mcr // that day the color left
Title: That Day the Color Left
Pairing: Gerard/Bert, though no names are mentioned.
Rating: PG
Summary: You woke up that one morning and he was gone.
Author's Note: Prompted by jan 23 08. Block breaker; I apologize for possible lack of coherence and sense.
I heard he just lost his mind again.
You woke up that one morning and he was gone. The sheets had gone cold and stiff next to you as if no body or being had ever disturbed them, left to crinkle and crisp in the openness of the cool morning air. As if warmth and movement had never existed on that half of the narrow tattered mattress.
You stumbled through that morning in a trance of confusion, your movements awkward and uncoordinated, unsure in their loneliness and singularity. Echoes of moments that had been revolved behind your eyes with each uncertain step you took.
You stood and stared and sat and blinked away that day. Your mind went numb with false images that were perhaps memories, perhaps fiction, perhaps a bit of both. The mind creates and improvises at will when faced with change this drastic. Drastic in that the entire foundation of your life for the past few eternities had just been removed, and you were left with an unstable structure. Uninhabitable in ways you hadn't expected, couldn't have imagined.
You wondered and pondered meanings and lies through that following week. Analyzed and broke down lives and words and looks and touches almost to the point of rewriting each moment of your life with the eloquence you once could have thought it deserved, but truth (or was it lies, you don't know anymore which of the realities were real, you never thought it would have been worth thinking about back then) forced the filigree away and left you with bare frames and bullet points.
You rejoined the world of the living what seemed like an eternity later, after that day against which you were now judging everything. Worried words and creased faces greeted you back, and you pulled down the blinds to enclose your mind and present the world with an acceptable face.
No one questioned it. Ever the artist, you painted a believable picture that only those who thought they knew you best dared to question. You never gave any answers.
You lived life as a shell, holding up an image to the world while carrying on with analysis and question in the back corners of your mind. Why and how and revisiting instances to try to catch a glimpse of hints or signs.
Southern states in the summer, high as kites and soaring through clouds and stars, fingers grazing stubbly chins, strands of dark hair sticking to pale faces--
Backwood roads and beaten bodies, excitement and thrill pushing sore muscles through movement, ecstasy pushing out laughter and unadulterated screams of everything real--
Harsh mattresses and dirty sheets, equally harsh and dirty bodies twisting and entwining, slippery lips and groping hands and fluttery touches certain in their lightness and care--
Pounding sunlight and steaming blacktop stages, feedback and broken strings and grating voices and sounds pounding through thousands of bodies, boiling blood and tugging hairs on ends--
You moved through the world dictated by the uncertainty sparked by that morning. Driven by questions of imagined scenes and emotions and touches and smiles, always questioning, wondering, attempting to catch lies among the scattered remains of shaky memories.
You held on to the feeling, even as the rest of you and your world and memories faded away. Your painted blinds came alive and you remained trapped in the wondering back corners of your mind. You became your façade and lost yourself in your own imagery.
Where are you now, you wondered, aloud to yourself, to no one at all. No one to listen, no one to respond.
Blind and hidden, just you and your memories, your fiction, you and your delinquent boy, bare and broken and full of living in a world of grays.
I heard he just lost his mind.
Pairing: Gerard/Bert, though no names are mentioned.
Rating: PG
Summary: You woke up that one morning and he was gone.
Author's Note: Prompted by jan 23 08. Block breaker; I apologize for possible lack of coherence and sense.
I heard he just lost his mind again.
You woke up that one morning and he was gone. The sheets had gone cold and stiff next to you as if no body or being had ever disturbed them, left to crinkle and crisp in the openness of the cool morning air. As if warmth and movement had never existed on that half of the narrow tattered mattress.
You stumbled through that morning in a trance of confusion, your movements awkward and uncoordinated, unsure in their loneliness and singularity. Echoes of moments that had been revolved behind your eyes with each uncertain step you took.
You stood and stared and sat and blinked away that day. Your mind went numb with false images that were perhaps memories, perhaps fiction, perhaps a bit of both. The mind creates and improvises at will when faced with change this drastic. Drastic in that the entire foundation of your life for the past few eternities had just been removed, and you were left with an unstable structure. Uninhabitable in ways you hadn't expected, couldn't have imagined.
You wondered and pondered meanings and lies through that following week. Analyzed and broke down lives and words and looks and touches almost to the point of rewriting each moment of your life with the eloquence you once could have thought it deserved, but truth (or was it lies, you don't know anymore which of the realities were real, you never thought it would have been worth thinking about back then) forced the filigree away and left you with bare frames and bullet points.
You rejoined the world of the living what seemed like an eternity later, after that day against which you were now judging everything. Worried words and creased faces greeted you back, and you pulled down the blinds to enclose your mind and present the world with an acceptable face.
No one questioned it. Ever the artist, you painted a believable picture that only those who thought they knew you best dared to question. You never gave any answers.
You lived life as a shell, holding up an image to the world while carrying on with analysis and question in the back corners of your mind. Why and how and revisiting instances to try to catch a glimpse of hints or signs.
Southern states in the summer, high as kites and soaring through clouds and stars, fingers grazing stubbly chins, strands of dark hair sticking to pale faces--
Backwood roads and beaten bodies, excitement and thrill pushing sore muscles through movement, ecstasy pushing out laughter and unadulterated screams of everything real--
Harsh mattresses and dirty sheets, equally harsh and dirty bodies twisting and entwining, slippery lips and groping hands and fluttery touches certain in their lightness and care--
Pounding sunlight and steaming blacktop stages, feedback and broken strings and grating voices and sounds pounding through thousands of bodies, boiling blood and tugging hairs on ends--
You moved through the world dictated by the uncertainty sparked by that morning. Driven by questions of imagined scenes and emotions and touches and smiles, always questioning, wondering, attempting to catch lies among the scattered remains of shaky memories.
You held on to the feeling, even as the rest of you and your world and memories faded away. Your painted blinds came alive and you remained trapped in the wondering back corners of your mind. You became your façade and lost yourself in your own imagery.
Where are you now, you wondered, aloud to yourself, to no one at all. No one to listen, no one to respond.
Blind and hidden, just you and your memories, your fiction, you and your delinquent boy, bare and broken and full of living in a world of grays.
I heard he just lost his mind.