Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance
Okay so this is about as far as I can get with this story. If you like, you can take it on yourself and finish it off, just cause I suck.
The pills are great for taking away the pain.
Its what theyre made for, it's their job.
The problem is they do a great job at taking away everything else as well.
Snatching a choke-hold on every single, not happy exactly, but every sweet, tender emotion. Every memory of better times. Every good feeling my delapidated body is still capable of housing within it's rotting, scarred shell of skin and bone and nothing more.
My body is a black board, and the pills are a duster, wiping it clean. Promising a fresh start, promising new beginnings and happier days, but never fully obliterating the old, chalky white residue. The bad feelings.
The feelings that Im not proud of, the ones that keep me awake at night. Lying there staring up at the nicotine stained ceiling of my basement room, wishing I could become a better person, but not knowing how.
The pills come, contained in a little pink plastic bottle, which glints and gleams in the light, streaming through the slightly ajar frosted glass window in my parents bathroom. I pick up the bottle and shake the contents around, enjoying the click-clicking sound they make as they bounce off of eachother and the walls of their pink tinted prison. It's a refreshing noise, after the long silence of late morning.
The pills themselves aren't decorated so promisingly as the optimistic bottle they are served up in. A dull off-white color, and with that same chalking consistancy of the imaginary black-board inside my head.
They slip down my throat easily. Too easily really, to actually do any good. Good things are always the ones you have to work hardest for. Good things don't come so easily. Even as I gulp them down obediantly, I can feel my muscles tense, as though graring at the alien substance dissolving into my insides. Definately not doing any good.
With a sigh, I snap the white lid back onto the jar and stow them away in the bathroom closet next to my fathers razor and my brothers contact lenses. Outside the window it's just beginning to rain. Large droplets of the stuff streaking down the window pane, and collecting on the dusty ground.
I forget myself as I watch it. A feeling of nostalgia creeps across me, and I'm a small child again, watching raindrops run down my bedroom window, giving each droplet a name as it runs. I'd race them, applauding the fastest droplet, scolding the one who crossed the finishline last, or decided to pause halfway down the clouded pane and evaporate.
I'd never had real friends to play with as a child. This is how I would amuse myself.
And I still didn't now. It was the first week of the summer break - not that you'd know it, judging by the weather - and I was home alone. Parents at work, brother out with a group of friends at the local mall.
And I was home alone. Wishing someone would call, wishing I had someone to call.
I trudge into the kitchen, not caring how much noise my scuffing doc-martins are causing against the white tiled floor. The house is totally empty, and anyway, I kind of like the sound it makes. A high squeaking sound, followed by the thunk of my foot hitting the ground. Squeak-thunk. I smile to myself, without really knowing why.
The pearcing scream of the telephone wipes the smile off of my face and brings me momentarily back to reality. I squeak-thunk into the hall to where the red telephone sits atop a stack of phone books and furniture brocheures.
Ever since I was small, I've been scared of answering the phone. Terrified that I will somehow find myself in a scene from a horror movie, answering the phone and being told that I am dead or something else just as unlikely. Or worse still, all thoughts of horror movie's aside, that it could be a doctor on the other end of the line, informing me that my mom or dad or brother is dead.
I watch the phone ring out, and when it finally quietens down, I lift the reciever and leave it hanging, off the hook.
Then I squeak-thunk back into the kitchen and take a gulp from the tequila bottle my dad left out on the counter last night. My mind becomes pleasantly blank as the burning hot tequila mixes with the anti-depressants somewhere inside me, and I slide down the wall to the white tiled floor, smiling down at my feet.
The pills are great for taking away the pain.
Its what theyre made for, it's their job.
The problem is they do a great job at taking away everything else as well.
Snatching a choke-hold on every single, not happy exactly, but every sweet, tender emotion. Every memory of better times. Every good feeling my delapidated body is still capable of housing within it's rotting, scarred shell of skin and bone and nothing more.
My body is a black board, and the pills are a duster, wiping it clean. Promising a fresh start, promising new beginnings and happier days, but never fully obliterating the old, chalky white residue. The bad feelings.
The feelings that Im not proud of, the ones that keep me awake at night. Lying there staring up at the nicotine stained ceiling of my basement room, wishing I could become a better person, but not knowing how.
The pills come, contained in a little pink plastic bottle, which glints and gleams in the light, streaming through the slightly ajar frosted glass window in my parents bathroom. I pick up the bottle and shake the contents around, enjoying the click-clicking sound they make as they bounce off of eachother and the walls of their pink tinted prison. It's a refreshing noise, after the long silence of late morning.
The pills themselves aren't decorated so promisingly as the optimistic bottle they are served up in. A dull off-white color, and with that same chalking consistancy of the imaginary black-board inside my head.
They slip down my throat easily. Too easily really, to actually do any good. Good things are always the ones you have to work hardest for. Good things don't come so easily. Even as I gulp them down obediantly, I can feel my muscles tense, as though graring at the alien substance dissolving into my insides. Definately not doing any good.
With a sigh, I snap the white lid back onto the jar and stow them away in the bathroom closet next to my fathers razor and my brothers contact lenses. Outside the window it's just beginning to rain. Large droplets of the stuff streaking down the window pane, and collecting on the dusty ground.
I forget myself as I watch it. A feeling of nostalgia creeps across me, and I'm a small child again, watching raindrops run down my bedroom window, giving each droplet a name as it runs. I'd race them, applauding the fastest droplet, scolding the one who crossed the finishline last, or decided to pause halfway down the clouded pane and evaporate.
I'd never had real friends to play with as a child. This is how I would amuse myself.
And I still didn't now. It was the first week of the summer break - not that you'd know it, judging by the weather - and I was home alone. Parents at work, brother out with a group of friends at the local mall.
And I was home alone. Wishing someone would call, wishing I had someone to call.
I trudge into the kitchen, not caring how much noise my scuffing doc-martins are causing against the white tiled floor. The house is totally empty, and anyway, I kind of like the sound it makes. A high squeaking sound, followed by the thunk of my foot hitting the ground. Squeak-thunk. I smile to myself, without really knowing why.
The pearcing scream of the telephone wipes the smile off of my face and brings me momentarily back to reality. I squeak-thunk into the hall to where the red telephone sits atop a stack of phone books and furniture brocheures.
Ever since I was small, I've been scared of answering the phone. Terrified that I will somehow find myself in a scene from a horror movie, answering the phone and being told that I am dead or something else just as unlikely. Or worse still, all thoughts of horror movie's aside, that it could be a doctor on the other end of the line, informing me that my mom or dad or brother is dead.
I watch the phone ring out, and when it finally quietens down, I lift the reciever and leave it hanging, off the hook.
Then I squeak-thunk back into the kitchen and take a gulp from the tequila bottle my dad left out on the counter last night. My mind becomes pleasantly blank as the burning hot tequila mixes with the anti-depressants somewhere inside me, and I slide down the wall to the white tiled floor, smiling down at my feet.
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