He and I were living proof that no one is purely evil, mean, or just overall unpleasant. However, we did prove that a good handful of people are just covered with a thin candy shell of ugliness, only to be filled with a soft chocolate center of relative goodness.
I didn’t know Frank Iero- and I think that even now, much later, I still don’t-, but, like most of my high school’s freshman class, I knew of him; like he was a celebrity or an alien or something effervescent that might not really be real. And if I hadn’t gotten my chance to run into him I would have just assumed that he was a rumor, a collection of hearsay gossip and newspaper clippings that people hated to love and loved to hate on internet blogs and social networking pages. To me, he was larger than life, out of this world; a pierced up cup of quasi-badass handsomeness that everyone was addicted to and I hated. Although we didn’t hate each other at first. It was a lot simpler than that.
What would come to be a three year long feud was spurred forward by a seemingly innocuous comment about belts. In the five or so seconds it took me to say numbly to a friend, I don’t like Frank’s belt, a guy who knew a guy who was kind of friends with this one girl who was friends with Frank’s shit-talking radar blipped to life, and within the day my line of blasphemy had been sent directly to the head of the household Frank Iero himself. Less than five hours later a smug stranger was leaning against the locker next to mine, smirking at me and running his tongue over the ring of metal punched into his lip.
He grinned, smiling like a cat or a crocodile or something else menacing and smart, and said in a voice like an oil slick, “I hear you don’t like me.”
I tried to avoid his eyes and shuffled through my locker for things I didn’t need. “…No. That’s not true.”
Frank ignored me and kept talking. “That’s pretty shitty of you.”
“No,” I retorted, irritated. “I didn’t say that.”
He didn’t listen, maybe didn’t even hear me. He just smiled, totally drunk on his own coolness, and slurred without taking his eyes off of me, “Riiiiiight.” Arguing with him was like arguing with a brick wall, with a lawn chair. He gave me a more than firm pat on the back, meaning for it to hurt but not really applying much pressure at all, and left his place at the locker. As soon as his skinny back left that metal, I felt us bind together in the worst of ways, unable to break apart like we were unable to shut our mouths.
We lived via hallway catcalls of FAAAAAGOT! and message board meanness. Even teachers knew of our dislike of each other, as it had grown to the point where we no longer hid our mutual hate, even among our supposed superiors. And if by some chance we had detention or gym or a lunch period together, may God have mercy on the soul of the teacher in charge. We learned how to belittle the other’s strengths and drive their weaknesses into the ground, like we were opposing counties in a war the rest of the world was pleasantly amused by. Our battles even extended outside ourselves; we took to picking fights with each other’s friends, and on one special occasion my knuckles collided with Frank’s best friend’s cheek. Neither of them ever physically retaliated. It was the day I learned that Frank Iero was all talk and no action.
To this day I cringe at anyone unfortunate enough to bear the same name, to have his same piercings, or to be accepted into the same sort of social circle as he had been. But despite the super nova-hot wire of general dislike that seemed to connect us, and I feel will always connect us, even now, years later, I remember a moment, so brief that if I think about it too long I can almost convince myself that it didn’t happen, where Frank was only skin and bone and human.
It happened on a day that I don’t remember, early in the morning but at a time I don’t recall. He passed me, slowly, like he was walking through waist-deep water. I remember that he looked thin, too thin. Frank was anorexic and everyone knew it, but his demeanor forced no one to feel sorry for him or to extend a helping hand. I was turning left down a hallway to go somewhere, I don’t remember where and I feel that it was probably not important, and he was making his way up a short flight of stairs. He turned and looked at me as he walked, clutching his books to his chest like they were a small child, and I looked back at him. I looked at his small frame, his bones, his hair that had thinned and begun falling out. I looked at his fingernails that had turned frail and broken, his joints that probably ached beneath his so tight skin. I looked him over like a spectator looking over an old painting and without any warning at all I felt sadness explode from him. I could see it as if it was a cloak over his body and I could feel it as if he had blown hot air at me. Infinite human sadness, his sadness, gripped me and shook me and in that moment I could feel his humanity. We didn’t say anything to each other and he walked away. If he knew I felt it he didn’t show it.
I was learn in the following weeks that Frank Iero did not have any friends. He had followers and fans, but no friends. Any companions he may have had in the past had long since dropped out of school, moved away, or had formed some sort of hate for him. Partway through our Junior year he just stopped coming to school, and when he did he pretended to fiddle with his iPod in the hallway, not looking at anyone. I remembered the things I had said to him in the past and felt something that might have been guilt. It felt deeper than that.
