A Murder Scene Canvas 1
Title: A Murder Scene Canvas.
Author: alt_3_etf - Emaleigh.
Rating: R - just to be safe.
Beta: kiwi_xxx
Pairing: Gerard/Frank along with various others
Point of View: 1st, Gerard’s. I have a tendency to switch between tenses...I apologise.
Summary: Gerard is a world famous artist for his Murder Scene genre. After 3 years of only allowing photographs of his drawings and paintings online, he is finally allowing his first painting - known as Death Wish, to be hung in a gallery in New York. However, just down the street there is a life size replica of his painting, only instead of red paint, its blood.
Disclaimer: I don’t own any characters, ‘cept a few I guess. Idea thanks to many Tuesday nights of watching CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.
Warnings: Death, Murder, Homosexuality, Cursing, Rape.
Author’s Notes: I just I’ve just given up on writing. After I came back from Slovenia I’ve just lost the passion. So again, scrap all my other work and here’s this. Hopefully it isn’t as bad as the summary. Enjoy.
Chapter One
The Art Gallery
“Welcome Ladies and Gentlemen. Thank you for attending this once in a life time event. Here today is a man, no in fact a legend to the Art community. He has no only introduced a new genre of Art he has also shown us the beauty of the end, of murder, of death. So, it is my honour ladies and gentlemen to introduce this man to you, and of course you all know who he is, that’s right, Gerard Way, c’mon out man!”
I took a deep breath before stepping out in front of the crowd. My heart is racing and I can feel the pee escape my bladder. My eyes are hit by a thousand pairs of eyes, each and everyone staring through my soul, finding me. I stand in front of the microphone, unable to find words.
“Uh...hello everyone. Th-thank you for being here today, it means a lot to me. Uh...” I scratched the back of my neck, feeling the sweat seep through my pours, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say really, I’ve spent so long praying to God for my work to in a gallery and here I am, here in New York, with my very first painting on show. I don’t think I could thank you, or any other person who has ever looked at or bought my work, enough. So thank you, each and every one of you for not finding my work disgusting and degrading me for my love of death. Please, enjoy the exhibit and have a wonderful evening.”
Rounds of applause begin to crescendo through the hall, I step off the small stage and walk toward my red sheet covered work. I gripped the fabric and pulled; my first ever painting relieved in person.
Claps and cheers erupt and flashes sprint through the room. I turn and look at the decorated canvas; my work is finally going to be appreciated.
The white material was covered with two main colours, red and black. A young teenage girl lingered her hand above a wishing well in the pouring rain. A penny was in midair, between the girl’s hand and the top of the well. If you looked at the girls face, you would see her eyes had no middle - just plain white, no veins, no pupil, and no iris. Her face showed no emotion, her expression completely dead pan as her face was tilting to the left. Her throat was slit, crimson blood slid down her slender neck, streamed to her collar bone but continued down her clothed body. It wasn’t just a random mass of blood; it was a trail down her body, leading you to the pool of rouge liquid gathering at her feet. There, there was the reflection of her killer, knife in his hand, and hate in his eyes. It truly was a crime of passion.
While posh people socialise and drink champagne I stand aside, watching over them, eavesdropping on their convocations about my painting, my work. It was my heart splattered onto a canvas.
My best friend Bob decided to attend the evening, I’d never allowed him to see the paintings or drawings because he may mention them to someone, and in return they may copy them. That has to be my biggest fear, someone is going to copy my work and take it as their own while they get praised and loved.
“Hey Gee, how you holding up?” I turned toward my blonde friend; he’d forgotten to shave today as he had stubble collecting on the bottom of his face. “I’m doing fine Bob, how about you?” He shuffled his feet while staring at the floor, “I uh...I’ve kinda gotten into a rough patch...” I raised my eyebrow, “Rough patch? What kind of rough patch? Michael Jackson rough patch or Britney Spears rough patch?” He continued to look at the floor, avoiding my gaze, “Uh...neither. You see, Bert broke up with me and I don’t...” He looked up at the light, trying not to burst into tears, “I don’t have a place to live and I was wondering...”
