That Tattoo Guy (MCR Fanfic)

The Decision. (Chapter 15)

The Decision. (Chapter 15)

 Age 29

The day that Lyn-z died, the day Ivy was pulled into the deep sleep, was the day that broke Gerard. He was still Gerard but he had lost his presence, it was like talking to a shell, it was as if he too was in a deep sleep and I didn’t know if I was ever going to get him back. In the months before the event our relationship remained as friends. I wanted to be more, so much but it takes time to trust, especially trust when you are in a dark place. Whilst I had been grieving Gerard had been grieving too, it was almost as if we were each other’s crutch; mine over the death of my wife and children, his over losing all he had and replacing it with his ‘next best thing’.

My tattoo guy, the one I had known to live with a small introverted smile on his face as he drew or whilst he softly sang, the one who lived for art and always had some form of paint or ink on his clothes… he had vanished. His business fell, his gallery gone and the paintings with it, his comic career was trying to keep him afloat but it wasn’t enough, not for Lyn-z anyway, so she left and he had no other option to become reckless. Pretty reckless if you ask me. It a father doing what he could for his daughter to be happy and I respected that. The drunken state I had found him in was now replaced by the shaking withering mess. My beautiful mess.

He was helpless whilst I was hopeless as we sat beside the bed his daughter resided in, I watched as he spoke to her telling her about when he was in high school and the things he used to draw and write about. My hand stroking his messy once raven coloured locks now turned a muddy brown from regrowth, it’s the first time I had seen his natural hair colour, it looks so unreal in the way that I can’t picture him with anything else.

In loving him, I’ve lost myself, over the years. It’s like I have no passion or drive anymore to just do, I haven’t picked up guitar since the night Gerard smashed the one in my apartment. My fingers itched for it, to feel the ribbon-y wire of the strings that cut and rub on my fingers and the pumping ache of the music beating through my chest when connected to an amp with the power charging through my ribs as I play like I’m a fighter in a ring.

The first band I ever joined was pretty useless at first, it was a deadbeat band with no songs written by ourselves just crappy knock offs. Ever heard the expression that you can always cover a turd in gold but it’s still a turd- that was our band. I had join it in hopes of following my dad’s footsteps; he had joined bands since he was young but he stopped when he had me- sex and rock and roll had turned into diapers and Jack Daniels. I had it in my blood.

I loved the feeling of being surrounded by my music, the simple soft strum of a guitar and the heavenly way it just caresses my ears and drowns me in nothing but the now. I don’t sing a lot, I have lyrics but I don’t sing unless I’m super pissed off. I get this ache in my chest and sometimes it renders me speechless, movement less but those times I get my strike, my big middle finger to the rest of the world and it bubbles out of me like fire and poison- a toxicity that no one can stop.

I once asked someone why I felt that way, some said it was because I lacked love whilst others just said I was crazy. Maybe I am? But who cares; I’m complete when I play and I feel this coldness in my veins turn everything within me ice cold. Like chucking a buck full of ice cold water, for a few seconds you feel numb to every core but after you gasp, you take a breath and adrenaline takes over. I had spent most my life living for those moments, I got in trouble for it more than once but nothing gave me a better high.

I played my first gig until my fingers were raw, my clothes were soaked with sweat and my lungs were about to give out. After that gig our band got better, or so I thought, for the guys it was a hobby but for me I wanted to make it. I would stand on that stage and image Gee just so my nerves would simmer down, I’d see him smile and scream with excitement for more. But when my adrenaline dissolved it would all be a dream. I thought I saw him a couple of times, he would get drunk and leave, and then he stopped. That was the night I got my tattoo.

But now, my 28 year old self knew that as much as Gerard needed to draw, I needed to perform. My future was inevitable, I knew what to do.