We're All Outcasts (Gerard Way/ MCR Fanfiction)

All The Things That You Never Ever Told Me

At about 5, they decided to go home. I saw them out (we swapped phone numbers) and then I returned to my room. I couldn't help it: an odd feeling came over me as I thought about how this used to be Gerard's room. Small world, I thought. My friend's brother is my Drama teacher whose old bedroom is now mine.

I was overcome with a sudden desire to see if he had left anything behind. The only place he could have hidden anything was under the floorboards. And a couple of them were loose.

It may have all been a coincidence, but I couldn't stop myself from finding the loose boards with the intention of pulling them up, if only to satisfy my growing curiosity. I pushed my nails into the gap between the boards and pulled upwards.

The plank came up easily, but it was so dark and dusty I couldn't see anything. I grabbed my phone, turned the torch on, and shone it into the hole. There was still nothing. I pried the other loose plank up, revealing a much larger space.

And a couple of lumps in the dust.

There was actually something there.

I'd found something!

I plunged my hand into the hole and pulled out one of the objects.

It was a shoebox.

I didn't stop to examine it, I just grabbed the other thing and pulled it out. It was a different shape, and I realised it was a file.

I made sure the door at the bottom of the stairs was shut and ran back upstairs to look at what I'd found.

I brushed all of the dust off the shoebox and, cautiously, I lifted the lid.

There was a book on top, a generic notepad a little smaller than A4. I felt bad for opening it, like I was interfering, but my curiosity got the better of me. It was also exciting. A small shiver travelled through me as I lifted the book out and opened the cover.

It read:

'Secret Diary of Gerard Way (aged 15 and 3/4)'

So it actually belonged to Gerard (I felt a small blush creep onto my face as I thought about him, even though he was a teacher and I shouldn't have felt anything for him).

I continued.

'This book is not a diary as such, more a cathartic device. It may include drawings, ponderings, song lyrics, photographs, news articles, ideas and anything else I feel has relevance.'

It felt so wrong reading his book. I knew it was his; that was enough. I was an intruder and he made that without the intention of showing anybody. I should respect that.

Instead, I opened the file. I saw pictures he took, his drawings (they were perfect, each and every one of them), collages of objects and people's faces. Each page was a work of art. He drew cartoons, he stuck down ticket stubs to concerts.

He had drawn a a boy in school uniform hanging from a tree by his tie. Gerard was standing next to him in the picture, smiling.

The next page had the people switched around, with Gerard hanging and the boy smiling beside him. Underneath was written, in ragged writing:

"Three cheers for sweet revenge"

I carried on looking, the drawings became darker, scarier, suicidal. He drew an eye reflected in a razor blade, his reflection pulling him into a jet- black mirror, black tendrils of smoke pulling his arms wide and tearing his heart out. The last drawing was of himself. He was holding a translucent mask to his face - the mask was set into a wide smile but behind it you could see tears running down his cheeks.