Worth Living For

Chapter 4

~Gerard’s P.O.V.~

The phone rang, which jolted me out of my thoughts and made the paintbrush in my hand cause a long black line across the canvas.

“Fuck, Delilah, who the hell is calling you at seven in the morning?” I cursed loudly.

“It’s this interviewer guy that won’t leave me alone about wanting to meet you!” she shouted back.

“Well tell him to fuck off. I don’t do interviews, you know that.”

“I know, I know. I’ll tell him to leave you alone!” she replied. The ringing stopped when she picked up the phone, and I listened as she answered with a ‘what the hell do you want?’

I laughed at how she talked to people she disliked. I taught her well.

Delilah had been my roommate during college, and when we graduated, she needed a job. So, we moved into a small house on the outskirts of New York together, and I gave her the job of being my manager. There wasn’t much to take care of, though. I never did anything with my art; never put it on display or up for sale. I don’t even know how the hell all these interviewers and exhibits learned my name, or that I was a painter.

Delilah took care of all the phone calls from interviewers and art companies, so I didn’t need to have a cell phone. I didn’t have anyone to call, anyway. I was an only child, and my parents had died years ago, so I didn’t have any family that I kept in touch with. I got everything that they had when they passed; I sold the house and cars, took all their belongings and put them in a storage unit near where they used to live, and put all the money (the interheritance and the money I got from selling the house and cars) in a bank account. I used the credit card for whatever I needed to buy to survive; food and art supplies. I wrote Delilah checks each month for doing her job. And I carried no more than a twenty dollar bill in my wallet, for emergencies.

Delilah was there to tell all the assholes that called every day to fuck off, and also to keep my art safe from the public eye. She made sure that no one came in the house and saw it, made sure that there was nothing said about me or my art online, and that there were no pictures anywhere. That’s what I paid her for.

I walked over to the other side of the room and picked up the brush that I had thrown moments ago and washed it off. I tried not to freak out when I looked back at my canvas, and at the large black fucking hole that was on it now. I took a deep breath and started to fix it up with the colors that had originally been there, before I felt that someone else was watching me and turned to see Delilah in the doorway, phone in hand. She cupped her hand over the bottom of the phone so whoever was on the other line couldn’t hear what she was about to say.

“This person really wants an interview from you.” she pursed her lips. “I don’t think he’s some jackass that wants to steal your art or waste your time. I think he really just wants to meet you.”

I made a face, and waited for her to continue, only because I didn’t have a response at the moment, and because that wasn’t much of an argument.

“He talks like an artist.”

Something in me jumped at what she said, and my hand reached out to her before I even knew what I was doing. Apparently, my mouth thought faster than my head did, too, because words flew out of my mouth that I didn’t know I was about to say.

“Let me talk to him.”

Delilah’s eyes lit up a little bit, and she put the phone into my hand. I pulled it up to my ear.

“This is Gerard Way.” I said coldly into the receiver.

“Um, hello, this is Frank Iero. I work at the, uh, Art Management Agency of New York City...and I was wondering if you had some time to spare for me to interview you?” he asked nervously.