Madly Fancy

The ballroom was filled with fancy rich people dancing the night away, and there was Frank. He looked like he could fit in with all these people. His tux was the best tux there, his hair combed back with gel and his teeth looking dazzling as ever. No one would expect less from the man that, after all, owned this mansion. Gatherings like this weren’t something new or taken lightly for Frank. Every little detail had to be up to expectations, driving his servant’s nuts. That’s who he was though, everyone didn’t like him, and even the rich people thought he was a show off and a nuisance. Attending his parties merely meant social status to them, and free things. It was all good fun too, for most people.
It was 1924, and Louis Armstrong attended this party, for this party was different, it was Frank’s 19th birthday. Armstrong rocked the whole place, playing jazz music for Frank’s guests.
Frank had to show off.
Where did he get all this money? His father, of course; he ran the most popular worldwide record label. That’s how the famous Louis Armstrong and his band were standing right there, in his own mansion.
He has no interest in love, just material possessions and power. Frank was dancing with a woman when he dismissed himself from the party and he couldn’t even remember her name for the record.
He walked up the marble staircase and into his own huge room. He helped himself to a glass of wine sitting on his side table from the night before. It had ended badly, he invited a girl back to his room, and she winded up leaving. So here he was, alone in his room and was now downing down a whole bottle of wine, the King of Jazz could even be heard way up in his room.
He then turned around, for no reason other than pure hatred for himself and threw the bottle at the door. He let out a menacing scream and slid down the dresser to the floor. He crawled over to his bed, and pulled something out from under it, another bottle of wine.
He had snapped. He sat there, drowning his own body in the liquor that warmed his throat. He was feeling bad for himself. He was filled with a great self-loathing that engulfed his mind.

The men who have it all, never truly have happiness with themselves. No matter how happy, or rich, or comfortable their life may seem, it always backfires.
This feeling had been building up for a while, in his gut. He wasn’t too sure what it was, but it was painful.
There were no sobs, just quiet pitiful tears rolling down his checks one after the other, taking in his body weight of liquor. It seemed inappropriate to be doing this at his own birthday gathering, especially when it was a big fuss, but no one was likely to notice he was gone for that long. And he knew it.
He loosened his bow tie, and threw it on the floor next to him.

He didn’t notice the foot steeps approaching the door, or the door opening. He neglected to notice the tall black haired man standing in his room. All he set his attention was to his own self-loathing. He felt like he was being watched, but before he could respond, a gun was aimed to his forehead, making a cold wave radiate through his body. His eyes looked up to the man who had been going to kill him. His green eyes being the last thing he saw, they burned a hole through him.
The trigger was pulled, blood was spilled, and the music flooded out the sound of it all.
The green eyed man snuck out the back door and into the midnight moonlight.

-*-*-*
~Gerard's point of view~

The alarm clock was invading my dream, and I woke up in a cold sweat, again. The same damn dream, all the time. Always about the same man, drinking and getting shot. I don’t know why my mind keeps making this up, or how it could come up with something like this. Something so… realistic; usually, in dreams, you’re in it. I’m not in it. I’m just watching it happen, just like TV.
And it’s always that dream, every night that I can remember having a dream from the time I was around the age of eleven; I’m eighteen now. ..
Maybe there’s something wrong with me?

I interrupted my thoughts with lifting up my arm and hitting the alarm clock over and over again until I hit the right button. I am not a morning person, or will I ever be. I usually like to avoid human contact in the first twenty minutes of awaking. I crawled out of my sheets and over to the shower. Last three months of school, in my senior year, it’s flowing by way too slow. I let the warm water hit my body for a good 15 minutes before finally deciding to brace the cold air. I hurried myself, and dried myself as fast as I could and tossed on clothes.
I made sure to avoid my father, who was sitting at the desk, typing something to his new book, no doubt, and I snuck right out of the door. My brother, Mikey was already sitting on the front porch, writing something in a notepad.
I coughed, catching his attention. He quickly shut his note book and stood.
“Ready?” I asked him, he pushed his glasses that were on the bottom of his nose up.
“As I’ll ever be,” he shoved his notepad into the sleeve of his book bag and we begun the journey to school, stopping on the way to get our friend Ray from his house.
We walked, made small talk just like every morning, but this morning was not like any other morning I ever had or I’ll ever have again.
“I was thinking, the haunted mansion on May Street would be a cool place to hang out this weekend?” Ray asked, looking over for our approval. We both nodded, Ghosts are kind of our thing.
It was Friday and I had almost forgotten.
I was completely unaware of it, but after this morning, nothing will ever be the same again. I would still walk to school for the remainder of my school year, I would listen to music, I would still draw. But I will never, ever feel the same.
Perspective is a funny thing- you think you have it figured out, then something like this comes up as an innocent conversation between brothers and friends, and it’s changed for life.