Thank You for the Venom (Frerard/Ferard)

Chapter 1: Crimson Hair and Poison Tears

Frank's POV

I was only 7 years old.

Precisely 10 years post the loss of my mother, I decide that I'm entitled to visit her resting place. I feel as if it's my duty to properly say goodbye, if even once. I never really had my chance to understand and accept her departure. It will be better for the both of us.

The thing is, I'm kind of scared; I'm scared of graveyards. Not only does the thought of being surrounded by dead leave an uneasy notion residing within my stomach, I also feel as if I'm constantly being judged. By the dead or the living, I do not know. The feeling is just there.

In order to finally visit my mother, I booked a day off work. I could probably do with the the time off anyway. People often inform me that I'm overworked, there's a part of me that can see where they're coming from.

Another decision I made was that I'm not going to school today either. I don't want to; I'd rather sit here and mourn. It's better than worrying about who wants to kick my ass every 5 minutes.

I definitely don't want to stay at home all day though. Ever since mom's death, my dad has been acting terribly. There's a possibility he's mentally unstable, I'm sure he is, but nobody ever cares enough to find out. My dad's an unforgiving alcoholic, the only person he cares for is himself. He doesn't love me at all, but I don't blame him. Nobody truly gives a fuck.

Still, I can't help but believe that the way he treats me is wrong.

The only reason I work is to make up for the money my 'father' relentlessly wastes on his alcohol and gambling addictions. I'm blamed for everything, regardless of whose fault it is. It goes without mention the way he discusses my mother and I. It's pitiful, really. There's no doubt in my mind when I say I want to be nowhere near him. It shames me to know that I'm associated with such a man at all.

So that's why I'm here, in my forest. This is where mom and I used to play together throughout what little childhood I had, the one that was cut short and torn from right beneath me. I miss that.

Nobody else ever really visits, so it's kind of my own place, I suppose. Its somewhere I can be myself, somewhere I'm accepted. It encompasses my of memories, hopes, dreams and wondering thoughts that may drift carelessly through the minds of any hormonal 17 year old boy. It's where I relive my past.

That's when I saw him.

His flame red hair frames his face perfectly as it shines in the distant glow of the sun. He is leant upright against a tree stump drawing peacefully, humming tune to himself. What exactly the tune is I am unsure, but I have no doubt in my mind that it's something spectacular. He is beautiful. Blushing, I turn away, immediately losing my balance and to fall from the branch I'd been harmlessly admiring from.

The incredibly handsome, mysterious stranger turns his gaze to meet that of my own, and our eyes lock together. His crimson hair blows majestically in each warm gust of wind. His hazel eyes meet mine and I stare for a second more. It only takes a moment, but now the flecks and swirls of honey and moss are everything to me. He is completely and utterly flawless.

"What the fuck?" He stares back with a blank yet somewhat unamused expression resting upon his features. "Why are you staring at me, fag? And why were you up a tree?"

I'm too winded to fully comprehend and reply, but an audible "Shit," manages to emanate from the space between my lips.

When I finally catch my breath, my brain fails me completely, and I'm far too stunned to speak. What exactly do I say? 'Oh, sorry for staring, but you're absolutely gorgeous.' I can't do that, I can't even believe I thought that. I'm straight. I mean, I dated this girl in middle school once. So what if it only lasted a week? It still counts, right?

I notice him pacing towards me and he offers me his hand. Uncertain of his intentions, I accept his offer and he helps me stand. "T-thanks," I stutter nervously. Beautiful things seem to erase my ability to form complete sentences, I presume. "No problem..." "Frank," I reply. "What's your-" "Are you okay, Frank?" He cuts me off rudely. "Y...yeah..."

Well at least he asked if I was okay, I suppose. Maybe he is a decent human being after all.

"So why the fuck were you staring at me, faggot?" Maybe not. I sigh, unsure of how to answer because I remain unsure as to why myself. "I uh- nobody ever visits my forest," I rush out, blood rushing to my cheeks and causing them to flush a brilliant red; the shade is almost as red as his hair. "Your forest? A little possessive, don't you think? It's a public area, you know. I suppose that doesn't matter though, I don't see why anyone would want to visit this shithole anyway." He turns on his heel, gathering his senses before storming through the trees and back into reality.

Stupid fucking prick.

**~*~**~*~**

It's late afternoon now, more or less a suitable time to class as evening. I walk slowly, there's no reason to hurry.
I eventually arrive at the cemetery and search for my mom's grave.

It takes a while, however I do eventually come across it. The gravestone reads her name: Linda Iero. I wish she were still here.

I fall to my knees, breaking down before the one person that ever cared. The heavy tears flow quickly, falling to the ground in an unrhythmic fashion.

It's been a long time since I've felt the need to cry but I embrace the release of my built-up emotion.

After sobbing uncontrollably for at least fifteen minutes, I am startled by a voice. My initial thought is that it's a ghost or something, but I soon recognise the tone, "Hi, fag."

"Fuck off," my voice cracks desperately and, after noticing that I've been crying, he kneels down beside me. I turn to face him, my vision blurred by tears, and the expression I read from him tells me that he knows how it feels to lose someone you love. I can tell.

"Frank, who is this?" He says, vaguely gesturing towards where my mother lies. "It's-it's my mom," I croak, feeling the tears burn my eyes again without a scintilla of remorse. "Frank, I'm sorry-"

"Whatever," I countered weakly, giving up on the conversation and placing a bouquet of twenty-five blood red roses on my mother's grave.

From then, my departure is abrupt, and I leave without wasting another word on the crimson-haired male. I don't want to be anywhere near him, not at all.

Sorry I had to leave so soon, mom.