Oneshot Collection ((just garbage))

Factories ((Frerard))

I enjoyed hanging around abandonned buildings. My mother hated that about me. "It's dangerous!" she'd tell me. "You could get kidnapped! Murdered!" she'd say. I would tell her that it wasn't a big deal, that she was worrying too much.

One day, I was wandering through the woods behind my school and I stumbled upon a place where there was a tall building poking up through the mess of trees. It looked like an old factory of some sort. It was large and made with a dark kind of wood and some windows with what looked like steel panes were scattered around the building. I figured it was old enough. It was in a rather odd spot, too. I guessed could go inside.

I hesitantly walked up to the building, stepping onto the concrete steps leading up to the door. I gripped the handle firmly, turning it slowly and stepping inside. I closed the door behind myself and looked around the unusual place. I saw a rusted spiral staircase in the corner of the room and I decided it wouldn't be too bad to see what's up there.

I slowly walked up the stairs and looked around, seeing that the walls were littered with strange carvings and some extraordinary artwork drawn in Sharpie marker.

I made it to the top of the staircase, seeing an unusual amount of boxes scattered everywhere. All of a sudden, I saw a head of firetruck red hair pop up from one of the piles of boxes.

I jumped back in shock as the boy's dilated hazel eyes pierced into my soul. He cautiously stepped out from behind the boxes, still looking me in the eyes. "Who are you and what are you doing here?" He asked me sternly.

"I-I could say the same to you." I replied, nervously eying him up and down.

"My name's Gerard, now tell me yours." He told me in a sharp voice.

"Frank..." I answered as the boy approached me.

He stepped up to me, placing his hands firmly on my shoulders. He kept eye contact with me, still wearing an emotionless expression. His eyes beagan to move around, as though searching in my face for something. He stepped back slightly, taking his hands off of their place on my shoulders.

"So, Frank. What are your hobbies?" He asked me. We continued talking for a long time. Around two hours, maybe. As we talked, we both found more and more things we had in common. He told me about his little brother and I told him about my attempt at a music career. I saw him smile, laugh, and even blush a few times.

And that's the story of how I made a new friend in the same way my mother said would get me killed. And, if I say so myself, it was probably the best friend I've ever had.