Regret Flows (Frerard)

I'm A Mess

Gerard stood at his full height of six foot, sleeves rolled up just above his elbows, and long army pants loosely hung off his hips. A cigarette burned between his middle and index fingers, occasionally being raised to his lips before being extended to rest by his hip. Ash slowly flitted down onto the paint splattered concrete floor of his garage studio, but went unnoticed as he stared intensely at the blank canvas before him. 

Again, Gerard lifted the cigarette to his lips, taking a long drag, never taking his eyes from the canvas. When he pulled the cigarette from his lips, he flipped the butt in his fingers so it rested between his index and thumb before pressing the fiery ash onto his forearm. Eyes still locked on the canvas, Gerard held the scorching butt until it extinguished against his skin. Unfazed, he flicked the the butt to his feet, before turning on his heel, heading to the cabinets along the wall. 

The artist grabbed tubes and bottles of paint, squeezing them neatly onto a pallet before replacing them into their proper places on the shelves. Next to the sink, an assortment of paintbrushes laid methodically spaced out to dry, which were grabbed in one swift fistful, and placed into a coffee mug. With his supplies in his arms, Gerard made his way back across the cold concrete floor to the canvas and sat before it on his wooden stool. Tilting his neck to either side, releasing a crack from the vertebrae, he released a calm breath from his lips, before grabbing his first brush. 

Gerard spent hours in his garage studio, sometimes days. He considered himself lucky to have the space to create art, and even more so that he could make money doing it. He dragged a long, thick brushstroke across the canvas in a slow and controlled band, arching his eyebrow while tracking his brush like a hawk does a mouse. The twenty seven year old had spent years creating the perfect studio space; a place for everything and everything in its place. After growing up with his younger brother always invading his personal space and a father who couldn't respect boundaries if it was Gerard's dying wish, he kept his studio space free of any visitors. In fact, the only other person to ever step into the garage since Gerard's purchase of the house three years ago, was a plumber when the sink had stopped working. Even then, Gerard had removed all art supplies so that they weren't subject to exposure to wandering eyes. 

Gerard had spent his teen years a victim of ridicule by his peers, something he managed to stop revisiting daily only in recent years. He had attended a Catholic private school, which he hated, but his parents insisted he spent as much time in church as possible once they started noticing his 'artistic' side. Paint finely misted across his right cheek and brow bone as he dusted the canvas with a thin layer of cobalt, focusing intensely on the application. All the other kids in his school had grown up together, but he was thrown in as the odd man out as an awkward Sophomore. He spent every day of the following three years being mocked, teased, and assaulted-both verbally and physically. The only place he felt he could catch his breath was in Miss Wilson's class room; she taught drawing, ceramics, and advanced placement art. She saw Gerard for the artist he was, and helped him channel his evident emotional distress through art. Ever since, his paintings have been his therapy, and his studio has been his church. 

The artist continued creating precise lines and shapes across the canvas, now completely covered by an array of bright color. He used the side of his index finger to itch is eyebrow, adding more color to the already blue tinted skin. In high school, he picked up the habit of self harm, even though he was certainly getting his fair share of blood and bruises from the preppy jocks. It was different when he did it though, it felt more like a controlled release; he was in charge. He made his way from cutting himself to anorexia, which carried him until he graduated. Post high school, Gerard began drinking, which spiraled into full blown alcoholism after his mother died suddenly, until he was twenty five. Now,  two years sober, the artist had mountains of canvases stored carefully in the corner that were created in various stages of his life, encapsulating the harrowing sorrow, the dread, and the pain he had felt. 

This piece, though, had no dread, sorrow, or pain. It did however, have curiosity and bubbling excitement; something rare for the artist. He looked at the canvas for a brief moment of stillness before grabbing a fresh brush, diving it into his pallet. He knew he was too old to be self harming, but after giving up drinking he needed something to associate with a physical release. Cutting was too childish he felt, so he began burning himself with cigarettes as he finished them.  In the beginning of his sobriety, he was in a constant state of chain smoking; the second one was extinguished against his alabaster flesh, another was lit. More recently, though, he had cut down to about six cigarettes a day, and only used his body as an ashtray for one or two, depending on the mood. 

Thankfully, one of the perks of having practically translucent skin is that scars don't form easily. He certainly had some ridges still along his thighs where he had been particularly violent with a blade, and a couple round burn marks lingered along his forearm, but for the most part his skin was as blank as a treasured canvas. Only three and a half hours had passed since his first brushstroke, and already he was standing back from the canvas. He set his messed pallet on his stool and stared softly at the work in front of him, unable to keep a smile from pulling gently at the corners of his mouth. Satisfied with his work, he approached it once more, grabbing a small brush already resting in a deep chestnut brown. He signed his three letter initials, 'G.A.W.', in a perfected cursive swoosh neatly in the bottom right corner, before taking his supplies to the sink. 

He began with the pallet, running it under lukewarm water, massaging the hard plastic with his hands, watching the colors mix into a muddy concoction as it circled the drain. Once the pallet had no residual paint left, he made his way onto the brushes, slowly giving each individual collection of fine bristles a gentle massage of their own. In high school, Gerard was made attend psychotherapy sessions by his parents in hopes he could reverse his 'artistic tendencies'. Gerard chucked as the memory of those waisted hours trickled into his mind. The therapist, who was ironically the gayest man Gerard had met at the time, would spend relentless hours asking him how he felt, and if there was anything wrong, despite never getting the answers he wanted. At the end of six months, Gerard's parents stopped making him to go, as the most significant finding the therapist reported back to them was, "I suspect he may have obsessive compulsive disorder,". 

After each paintbrush had been gently cleaned and spaced strategically on a rag next to the sink to dry, the artist made his way back to the canvas. He stood back about six feet from the new work, allowing a large smile to crack across his face. He appreciated how good it felt to experience happiness in his studio. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a box of cigarettes and placed one into the corner of his still smiling lips. He lit the cigarette as he stepped outside into his garden, relishing the joy he felt. The sky was a cool crisp blue-grey that contrasted greatly against the red leaves of the tree above him. Puffing away, Gerard felt good for the first time in a long time, which he attributed to the cute boy he had met the day before. He couldn't stop thinking about his gentle hazel eyes and how they were complemented so perfectly by his mousey brown hair. He had spent last night listing attributes of Frank's as he lay on the floor of his living room, like a thirteen year old experiencing their first crush. 

Admittedly, Gerard was anxious that Frank wouldn't reach back out to him, but he was trying to work on his OCD, and that meant that he couldn't be in control of every situation. Plus, the anxiety ridden wait just made it that much more exciting when he finally did call. Gerard took the last long drag of his cigarette, habitually spinning it in his fingers into a pencil position, but instead of pressing it into his skin, the artist paused momentarily. Looking intently at the orange embers, he spun it again and flicked it into the dewy grass before rubbing it out with his heal. He smiled again appreciating his growth before making his way across the grass and up the steps, into his home.