The world got cold from the coming winter and Christmas break approached with full force. I saw Frank sitting with one or two people during our lunch breaks by the windows where they talked and watched the snow fall. He didn’t seem to talk much, but when he did it was loud and brief, in tune with the reputation that he’d built for himself all these years. I’d forget the sympathy I felt towards him and go back to feeling nothing but contempt.
Frank’s locker was a hallway down from mine and he never locked it. I would walk past it several times a day on my way to wherever I needed to go and find it open just a crack. He must not have had anything in there worth stealing and therefore didn’t fear someone opening it and peeking around. I wanted to discreetly curl my fingers around the metal door and open it up to find some hint of who Frank really was when no one was looking. I wanted to know what he looked like when he got out of the shower, when his hair wasn’t in place and he wiped the fog off the mirror to look at who he was, and who he had become. In the very last days before the doors were locked for the weeks of Christmas break, I excused myself from class to visit the bathroom, but stopped in front of his open locker. Carefully and quietly I opened the door. There were only textbooks, a sweatshirt; not a hint of who truly occupied the space. I pulled a note out of my pocket and placed the square of paper in front of his books. I had written it the night before. It would be the first thing he saw when he opened the door.
Dear Frank,
We’ve never really had a conversation and I supposed you know as much about me as I really know about you, which isn’t a whole lot. I’m not writing this to tease you or to trick you. I just want you to know that I’m sorry for all the years I spent fighting with you and for all the things I’ve said to you. What I did was immature and a result of my own insecurity and frustration. I was wrong. I know that we will never be friends and as soon as we leave high school we will most likely never talk to each other ever again. But I wanted to apologize and hopefully gain closure from you. I can accept it if you don’t forgive me. I’m sorry.
Have a happy holiday.
Sincerely,
And I signed my name with only an X. I closed the door so it was open only slightly, just how I had found it, and returned to class.
A few days past and he didn’t show any acknowledgement of my note. I considered that he might not know who it was from, but I knew that he did. There was one day until we left for the holiday and I felt bitter. I thought him to be ungrateful and unappreciative and figured he was laughing at my attempt at kindness with his fake friends.
We didn’t talk. We didn’t poke fun. He never approached me. We left for break and came back and there was nothing. I hated him more than ever.
But then, weeks later, I reached for my books and a square of paper fell from between the pages of a history textbook, one I hadn’t used since before our holiday break, and landed softly at my shoes. I bent down and picked it up. On the front of the square was my name. Gerard. The paper had been squished flat and some of the ink had smeared slightly. It must have been inside the book for a while, I had just never known it. I unfolded it. I held it in my hands and felt over the soft paper with my fingers. I felt that sadness again, and this time it felt clean.
Gerard,
Thank you. I’m sorry.
Frank.
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Author's Comments
I DO NOT WRITE FRERARD ANYMORE. I DO NOT WRITE ANY MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE FAN FICTION.
this is something i wrote way long ago and just found on my computer. i actually kind of liked it so i decided to upload it. it's based on true things, about a person i kind of know. i wish it ended like this is real life. more so, i wish i had the courage i gave gerard so i could have done what he did, even if it didn't turn out right. |
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Comments
I'm glad you still titled it under "Frerard", even though you don't 'do' that anymore.
If it didn't have their names I would never have thought it was them (kind of your point, I know).
Title sums it up I guess.
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~~ It isn't botherin' me, is it botherin' you?!~~
yeah i wrote this for a frerard contest like, a year ago but never submitted it. i was searching through my folders and starting reading it and actually liked it a lot. i hardly even remember writing it. i guess it's the last frerard ever from me :/
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"I'm the most cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch you'll ever meet."
-Ted Bundy.
--
~~ It isn't botherin' me, is it botherin' you?!~~
--
Do what you love, and fuck the rest
<3
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_/Conversation's-with-Racter.exe\_
'\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"\"
A feeling novelist often falls prey to a sane poet. Is having a soul contagious?
>Yes, the same way thoughts or ideas are contagious.
Then I might catch one. Next question.
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"I'm the most cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch you'll ever meet."
-Ted Bundy.
I'm glad you added this, even if you don't write fanfiction anymore, I enjoyed reading it.
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an empty hole in your chest where
y o u r h e a r t u s e d t o b e a t
It's sad to hear U didn't follow thru,but I probably wouldn't have had the courage growing-up,either...
Very deep & heart-felt,it was very thoughtful 4 you to post it!
-Many Thanks again,TakeCare & laterz...
--
IQ Test,Please press here 2 begin. -> O
--
"I'm the most cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch you'll ever meet."
-Ted Bundy.
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