"Get the fuck out of here!"

The door was slammed in my face, the impact missing my face by millimetres, and his words echoed around my head for far too long, leaving me thinking moreso about the way he shouted, and the way he hated like it was nothing than what had set him off in the first place: it was just alcohol, and surely this wasn't really him, but it seemed that I was really running low on times that I keep lying to myself like this.

Turning away from the back door that had previously only just avoided a rather painful collision with my face, I began to head towards the woods, and tried my best to put this all behind me, but like my mother's ghost, his words haunted my mind. I tried not to think of her, especially in times such as these, because she wouldn't want to see the fucked up mess that her cancer had caused, not at all, but I loved her, and I still do, and she was the one hope in my life: the one hand to hold, that although long gone, I'm still desperating clinging to.

Behind the 5ft fence that surrounded the perimeter of this house, grew a vast expanse of trees. It was beautiful in a ramshackle kind of way, in a messed up kind of way, and that was exactly what I needed: beauty in the unthinkable, and the ugly kind of beauty that no one would even consider stealing away from me.

My mother used to take me out into the woods when I was younger: when everything was okay, and I could go home and smile, and it even hurt a little to think of times like that now, but I had to think, and I had to try, for her, at the very least.

I used the woods as an escape from my father, who was as weighed down with debt as he was with alcohol and seemed to have taken a particular disliking to me after mum passed away: it was just bitter, long buried, now alcohol fueled hatred, and it should have meant nothing, but despite this all, he was still my father, and once, even if a long time ago, he loved me.

It was almost as if he blamed me, and really, maybe I shouldn't have blamed him, because I was practically my mother born again, but when the alcohol spoke of hatred, it was always hatred of the forest and how it had meant so much to mum and me, and somehow that hurt just as much, because the woods were as much a part of me as my mum was, and I was determined to cling on to the one that I still had left.

-

It was July and the temperatures in Jersey were searing; the sun seemed to cut into my pale complexion like its rays held thousands of tiny daggers and it only seemed to find some sort of sadistic delight in my suffering, and there was probably a perfectly good explanation as to why I deserved such sunlight born hatred, but all I could see right now was that the bastard of a burning star had taken my vampire like appearance far too seriously.

The leaves which laid upon the ground seemed to also be feeling the maniacal destruction of the sun, their golden tones were drained away by the egotistical, blithering mass in the sky, leaving dull brown remains that made too much if a crunch as I stepped on them. I didn't like it; it disturbed the forest, which seemed to hold some sort of unspoken rule of silence after my mum died. I liked to think the forest was in mourning, because she'd helped this place as much as it had helped her and not just her, it had helped me too.

One time, mum told me how in the 70s she gathered up her friends and protested again deforestation, because did the world really need another housing estate for snivelling bastards to sit upon their thrones, constructed entirely out of dollar bills and they'd bide their time away contemplating which was bigger out of their house and their ego. The council said that they'd take no notice of the 'tree hippy bitches' and their indepletable supply of optimism. Yet the forest still stands.

As I approached my favourite clearing, the one mum and I visited most frequently, I knew in an instant that something was wrong; the air held this artificial scent that was so heavily distributed that it was almost sickening. The leaves had been pushed aside, almost as if into the shape of a path and most obviously, a low humming sound resonated from inside the clearing. It was quite clear, someone was in the clearing, in the woods, my woods. Needless to say, this unsettled me; the forest was always desolate in a serene kind of way and now someone had taken themselves and their careless demeanour and whacked it all over my forest: I hated them already.

Cautiously, I stepped into the clearing, curiosity getting the better of me as my eyes found themselves quick to place scrutiny upon the figure leaning back against a fir tree like he owned the fucking place, and really, he did not.

At his feet, the ground was scattered with pencils and two sketchbooks: one open at about the halfway mark, revealing a sketch of what appeared to be some sort of vampire esque bloody massacre - it was disconcerting, to say the least, but in kind of stupidly cool way.

He seemed to take no caution with leaving his belongings unattended on the ground as he leaned back, his eyes closed, taking a drag of his cigarette every once in a while, and I was left to conclude that he was comfort in the belief that he was alone, and it was certainly a good thing that despite the disliking I had taken to him, the thought of taking off with his art equipment (or beating him up for looking like such a smug asshole or something, not that I could, but whatever) never even passed my mind.

