Guy With a Tattooed Neck

Bursting into my attic room, I had heart palpitations. The only kid I could talk to in this hell-hole I call home was standing right in front of the door when I opened it. The reason I could talk to him without loosing some of my teeth was probably because he was a few fries short of a happy meal.
“Don’t fucking do that! You scared the crap out of me!” I yelled angrily, shoving past him and grabbing the suitcase from under the bed and chucking it into the middle of the floor.
“Sorry.” Ryan said blankly as he clutched the matted brown teddy bear he loved so much to his chest.
“You’re going with the artist aren’t you?” He asked, gazing at the ceiling while I grabbed the small amount of clothes I owned and chucked them messily into the suitcase.
“The who?”
“Don’t you know who that man was?” He asked once again, going over to stare out the window.
“No idea. I do, however, know that I’d rather stay here than go live with the happy couple like a charity case, and considering the dismal living standard’s of this fine establishment, that’s saying something.” I commented, carefully, this time, placing my Discman and few CD’s I owned into the corner of the case, without those precious items and a couple of packets of batteries, I was pretty sure Frank Iero would cease to exist.
“He is the famous artist, Gerard Way. Remember when we were taken to the art exhibit in the town square for Alison’s birthday and we saw that big painting, the water-colour one with the angel. She seemed to have broken wings and the legs of an animal. We couldn’t pry you away from it for 13 minutes. I know, I counted. Gerard Way painted that piece of art.” Ryan remembered, speaking in a wistful kind of voice.

Of course I remembered the painting; it was one of the most magnificent things I have seen in my life. The colours drained from brown, to yellow, to brown again, almost as if the painting itself was crying. The pale girl who sat on a single grimy piece of wood had an expression carved into her features that spoke of sorrow and wonder. Her wings were indeed broken, as if she had tried one too many times to fly and every single time she ended up crashing. It spoke to me in a way that I never thought possible; it was so like my life it was uncanny. The brown jeans that morphed into animal like legs before showing stubby feet just added to its overall effect.

So I was going to work for the artist who had created that masterpiece.
I was so caught up in the shock of the prospect of working for such an artist that I barely registered Ryan leaving what was once my room with a quiet and wistful goodbye.

Later on in the evening, when I was all packed and simply lying on the uncomfortable cot that served as my bed, looking up at the peeling ceiling, Alison came up and presented me with the dinner that I had neglected to go eat.

She explained to me that Gerard was a part of a club that the orphanage was associated with, they sometimes got sponsoring from the kinder members. She had overheard, one day that Gerard was looking for a gardener to make the view out of his art studio more inspirational. Apparently he was running low on the good stuff and needed a little pick me up so that he could begin to paint once more. Knowing how much effort I put into the crappy garden at the orphanage, and that it apparently looked good, she had put my name forth. She also mentioned that she was concerned about me having a place to live once I turn 18, because the orphanage was getting pretty full and there was a chance I could be kicked out.

I would have told her that living on the streets seemed like a better prospect at the moment, but I was stubbornly ignoring her and the food she had placed by my bed.
On her way out, she put what looked like a CD in my suitcase, still open on the floor, and a couple of t-shirts. When she left the room with a sad goodbye, her voice hoarse from what seemed like regret, I turned my face into the deflated pillow and tried to stop the warm tears from slipping down my ugly cheeks.

I left early the next morning, not out of excitement or intrigue, simply because I could not bear to be in that place for another second. However, as I made my way down the street and passed by the neighbour’s houses, seeing them peer at me with interest and disgust, I was never more painfully aware that I had my back to what had been my home for the past 10 years.
As I walked along the calm streams and creeks, though, I became more relaxed. I always did when I was one with nature. And how totally hippy like did that sound. God, my life was doing my head in.
The further I walked, the more I began to realise that I was heading into the more posh part of town. No longer was there overflowing garbage bins and un-kept lawns, broken down cars and graffiti on the walls. Instead, I began to pass bright green grass and fancy cars, people going to early morning runs with their high tech MP3 players, clutching them to their chests as they passed me, obviously afraid that I was going to pull out a knife, tear out their intestines and steal their stupid piece of technology. I clutched my bag closer to my own body in return. My Discman, CD’s and batteries were more precious that their expensive crap would ever be.
I began to play out scenes in front of my eyes to amuse myself. In case you hadn’t already notices, I have a bit of an overactive imagination. That’s where Alison thinks I get my gardening skills from.

I eventually arrived at what was now going to be my home. The house was massive. Outside there was a white and black pebbled driveway that curved in an arc from one place in the sidewalk to another, allowing cars to flow easily through. In the center of this arc was a black marble fountain surrounded by bright green, closely clipped grass. A small angel was perched in the middle of the water bowl and water spurted gracefully from the tips of her fingers. It immediately reminded me of the angel in the painting I loved so much.
White stone steps led up to the heavy looking, dark brown, double doors. Stained glass adorned the top of each door in an arc shape, and matching rectangular strips of stained glass ran down either side of the double doors.

Walking up the steps, I pressed the golden button that I presumed was for the doorbell. As I waited for someone to answer, I took in the white bricks that made up the house. Dark green vines traveled up the house from small rose covered garden beds that traveled below the windows. The frames of the windows were made of the same dark wood as the doors.
My eyes eventually fell upon slightly larger windows on the third floor of the house. I gasped slightly when I saw Gerard’s soft eyes gazing down at me from the window. Before I could get a good look at him, however, the front door opened.