The Ocean's Enigma ♡ Frerard

I; Angel from the Sea

Hello and welcome to my new book! I've been itching some write about some pure Frank content, so here we have it- can't exactly reveal the whole plot of it without spoiling anything, so I'll be happy to slowly reveal the truth to you piece by piece and hope you enjoy this concept as much as I do.
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The thick, graying clouds remaining from the wild storm overtaking the small town near the shore rolled over the sky to reveal the blue hidden underneath the dark abundance of rain clouds hovering heavily over the land. The storm had been extreme, sweeping dangerously strong winds over the ocean and the rippling waves crashed against the shore in high tides, causing the residents of the tourist attraction to bite their lip out of fear that a flood would rush in along with the pouring rains adding more gusto to the unhappy waves. As a result of the violent storm, all the little shops and diners closest to the ocean shut down for the day, the people hiding inside their homes and hoping the concerning weather would fade after its wrath on the earth was finished. On that day, the sky seemed to be a never ending blanket of gray and black, devouring the sun and leaving minimal light to the world beneath it, and the night seemed to come so much quicker than the usual.

The winds had kicked over plenty of things throughout the lands, rain soaking precious items that now curled in and became nothing short of soggy as humidity lingered heavily in the air, but the violence of mother nature swept away when the morning came. The clouds made their way to the further end of the sky to attack another county, leaving the people of the town to return to normal in quiet relief. The seagulls squawked as they glided over the ocean and the fine sands of the beach. The normal sounds of routine drifted through the air, carrying over to the residential homes living closest to the glistening waters of the ocean.

Gerard Way's nails were bitten down as low as possible due to his anxiousness during the entire storm. The whistling winds smacking against his tightly shut windows and the aggressive waves splashing over the delicates mounds of sand being picked up and whirled away were bound to bring him a heavy douse of stress, hoping his roof wouldn't rip right off and he'd be carried away just like the fine grains of sand ricocheting off the side of his house whenever the wind pushed particularly hard. He couldn't stop peeking out the window the entire time, his lights flickering on and off until the power gave out completely. In place of the light, he'd scattered scented candles all around the house to keep the dark from swallowing the place whole. He had a slight fear of the dark--not so deeply that he needed to sleep with some source of light in the room, but he hated the feeling of knowing there was darkness behind him, beside him, slowly creeping over the floors and sliding up his back.

He spent the night painting. The internet and the signal for the television had went out, all of his books having been read millions of times over, so he killed the time by painting. Gerard didn't remember passing out from exhaustion during the process, but he awoke the neck morning dumped across his couch, paintbrush in hand, splatters of soft blue paint all over his bare chest. He looked across from him at the unfinished portrait on the easel stained with smudges of paint, the image of the thunderous storm sweeping over the area. He had a tendency to take inspiration from the morbid and the ugly, leaving him to long for the ability to paint at least one beautiful image without it being tainted with some sort of tragedy through red acrylic paint. At least they sold, making money alongside the times he worked his part-time job as a waiter at one of the cafes along the boardwalk.

It wasn't exactly the life Gerard had dreamed of, but he had a house, he had materials for art, he lived by the ocean, and that alone seemed  to be enough to keep him satisfied until his paintings skyrocketed. Any form of his art, as a matter of fact, as he had hopes for plenty of the forms of art he pursued. Poetry, comic books, screenwriting. He chased many far-fetched dreams so he wouldn't be disappointed if one of them was proven to be impossible for him. He could have been cut out for anything he wanted, but something about dragging a paintbrush along the surface of a plain canvas felt like art in its most raw form. Gerard was going through a rough patch with his poetry, causing him to wonder if he should give up on the art of pen and paper, but he knew it was impossible for every artist to be struck with creativity at every second. He was only stuck in a rut that would smooth over with time.