Hearts for Weapons - (Frerard)

Chapter One: A Helping (Punching) Hand.

I slowly opened my eyes as I could hear a car engine spluttering from not far away where I was sitting - on the cold, rough pavement.

I slowly sat up as I could hear the sound of stomping on the floor, growing louder and louder. "What the fuck you doin' here, ya filthy fuckin' tramp?" the man yelled into my face. I looked at his chubby hand that held a tool that somewhat seemed like a screwdriver. I stepped backwards and hit my back hard against the cold brick wall.

"S-sorry s-sir I didn't mean to--" I stuttered, quivering slightly. I looked down as he breathed loudly into my face, I could feel his hot breath in my face. Still holding the screwdriver, he swung his fist, and with full force, he punched me in the eye socket with the back of the screwdriver - and it hurt like a bitch. I groaned loudly, and I tried to protect myself with my bony, weak arms, but I failed. He targeted my stomach, and flipped the screwdriver. This I knew I had to dodge, because otherwise I'd be left for dead. He held his hand up and attempted to stab my lower stomach, I shifted to the side, but he got hold of my head and bashed it on the brick walls.  Blood spluttered everywhere, and I coughed up even more. I didn't even try fighting back, he was way too strong for me as all I was just a bag of bones and a bit of meat.
"You come anywhere near to my fuckin' yard one more fuckin' time and you bet your trampy little fuckin' ass next time it'll be a bullet through your head." He yelled into my face, with bits of spit flying everywhere.
"S-sorry s-s-sir-- I--" I stammered as I tried to stop my nose from streaming with blood. He grabbed me by the back of my neck and pushed me off of his lawn. "Get out of my sight ya filthy rat" he yelled, and I quickly ran as quick as I could, sobbing with a disgustingly bruised body.

My name is Gerard Way, and I've been experiencing this my whole life.

I'm not living, I'm only surviving.

I don't mean anything to no one, I'm literally nothing. I haven't got an identity to show, a shoulder to cry on. No stranger would even smile and say hello. The reason I never fight back is because it gives me the slightest bit of hope - the slightest bit of human interaction.
No one wants me, I'm nothing but a ghost.

I ran towards an open gate that somewhat seemed to lead to a walk-in forest, with my face burning - stinging, that old man hit me good and hard.

Forests were the best places for peace, but if you needed supplies or hygiene, city's were the best. Or shopping centres, you could bunk in a toilet for the rest of your day, and it would be warm - food you could easily steal from a shop- take off the price tag and pretend like a normal costumer who's just looking around. But overnight was a struggle, you'd have to search for a place that wasn't packed with people, because they'd spit on you - the drunks would rape you, and other homeless people would steal all you've got.

I walked in a slower pace to regain my breath as well as control- I've somewhat lost it all from last night. I felt dirty - but not the kind of dirty that'll easily wash off.

Someone raped me.

Now, it wasn't such a big deal anymore as it happened too often. And I couldn't go report them to the police, get all those DNA tests and whatever, catch him and carry on with my life. The problem is that I don't have a life. And even if I did go report it to the police, they'd laugh and kick me out. Sure - if I was a pretty and a rich boy they'd carry me on a chair and under all that pressure, they'd find whoever had raped me.

I kicked a tiny stone (which probably had more value than me) around as I took the straight path to somewhere I don't know. After half an hour, I stopped at a spot near the tree which seemed somewhat clean to take a break by.
I slide my back against the cold trees' hard texture, scraping my back as I sit down. Putting my bag on my lap, I open it up and take out a ragged sketchbook and a tiny pencil, which I could barely even hold.

I went through all the full pages of detailed sketches, all of people's faces. I always remember the person who spoke to me. Kind and rude. I looked at a sketch of a young lady, hair tied up tightly. Slightly big lips, a small nose and average sized-almond shaped eyes. One thing I forgot was the nose ring she wore, and I quickly drew it on the left side. Her name? I forgot. But I named her Amanda Brown, because of her eyes: Almond shaped and a light hazel brown colour. When I first ran away, she let me stay at her place, there was this other guy too, and I remember him now as well. A nose ring as well as a lip ring, they sort of clashed, but he pulled it off nicely. Also his short height was something that would easily catch my attention, I wasn't that tall, but height was something I'd never forget.

I sighed and put my notebook away after about 20 minutes, and started to walk again. I looked at my hands and completely forgot I was bleeding, some of it dried up, but that was the problem - I wouldn't be able to get it off easy - good thing I was wearing black, as it was less visible to the public.

I crouched and put my bag on the floor, and took out a bottle of water which was almost empty, but enough to clean up the mess. I dabbed a bit of water on my sleeve and tucked my hair behind my ears, (as they were long enough to) and started to scrub my face harshly.

"Fuck" I exclaimed as dabbed slightly softer on my eye, I'm pretty sure it was swollen. My nose too, it could've been broken.

I packed everything and finally scurried my way to the other end of the forest - it seemed like an open park. Kids on the swings, living their childhood like I never did - seeing parents smiling, like I never did.