The white wire of one earphone trailed down his slim frame and into the pocket of a black leather jacket that hugged his figure nicely and made me wonder how he could stand wearing it amidst the blazing heat of July, but then again, here I was dressed as some sort of honorary vampire prince. He was sporting a black t-shirt with hand sewn on red letters that just about spelt out 'thank you for the venom'. He partnered this with very tight, black skinny jeans and, of course, black converse. He was like some sort of emo wannabe - the 'punch me in the face, I'm an obnoxious asshole' red hair was kind of ruining it for him, but with the handmade shirt, I had to give him credit at the very least.

Then of course, as I was assessing his emo credibility, the worst thing happened.

His eyes darted right open and I was met with hazel irises that seemed bubble and stir as if they were in cauldrons not eye sockets and his pupils grew to an immense size, almost drowning out the rest of his eyes in a sea of blackness. His mouth twitched upwards at the corners in blatant recognition of my sorry existence.

He tilted his head slightly to the side, almost as if he was testing the eye contact that had developed between the two of us, "you look fucking mental, like some sort of vampire bitch." He spat his words at me, amusing himself with a small smirk as I tried my best to figure out whether that was supposed to be an insult or a compliment.

"W-w-what are you doing in my forest?" The words stumbled off my tongue as if someone was attempting to do the 110m hurdles whilst they were severely drunk, and needless to say that wasn't the best of combinations, but it very much seemed as if obnoxiously attractive emo wannabes had me just a little nervous.

"Your forest?" He scoffed, not even bothering to bite back a smirk and letting me endure that the fact that he thought I was an absolute asshole.

"I'm sorry... I-... no one else usually comes here." I tried to force my features into some sort of smile, but clearly it wasn't working for hormonal redhead bitchboy, and really, the effort it took to force some sort of empathy towards another human was severely wasted.

"Don't blame them." He finished his cigarette and threw the stump onto the floor, putting it out with his foot and I forced back the urge to scream at him, because maybe I cared just a little too much about this fucking forest, and he seemed to care far too little, about, well, it seemed like everything.

"I-I-I..." I was a quaking mess and his smirk made it evident that he enjoyed it.

"This is a shithole really. A shithole with trees."

"No, no it's not." My fists were clenched and clammy, and bitchboy needed to shut the fuck up about my forest, because although I was some weakling pathetic little vampire prince, who couldn't punch for the life of anyone, I could bitchslap like a motherfucker. "Who even are you?"

"Who even are you?" He countered and that sadistic grin was annoying me more than anything now, except perhaps his existence as a whole.

I sighed, giving in and answering his question like the little bitch I was. "Frank Iero." Silence lingered for a few moments as he raised his eyebrows in some sort of indecipherable conversation with himself, "I asked first, come on, fucking tell me who you are."

"Hmm... since you asked so 'nicely', alright then, Frankie-"

"Don't call me that." It came out almost like a reflex, leaving redhead bitchboy somewhat taken a back; my mother called me Frankie and she was the only person that could, and the only person that would.

"Calm your tits, Mr Iero." At least he made the effort to pronounce my surname correctly, which was spectacular in comparison to the absolute butchering it got on a regular basis from teachers and the average asshole. "And prepare yourself for I am Gerard Way, conceited asshole, and fucked up pyscho."

I rolled my eyes, as if it could get any worse - well, he could start referring to himself as bitchboy... really, I reckoned bitchboy suited him far more than Gerard did, but I very much doubted that he'd agree in the slightest.

"You got the last part right..." And then came the sarcastic comment that would have me wishing I'd never even woken up this morning.

"I'm sorry faggot?" And I could help but flinch at how he snapped in an instant: like my father, but so much worse, because this wasn't alcohol - this wasn't rage of an artifical concoction, this was just crazy, and this was full on try hard bitchboy gone pyscho. 

And then there was that fucking word: I just didn't even want to think about how it made me feel, because it was all too much and all too real, and I was so fucking bad at lying to myself.

"N-n-" I couldn't help but notice the slight smirk and how he seemed to pick up upon every little flinch and every little weakness in a way that had me both scared and ready to slap him right across that stupid little face of his.

"How about you fuck off, faggot, huh? Or is that cock up your ass preventing you from doing so, so of course, really, the pleasure's all mine." And with that, he gathered up his sketchbooks and marched out of the clearing like the royal asshole he'd made himself out to be, throwing the remains of that fucking cigarette behind him.

First impressions aren't always right, but this one certainly was, because I hated, I loathed, I despised every inch of being that somehow related to Gerard Way, and his stupid fucking bitchboy firetruck red hair.