His gaze turns to me; his eyes pull of pain, water swimming around and round. I smiled at him while placing my hand on his shoulder, “Bob, I would be delighted if you would stay at my place.” He returned my smile, “really?” I nodded, “of course my friend.”
The evening went by fairly smoothly. A request for 300 copies of my ‘Death Wish’ piece had been handed to me, each copy worth $134, times that by 300, I was a rich man.
Just as the evening was drawing to an end, police trio entered the gallery. Two were fairly tall; one with an afro, the other had olive skin, obviously with a non-American background. The third was a fairly short man, no larger than 5ft5. While the uniforms walked through the doors I tried to look preoccupied hopefully in doing so, they wouldn’t approach me and tell me I was illegally parked.
The uniforms started talking to the posh snobs around me; they seemed to be asking questions, now and again someone would look around and point at me. I’d then move quickly in the opposite direction so they couldn’t find me.
Eventually I began to irritate myself with avoiding the fuzz, so I went into the toilets; I needed to take a piss anyway. I unzipped my pants and sighed with relief as I urinated. When I’d finished refastened my pants and washed my hands, making sure the water was hot and it stung to place my hands beneath.
I walked out of the bathroom only to be greeted by silence. The whole crowd was staring at me, the women stared at me with distressed and the men stared at me with confusion, I returned the look right back at them.
“Excuse me, Mr Way?” I turned round. One of the uniforms was right behind me, the one who had the huge afro, kinda like Napoleon Dynamite, just better. “Yeah, that’s me.”
He straightened his posture and removed his hat, “I need you to follow me sir.” He looked worried and scared. “Look if this is about where I parked my car just let me move it, I’ll pay whatever fine but please, don’t take me jail.” He cleared his throat and put his cap back on, “Sir, it isn’t to do with your car, it’s about...your painting.”
I heard gasps escape through the hall, “what about my paintings?” He looked over to his other two colleges, “I honestly don’t think here is the best place sir, please just follow me.”
He headed towards the exit with the other two officers, on the way Bob stalked next to me, “what’s going on?” I shrugged, “I don’t know just come with me.” He nodded and continued walking within my sync.
We stepped into the dark street, only lightened by the cheaply run street lamps. The three officers headed down the path, leaving Bob and I fairly far behind. The darkness seemed to seep over the lamps, no matter how many there were, darkness enclosed us.
We were still on the same street, I could tell that much simply because we hadn’t crossed any roads or turned a corner. Bob seemed to be as clueless as I was, that was until we saw the neon yellow ‘CRIME SCENE’ tape corning off the old, dried up well. I could feel the burn of Bob’s glance at me. This was seriously weird.
New reporters and camera’s surrounded the Crime Scene, along with officers questioning potential witnesses. I didn’t understand why I was being dragged outside, in the middle of the night to have a look at a crime scene, I hadn’t done anything.
As soon as one of the camera crew saw the three officers they came running. However it wasn’t toward the officers, oh no, it was toward me. Suddenly Bob and I were being attacked by a swarm of new reporters.
“Mr Way, how does this crime scene make you feel?” Along with other questions surrounded that topic. I was extremely oblivious to what the hell they were talking about. I didn’t know what the crime scene was, who it involved or how it looked, so why in God’s name were they asking me how I felt-
I stood completely still. I didn’t breathe, I didn’t blink. I just stared at the scene in front of me.
I remembered how to breathe and then, I remembered how to blink. I did it vigorously. I rubbed my eyes hard, I breathed hard, and hoping to God the picture in front of my eyes wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t be, not tonight.
Bob gasped behind me, his eyes popping out of his head. He noticed it too.
I could feel my bones shiver, my blood boil. It had happened. Someone had copied my work. The hours I’d spend creating and finishing and they’d copied it.
Only this time, it was a real girl.
[a/n: so here it is, I hope you like it. Please comment and tell me how bad it is! Thank you!!]