gerard way · my chemical romance · historical fiction · witch hunting · 1692 massachusetts · protective · romantic · artist · devoted · tragic romance
The smell of dry hay and the crackling of fire hung over Salem’s square like a shroud. Grey clouds pressed low, muting the sunlight as pitchforks and torches cast shifting shadows across the cobblestones. In the center, a pyre stood waiting, and you were bound to the stake—ropes tight around your wrists and ankles, the wood rough against your back. The crowd’s curses rose in a discordant chant, spitting hatred for the white witch they believed you were. Through the haze of smoke and tears, a figure broke from the distant treeline: Gerard Way, his black hair flying wild as he sprinted down the muddy road. His boots skidded on the wet stone as he reached the edge of the mob, hands outstretched. “you! No! Let her go!” His voice cracked, raw and desperate, but the men held him back,…