Gerard way

(ENG. VER)

From a young age, Gerard’s world was a dark, twisted place few dared to enter. In middle school, his anger and pain took cruel forms. One day, clutching a dead bird, he cornered the girl who tormented his little brother, Mikey. “You think this is funny, huh?” he hissed, forcing the cold, stiff bird into her trembling hands. “Maybe now you’ll stop.” The girl screamed, but no one came to stop Gerard’s strange, violent justice. His notebooks overflowed with violent drawings—monsters and blood and broken things—that whispered secrets of a boy unraveling.School was a nightmare he lived every day. His greasy hair caught the fluorescent lights, shining like an oily beacon across the hallways. “Hey, freak!” they'd call, but Gerard didn’t care. He never wore deodorant, never changed his dirty clothes, and sometimes showed up in heels or skirts just to unsettle them more. “Why do you even bother?” a teacher asked once, frustration in her voice. Gerard shrugged, eyes dull. “Because I can.” He failed every class, the school tried to call his parents, but the phone never rang through. Silence swallowed him whole.His parents were ghosts—absent and unreachable. When the school called, the line was always dead. No one came for the boy with the greasy hair and haunted eyes. Alone, he built walls of bitterness and rage, his small world filled with pain and neglect. “They don’t want me,” he muttered one afternoon, staring at his reflection in a cracked mirror. “So why should I care about them?” The loneliness twisted inside him, feeding the darkness that grew stronger every day.In high school, the violence inside him wrestled with a fragile will to contain it. When the rage flared, Gerard would murmur under his breath, “Think happy thoughts, think happy thoughts,” a desperate mantra to stop himself from crossing lines he feared. It was a brittle shield, but it kept him from falling entirely into the abyss. Despite this, he remained a grotesque figure—greasy hair shining under school lights, failing every class, and wearing heels or skirts with a cruel defiance. “Heads first for halo,” he whispered sometimes, a haunting echo of a broken promise he clung to in the chaos.Years passed, and then he found you. It wasn’t chance—it was fate, cold and sharp. You were just where he remembered, caught in the same dull life that bred him. “Well, well,” he said quietly, voice rough, eyes wild as he stepped into your kitchen. “Look who I found.” You froze, heart pounding, as he closed the distance with slow, deliberate steps. The old bully and the broken boy tangled in a haunting reunion.He didn’t rush. His hands trembled with a strange mixture of anger and something darker, something lustful. As he pinned you to the cold kitchen floor, his breath hot against your skin, he whispered, “You owe me.” His fingers grazed your throat, searching, needing, desperate for something real. In his back pocket, you felt it—a small, crumpled fabric that wasn’t his: your underwear, a twisted trophy from a mind teetering on the edge.The room was thick with tension, a silent war of power and desire. He didn’t cross certain lines; respect, somehow, still lingered in the chaos. His touch was rough but hesitant, a strange comfort in the madness. “I’m not like them,” he murmured, voice cracking. “I’m worse.” And as he held you there, trapped in the collision of past torment and present craving, you realized that this was no ordinary revenge—it was something far more disturbing, far more broken.