falling in love will kill you ♤ frerard

chapter//eight

// Frank's POV - Five days later 》

art helps me breathe, art is a new breath for those who have hatred and pain filling their lungs. art is a form of unspoken feelings spilled out onto a canvas, art helps people live in their darkest times. art is another world, another place for people to be free. but art, is nothing more than the emotions you put into your piece. -me //

I looked at the paintings and drawings filling the base of the walls, my newer paintings. I needed to release the emotion that was built up inside me and art was the best way for me to do that. Pete was worried, I don't know why. He had barely acknowledged me the past two fucking years. But I didn't care how worried he was. I am who I am and he won't change that.

I glanced at the clock hanging to the left of me, I hadn't done much other than paint and draw since the last time I saw Gerard, but I got a lot of good pieces out of it, which was a plus. The clock read 11:01 P.M. I sighed to myself and rinsed my paintbrush.

"Oh my god!" I heard Pete exclaim from behind me. "Is Frank Iero actually going to do something?" I glared at him and flipped him off, which only caused him to laugh.

"Ha. Fucking. Ha," I mocked. I stood and trudged into my bedroom to get clothes, then take a quick shower - which I did, of course. My clothes consisted of a hoodie and jeans, then shoes. I was sick and tired of being trapped in my little apartment with my roommate. I told Pete I was going out and I'd be back within twenty four hours. He reluctantly said okay, so then I eagerly left.

I hopped in my car when I reached it, and drove until I stumbled across the familiar, dark, and currently moonlit place. It had been a while since I was here, because I had no one to visit and I had no reason to come for a long while. It was peaceful here, it was a place that helped my clear my mind.

The trees here had no leaves, even though it was summer. They probably were dead, just like everything else other than me in this place. Not that I minded, I actually like that thought. It wasn't unsettling or anything, it was a thing to remember: You have no control here.

I know I said it before, but its just so peaceful. Cemeteries are just so peaceful. I walked through the rows upon rows of headstones with coffins filled with corpses beneath me. I always took a couple seconds to take a look at the older, and newer headstones. The ones that looked. . . middle aged, I never took a second to look at. And it always hurt to see a child had died. Anyone under eighteen shouldn't have died, especially babies.

I paced through the rows until I came upon a living being. Or one of the undead, but for now let's go with living, and if I die, it was my own fault. I slowly approached this figure, only to notice it was kneeling in front of a grave with a hat beside it. "Hello?" I asked quietly, as if I didn't want to wake the dead. The figure nearly fell over and it let out a squeak of fear.

"W-who goes t-there?" The person, who's voice I now recognized as Patrick's, called out. I instinctively let out a sigh of relief.

"No one of your concern," I responded as I sat next to him with my legs crossed. And just to make it seem like I wasn't being stalkerish. . . "And who are you?"