Of All The Broken People

History Repeats, They Say

I STEPPED OUT into the vision-blurring July light with only two things on my mind: Bert McCracken and the mysterious moving van parked across the street.

I was wishing there was a way to slip into Belleville High undetected by Bert and his posse, but I knew that wasn't an option. I could always skip classes, or arrive to school late, but both of those solutions only delayed the inevitable. It's best just to meet them head-on, I thought to myself. At least then I know what to expect.

The second thought on my mind was less pressing, more so senseless background noise drifting through my more high priority thoughts. Across the street, poorly parked in the craggly driveway, was a dirt streaked U-Haul truck, fully decorated in colorful representations of sights across the U.S.

I'd lived on this lonely street for two years, and only one family had ever occupied that house. I was seven then, the same age as their little girl, Lindsey. I could vaguely remember having her over for lunch sometimes, and riding bikes together up and down the block. The family, the Ballatos, only stayed in the house for six months before unknown family complications caused them to leave. Lindsey never did tell me what caused her parents to uproot their fresh, new life and flee Jersey.

I let my gaze linger on the U-Haul and the rust-spotted blue van parked parallel to it before continuing down the sidewalk. I had more to fret about than who I was going to be sharing this street with, but still my curiosity was a little peaked. The 213 house was big enough to accommodate a family of four, but I supposed a single parent or a lone individual could have made the purchase despite this. Part of me hoped there would be children, even though I knew I wouldn't bring myself to associate with them, no matter their age.

I tightened the strap on my bookbag as I crossed the road and turned right into the next neighborhood. I was pretty big on showing up fashionably late to school, in fact I prided myself on my tardy reputation, but today it so happened I was running rather early. Maybe I'll be able to slip past McCracken, I thought hopefully. He may not be expecting the infamously late Gerard Way to make an early arrival.

The thought of ditching out on a wailing from Bert inspired my legs to pick up the pace.

It was the middle of July, the sun was shining with a vengeance, and it was so hot I could see heat waves roiling off the asphault - but that didn't stop me from cladding myself in the usual all black ensemble. My fashion sense was tragically morbid, and I didn't suppose the sleepless bags beneath my eyes did much to lighten the "I am the living dead" look. I kinda prided myself in this fact, too.

I swung my bag out in front of me, stuffing my hand into the front pocket and probing about for my mp3 player. My fingers found the square of metal and plastic, and I yanked it out and plugged in my earbuds. Maybe it wasn't the same for everybody, but to me music was a lifeline. It was the net that caught me when the jagged claws of depression drug me downwards, and the blanket of comfort that reminded me that I wasn't entirely alone.

I selected a more calming number by Papa Roach. And by calming, I meant instrumentally hardcore and lyrically deep. I found myself humming along as I walked, spirits a bit more lifted then usual. Music was better than any kind of therapy or medicine or drug anyone could ever offer me. Especially this music.

By the time I reached Belleville High, the music had long since stripped my mind of its anxities. I felt loose; almost feathery. If not for the gang of brutes lurking by the school entrance, my day might actually have gone well. Maybe I would have turned in my homework in history, or smiled at the rude popular chic who sat behind me in science, or just maybe I would have given an ounce of effort on my math test. But Bert McCracken had other plans, and those plans involved dragging me behind the school building and using me as a punching bag.

I didn't see them at first, so when I felt the rough set of hands clamp down on my shoulders, I actually startled. The owner of the hands steered me off the paved path to the school entrance, through the overgrown front lawn and all the way to the empty back parking lot.

A sharp blow to the lower back sent me sprawling across the hot pavement. I lurched upright reflexively, but something heavy, I presumed someone's foot, held me down. It was all I could do to hold my head up off the asphault to avoid burning my cheeks.

"Hey, Way, old friend," Bert greeted, charming voice laced with poison.

"McCracken," I muttered, blowing a long chunk of black hair away from my face. My mp3 had fallen out of my pocket during my fall, and now lay just a few feet out of reach. I believe I was more worried about the safety of my precious music player than I was about the safety of my own body.

"You didn't even spare me a passing glance this morning, gay-boy," Bert  pouted, crouching down in front of me. Cold, watery blue eyes stared down at me without pity. I would recieve no special treatment from him for my mental health or shitty home situation, and I could appreciate that much, as I hated being treated like a charity case.

"Honestly, Gerard, my feelings are hurt." He touched a hand to his chest as if he were offended. I roll my shoulders, blinking away the thin sheen of sweat that has begun dripping down my face at the effort to hold my head off the ground. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, faggot!"

I forced myself to meet his eyes with great difficulty, forest green clashing against icy blue as our fridgid glares collided like two freight trains crashing into one another. The heat roiling off the concrete beneath me was growing unbearable, and the sweat in my eyes burned, but I made myself look.

Deep breaths, Gerard. Take it bravely; don't show fear. But I was afraid. I was afraid of what Bert McCracken  could do to me and I was afraid at how powerless I was to stop him.

In that moment I felt as weak as the day Mom's boyfriend, Brock, hit Mikey for the first time, and how I became so frozen with terror that I didn't step in to help him. His little cheek had swelled and bruised something nasty. I'd been the one to tend to his face, getting him ice and medicine and making him soup - while mom hadn't lifted a finger. She turned a blind eye to Mikey's pain, just like she'd done all the times before when Brock had hit me.

Now, I was in Mikey's place. Bert was mom's boyfriend, and the Belleville student body was my mother, turning the other cheek to my suffering. I was alone against a force I could not stand up to, and this time there would be no "older brother" to tend to my injuries.

~~~~~~~~~~~
AUTHOR'S NOTE

This is a fanfiction, and I'm aware that a lot of the locations and some of the technology might not line up with the time or Gerard's actual history. It's just a story for people's enjoyment and isn't meant to be totally accurate.

Hope you all enjoy it anyways.