Outlaws

If there's one thing you'd want to know about me, it'd be this: my brother and I were inseperable. We spent every waking moment together; talking or just thinking in our own seperate yet similar worlds. He was my best friend and I was his. Brother, best friend, confessional, coworker.
Of course in school, we had to be separated, but that didn't stop me knowing what he was thinking, or him from me. I knew when he was daydreaming because I'm get a foggy feeling in my head. When the teacher asked him a question (he would tell me about it later), I could feel his desperation to answer correctly.
But when people made fun of him, two emotions would stand the strongest; rage and desire. His rage was like a sea of adrenaline shooting through his veins (and slightly mine). Sometimes I'd connect so well that I'd have to grip my arm so as to not damage anything. A few times I even started bleeding. I swore once my parents caught a glimpse of it, and they made one of the worst expressions; a mix of disgust and maybe a teaspoon of pity.
Desire, as in desire to be dead. Once I even had to go to the bathroom to hide the fact I was crying. It's not like I've had the exact feeling. Okay, sometimes. But when he did, I just hoped he might have thought of me. I set an ultimate rule to myself when I was four; if Gerard goes down, I go down.
It might have appeared strange, weird, or disturbing; words we heard too many times, but we had this special connection where we could feel each other's emotions. Of course being twins might have been significant to the cause of this. Twins, born on Halloween, which probably affected our parents' line of thinking. We were nothing but duranged, psychotic teenagers that were utter disgraces to their flawless family tree. But if we ever told them about our connection, or possibly opened up at all, the call would have been placed the millasecond after we opened our mouths.
Ah, the call that changed our lives. That changed us to homeless, insane, teenaged outlaws in the time span of an hour.
It was a Saturday devoted to song writing with none other than Gerard. We shared a room, which not many brothers willingly do. We sat in the small closet, loose leaf paper on my knees, a black liquid-ink pen in my hand, and a flashlight next to me, only to be turned on while writing. Gerard and I figured that the thought process took place best in black, where none of our surroundings or any light could afflict our mindset.
All of our songs had the same morbid, solemn, romantic touch. That's basically all we thought about: death, in it's beauty. I didn't see it as anything wrong; it was, at least, and interest (rather obsession). Though I must admit, sometimes it could get a little frightening. My dreams were plauged with different ways I could die; buried alive, choked, stabbed, shot, injected, drugged, poisoned, drowned, beaten. Then the aftermath, such as the funeral; who would come, who would want to come, who would cry, and how my mother and father would shake their head in shame and dispare as they read aloud our songs. But it wasn't just my funeral, Gerard was always in a coffin next to me. Gerard also told me about his nightmares, how he was choked unconscious then brought back repeatedly, or watched himself on the recieving end of a defribrillator's shock.
Both deep in thought, I stared deeply through the sheet when I heard the faint and distant buzz of a cell phone.
Briiinng
Gerard and I opened the door and searched for the source of the noise in the kitchen.
Briiinng
Gerard turned sharply and eyed our mother's handbag. We unzipped it and took it out, furrowing our eyebrows in skepticism; it wasn't like our mother to keep her cell phone on. It brought us comfort to spy her hardly-noticeable flaws. She was like a newspaper, you'd need to read in between the lines to get the true meaning.