What is Fear 1 - Ferard

What is Fear? - Ferard
Chapter 1

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I always walk on the other side of the street. I do this because I know they will know I watch them if I was any closer. ‘They’ are being the high school’s upperclassmen. To them, “I think therefore I am” always translates into, “I need to punch something.” Us that are considered the ‘something’ often don’t come around to this corner of the school, but I have to in order to go home.

My house is on the West side of the large clock tower that sits in the middle of the City Park. That clock tower is the only structure that can be seen from almost any building in our small town, and is how people direct others to their homes, and gangs establish territories. This school is on the Northeast side, so it’s a ways walk for me because my dad refuses to take the twenty minutes out of his day to come pick me up.

This fine, albeit gray, day has turned out to be pretty good. I passed all my classes, and so far no one has noticed me walking past. Starting to hum to myself, I see something out of the corner of my eye. A group of jocks in letterman jackets come straight towards the fence, and I get ready to bolt, not like my short legs will get me anywhere.

Then they stop by a tall oak tree with an enormous girth. I sigh and try to keep walking, but for some reason can’t move. It’s like nails have fixed me to the ground where I stand, holding me down to watch a silent movie unfold before my eyes. One boy hits something at the base of the tree. “It’s someone else…” I think, realizing with horror that for one, I am relieved that it isn’t me, and two that I can’t look away. A different boy this time wrestles something from the person on the ground, a book of sorts, tears a page out of it.

With a mocking look on his face, he stands up proper and seems to be critiquing what is on the page before tearing it in two and tossing it away to the wind. They start to gang up on the tormented person, and from what I could see, they got in some good hits. I could see the person covering their head and attempting to stop them, but to no avail. I saw their head get hit pretty hard, knocking them over before the boys disappear to the other side of the schoolyard.

There is no movement from either of us.

This person slowly and painfully stands up and I soon realize it’s another boy. Even worse, I recognize him to be another senior. Fearful that he might take out his anger on me for what those boys did I try and turn to run, but it proves impossible. My mind is completely fixated on this towering figure only so far from me. I am still frozen in my own world, watching from afar, as he picks up the two pieces of what was once a whole.

Suddenly one piece escapes his hand and the wind carries it over to me along with the faint sound of him gasping. By faith, or maybe my wishing it, the paper comes right at me. On reflex, I raise my hand and catch it, pulling it out of the air and holding it close as the wind dies down. Though I don’t know it, I’m a lot more like that paper than I could ever comprehend.

I glance at it for a minute. It’s a side portrait of a girl with short black hair, dressed in white. Her eyes are closed as she faces, I’m guessing, what ever was on the other side of the torn artwork. Then I wake up and realize that it doesn’t belong to me and look towards the boy. He’s looking back at me, his eyes clear and sharp, sizing me up and waiting for me to move.

If I move, I know I won’t be able to stop and will end up within arms length of him. But if I don’t, and I just keep walking, taking away a piece of his work with me, is that no different from those boys who attacked him? So I need to make a decision. And only a single step in one direction will decide it.

I step off the curb towards the street, towards him, and I feel my insides collapse. I suddenly remember the Good Samaritan law, that if you see a car accident or someone in distress, you by law have to stop and help. I’m helping to make his day just the slightest bit better by letting him know that not all people are horrible.

Oh, how that will turn around later in my telling of this story.

He takes tentative steps forward, as if unsure of me. I’ve not done anything as of yet to give him any reason to be wary of me, and yet he seems hesitant. With sharp eyes locked on mine, I see that his eyes are green like mine, only… A wave of warmth washes over me, and most likely over my cheeks as well, as I look into his hazel, multicolored eyes. I’m unsteady as I hold out the paper towards him, ready to run at a moments notice, and yet my feet still feel like blocks of lead. I feel estranged, as his eyes never leave mine, even as his hand slips the paper out of my hand.

Then his face splits into a smile, soft and warm, and his look softens, like he sees something in my eyes I don’t. It dawns on me that I didn’t even say a simple “here” or “are you hurt?” and I quickly think. I rephrase the last sentence, because of course he’s hurt, so I end up saying, “Are you alright? I saw you…” but I never complete my statement.

He saves me with a small laugh, and with the most beautiful voice in the world, he says, “Yes, I’m not okay.” I give him the most dumbfounded look in the world. Isn’t it customary to tell someone that you are okay if you can at least walk? His eyes miss nothing as he laughs again, a little louder this time. “It’s a joke, I’m fine. Besides,” he looks down at… something, “I’m used to them destroying my work… and me.”

I feel like someone stabbed my heart and twirled the knife. Now I realize that he’s watching my eyes as a way to understand what I want to tell him, but am to afraid to say. And thank god, because I’m not good at thinking on my feet. A sad smile forms as he holds up his book, a sketchbook to be precise, and shows me empty pages. “It’s a fake book. I would never keep what I hold dear out where other can vandalize it or destroy it.” His hand pressed against his abs, and I realized there was something there that didn’t show through his tight shirt. “I keep my real book here, and none of them know about it. It’d be like ripping out my own heart if something I loved was taken from me…”

My own heart wept for him. I numbly felt my hand rise up, but then I stopped. I pulled it back against my chest and spoke to him with the slightest bit of fear. “Why would you tell me that? What makes me better?” Though that sounded a bit odd, that’s what was going through my mind at the time.

But he did something just as odd. He took a strong step back, back to the spot he had stood up from, as if he knew I was about to run like a wounded animal. Because isn’t that what I am? “I’m sorry,” he said with the utmost gentleness, “You have an attraction that made me want to talk to you.”

“Frank,” I said boldly, “My name is Frank Iero.” I don’t know what I really meant by telling him that, but I can guess that I wanted him to know who I was, to understand me.

As if telling him my name would tell him who I was.

He seemed to understand, I think, I hope, I pray. A soft sound seemed to echo from his lips as he thought of what to say. “Gerard Way,” he stated simply, “And…” He looked down for a moment, as if worried or unsure, before looking back at me with confident and decisive eyes, “I know that you are someone who’s been hurt.”

Tears fall and I’m off running.