after him like some kind of missionary nun from the Blue Book brigade, and he gave you his that-shit’ll-kill-you look. It was supposed to be a glare, supposed to damn and admonish you, but you just like that he has a look for you. Feels nice. Feels special.

You also like it that he’ll give you that you’re-ruining-your-life glare then create iron-clad alibis, wait by the door and carry you (because by this point you’re a. staggering, b. crawling or c. turning blue) down to the basement and lay you out on your bed. In a way, that makes the look even better because it gives it layers. He’s too nice to really disapprove, and you secretly suspect he thinks you’re cool but is too scared to join in. You might take him with you one night. But then again, it’s nice to know you’ve got a guardian angel sitting at home, one you can cling to and cry on and beat into submission but which can never fly away.

The only look better than that is the one he gives you after helping to smuggle people out of the basement. Especially the boys. You’ve tried time and time again to explain that beyond a certain point (the distance to which can be measured in shots, lines, pills or a combination of all three), sex becomes a matter of convenience rather than preference, that you latch onto the nearest living thing and hope that if you hold on tight enough everything will come into focus. It never does, but that’s okay. Means you get to try again with someone new tomorrow. It’s another complicated look, because you can never decide whether he wants to punch you, rat you out or, perhaps, take one of your pretty little basement creatures by the hand and lead them up to his room. You always smile as you think that, as you try (unsuccessfully) to picture Mikey having the nerve to fuck someone – something, even. Smile til he glares at you over his glasses and growls that “it’s not fucking funny.”

You’re considering making Mikey your next project. Not teaching him the art of getting plastered, obviously – he’s far too good at playing Florence Nightingale for that – but you know the poor kid’s got a basement creature of some kind inside him. He just needs a mentor. Besides, it’ll be nice to have someone to mould in your own image, rather than playing catch up to the burnouts you meet in bars, all of whom seem to be light years ahead of you in the fuck-up stakes.

It’ll be fun. You can watch him turn all those looks on himself, listen to him earning his own awkward silences. It’ll be easy. Just like a self portrait.
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Self Portrait