Gerard's trying, but has he blown it for good?
I think he’s serious this time, Gerard thought, just sitting at the kitchen table. The bus was still rolling. His heart was still beating. But something big had just happened. Every time Frankie or any of the guys had yelled at him, he knew it had been out of care. Out of concern, and most of all out of love. But this last time, all he could see, hear, feel, was hate. Pure hate, directed at him. From Frankie. From Bob. From Ray. Maybe not from Mikey, but it still hurt. Then it hit him. He’d blown it. Every time he drank, and saw the look on their faces and swore to himself it was the last time. Every time he’d seen Frankie’s heart snap in two when he wandered off with a random drunk fangirl and he’d promised himself he’d make it up to him. Every show he’d played where he’d seen the disappointed looks of his bandmates. It had all come back and hit him. Because they didn’t care anymore. And it was too late. There was nothing he could do now. Any chance of making this thing work, and of being with Frankie, was now gone. And now, nothing. Well, some things, but they weren’t nice. First the tears, which rolled down his cheeks and fell to the table, leaving wet dark streaks on his pale face. Then, the anger. The guilt disappeared, along with the sadness, and turned to rage, and his own brand of hate. After all, it was his life, he could drink however much he liked. He didn’t mean to hurt anyone, so It wasn’t fair to blame him if he accidentally did. Then, finally, the craving. Gerard yawned and stood up, walking to the fridge. He pulled out a beer, then opened the freezer and pulled out a vodka. His only friends. He looked at them a minute, before cracking the beer. Then another thought occurred to him. These aren’t my friends. They never were. If they were my friends, then they wouldn’t hurt me. He sat looking at them a minute longer, before he stood up and hurled both bottles at the floor, where they smashed. Then, in a frenzy of regret and self hatred, he threw open every cupboard, and the fridge, and smashed and poured every bottle into the sink. He strode to his bag and pulled out all his pill bottles, empty of full, and his little ziplock bag, and added it to the mix of broken glass and alcohol in the sink. Then, still not satisfied, he ran past the bunks, where the guys were grouped, into the bathroom, locking the door and falling to the floor, where he could do nothing but cry. He was crying for the only one he’d ever loved, who’d never given up on him, but who he’d driven away. He cried for his baby brother, who he always wanted to be a good role model for, and who he wanted to care for, but who always ended up taking care of him. He cried for his two neglected best friends, who only ever wanted him happy and safe. He cried for his band, the outlet for all his pain and frustration, his freedom from his sad world of substance abuse. And then, he cried for when he was dependant on all the wrong things. For the day when their roles had switched, and he had lost all control.
First we heard a bang. Then the fridge. We looked at each other through eyes laced with bitter tears, knowing our passion hadn’t changed anything, our hurt meant nothing to him. Then clinking. Then a loud smash. I looked up at Mikey, who looked confused. Ray stood up, but Bob grabbed him and shook his head. We weren’t going to rush off and help him. Not this time. The next five minutes were painful. The smashing, the gurgling, the yelling. The rattle of pill bottles falling, the shuffle of bags, and then Gerard ran past us into the bathroom, where he locked himself in. As soon as he did Bob and Ray got up and ran to the kitchen, me and Mikey following. “Ow!” Mikey yelled. I looked down, and he had stood on one of many shards of glass littering the room. Gerard had thrown some bottles to the ground and their liquids had spilled everywhere, and the glass was all over the floor. Mikey went and sat down and cleaned up the blood on his foot, and I toed my way to the sink, and peered in. “Wow.” I said quietly, to the mess beneath my eyes. “If I don’t know better, I’d say it was kind of beautiful…” Said Ray, speaking my mind for me. “it’s like art.” I breathed. The glass was like a sculpture; covered in a rainbow of booze, decorated like a cake with pills and coke. I turned and walked out, to the bathroom. I put my ear to the door gently and heard heavy breathing and the occasional sob. “Gerard?” I whispered to the door. He didn’t reply, but I could tell he was trying to control his breathing. Something metal hit the floor “Gee… Come on.” I said, a little louder. I gave a frustrated sigh and walked back to the kitchen. “Mikey. Go talk to him. I don’t know what he’s doing, but we should help…” Mikey looked at me doubtfully, but then shrugged and walked towards the bathroom. I followed and sat down against a wall and listened. “Hey it’s Mikey. I know it may seem to you like we’re all out to get you… But we aren’t. Anything I ever did, good or bad, it was for you. We all love you… So, come out.” Nothing. No reply. We sat there, neither of us knowing what to do, then, a loud bang. “What the fuck? Gerard?” Then, the door opened and Gerard stepped out, his head bowed. He mumbled something but I didn’t really care. I knew what he had just done. I could tell by the way his arms were carefully crossed, and the guilty look on his face. He wandered to his bunk where he climbed in and said quietly “I’m not going to do it anymore.” Mikey said “That’s great Gee.” Almost in a whisper, but Gerard was looking straight at me. I shook my head and walked away from him. It’d take much more than a few bucks of easily replaceable booze wasted, a few shallow cuts and a flimsy easily breakable promise to get me back.