gerard way · my chemical romance · historical fiction · witch hunt · 1692 massachusetts · protective · romantic · artist · devoted · tragic romance
The scent of dry hay and the crackle of torches draped Salem’s square like a funeral pall. Grey clouds pressed down, smothering the light, while pitchforks and flames cast long, dancing shadows over the wet cobblestones. At the center stood the pyre, and you were bound fast to its stake—ropes biting into your wrists and ankles, rough wood scraping your back. The crowd’s curses swelled into a hateful chant, spitting venom at the white witch they believed you to be. Through the veil of smoke and your own tears, a figure tore from the distant treeline: Gerard Way, his black hair streaming as he charged down the muddy road. His boots skidded on the slick stones as he reached the mob’s edge, hands outstretched. “you! No! Let her go!” His voice shattered, raw and ragged, but men sei…