Gerard sends a short story to a magazine. One shot
I lay on my bed, staring almost blankly at the ceiling. In the darkness of 2am the tears from my pain filled eyes are invisible to the empty room. You won't be able to see my eyes thinking it over, thinking what it would be like to let go.
To let my parents come to yell at me for being late to school, only to discover a blood stained mattress and a cold body. To see a jagged triangular piece of a mirror crudely sticking out of the precious veins in my wrist.
I would hope they would be sad, I hope they would cry while reading the note I left them. When they saw the tears that stain the ripped out notebook paper, when they start to feel everything I felt when I decided to end it.
The goddamn pain of doing nothing while a loved one- or anyone, really- is dead from an avoidable cause. A reason that shouldn't have been a problem, something that wouldn't happen in a halfway decent, or even fair world.
It really is too bad the world isn't fair. If it was, there would be so many beautiful people left alive, not overtaken by despair.
And I can't help but feel its so stupid, it's so useless and I don't understand why it happens. Do people really take pleasure in destroying another? Do they feel in control when they use their hate to kill another? Is it a compulsion? A dirty, vile compulsion that people need to be jailed for?
Why are humans so awful? Why are we all filled with hate, with undesirable rage and the capabilities of being so cruel?
Every night I lay awake, long into the night, hoping tomorrow will be better. It never is, but I can't bring myself to lose hope. I can't stop planning my dreams. If I stop planning, I'll stop living and succumb to this awful depression.
I suppose I the grand scheme of things just another suicide means nothing, just another body to burn.
There is a reason my poetry is so dark, a reason my soul is so twisted, distorted and frayed at the ends. A reason the bottle was my best buddy for so long.
"Sex and Drugs and Rock and Roll." hah. While I'm into rock and roll, sex and drugs, the drugs aren't about the rock and roll image. It was about dealing with all the inescapable hate.
Dealing with how it hurts to look in the mirror, to hate what you see. There's only so much skin for their acid to burn through. Only so much flesh to bruise, only so many words to be spat.
Someday, I'll have seen it all. Someday my skin will be thicker, someday it won't hurt. Someday I'll be alive, not merely living.
I sigh. One day, I won't be up in the early hours of the day repeating the hate from the day before.
Let's just hope I can make it that far.
~Every Night, by Gerard Way (no its by me but theatrical purposes blah blah blah)
Tell me what you think, yea?