Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge
After what Gerard and Aimee came to call ‘the drama room explosion’ and the resulting ‘tree incident’ Aimee found that she didn’t mind the whispers that followed her, she just spent her time with Gerard, Mikey and sometimes Frank, who joined them every so often.
Their lunchtimes were whiled away underneath the gnarled oak, which absorbed their conversations on superheros, cheerleaders (Mikey in particular was smitten with ‘Josie’), their plans for after school, the latest movies, and every other conversation topic under the sun.
“Batman Returns! I don’t think I’ve EVER seen a movie to rival it!”
“What about the first Batman?”
“Nah, Tim Burton’s influence makes the second movie.”
There was a chorus of agreement at Tim Burton’s genius.
“Hey, I heard he’s releasing an animated film; A Nightmare before Christmas, next year! We have to go see it!” Nods all round greeted Mikey’s claim. But Aimee looked troubled
“What’s up Aims?”
“I, I don’t know where I’ll be next year…” Aimee trailed off fearfully. Gerard pulled her into a hug.
“You’ll be with me, cos wherever you go, I’ll follow you,” Gerard murmured into Aimee’s ear. She smiled shakily, but remained subdued all lunch, taking small comfort in Gerard’s arm around her shoulder.
The truth was that Aimee just couldn’t comprehend life outside school. She just wasn’t ready, she was too immature, too scared of the big bad world to face it in just a few short months. But, she swallowed her fear and trudged after Gerard to English.
“What is this Miss Callen?” Aimee looked up into Ms Waller’s beaky nose and bushy monobrow. She looked down at the piece of paper her English teacher was holding like a dead rat
“Umm…it’s my creative writing piece on ‘things we love’, see, I love Mississippi mud cake.” She said happily, her grin widening by a few molars when she noticed the twitch in her teachers neck.
“You cannot love cake! I told you to write about love, not superficial love, real love!” exasperated, Ms Waller’s voice rose in pitch
“Yes, but Ms, you can’t tell me off for writing about superficial love, when Tom wrote about his girlfriend, that’s not love Ms, that’s lust.” Baffled, the teacher spun on her heel, after one last evil glare at Aimee, and returned to the blackboard.
“Oh, Aims, that was sweet! I couldn’t believe the look on the teacher’s face! Fantastic!” Aimee laughed a gentle, honest sound that Gerard hadn’t heard in months. He stared at her goofily for a second before realising he was being spoken to
“Huh…what sorry?”
“I said, what did you write about?” Gerard hastily stuffed his paper into his folder
“Nothing” and he hurried to the art room, leaving a mystified Aimee in his wake.
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Gerard had invited Aimee home during their free last period where they had made an explosion of cheese, tomato, ham and pineapple that Mikey (who was ditching) proudly proclaimed as ‘pizza’. Gerard had stood over Aimee, watching her every bite and not letting her out of his sight the entire afternoon. When the boys decided to play on their Nintendo like the geeks they were, Aimee muttered an excuse about homework and made her escape. She ran all the way home, ignoring the blisters on her feet from the still delicately burned skin.
She nearly ploughed her mother down in the hallway, throwing an apology over her shoulder as she headed to the bathroom. She locked the door behind her and tied up her hair that now grazed her jawline. Leaning over the toilet, she shoved a finger down her throat and began to gag, it was routine, normally, but every time her stomach heaved, an image of Gerard’s drawing flashed in the toilet bowl. Tears fell from her bloodshot eyes, disturbing the water, but nothing could erase the image from her mind’s eye. Aimee slumped against the toilet if there’s so much food in my stomach, why do I feel so empty. She drew her knees to her thin chest and let the silent, hot tears cascade down her cheeks and pool on the tiles.
She had promised Gerard that she would try. Sniffling, she snaked a hand out of the bathroom door and grabbed the phone on the table in the hall. She punched in Gerard’s number and waited for his voice to crackle over the line
“Help me.” she whispered.
Gerard’s soothing voice came over the phone, singing to her as her tears dried. Houses away, Gerard’s eyes swam with his own tears as he sang to his suffering friend.
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That night, Aimee had a catharsis of sorts. She tipped all her pills down the toilet and flushed. Her cigarettes, used for killing hunger, went the same way. She grinned as she thought of Gerard’s response to such a waste of nicotine. Her journal, where she had detailed all the calorie contents and her weight on the scales was torn, then, for good measure, burned. Any well hidden diet books went into the trash, defaced beyond recognition.
Then, she jumped into the shower, turning it as hot as it could go. She watched as her raw skin turned lobster red and swelled up, stretching the shiny scars into until she couldn’t recognise herself anymore. Once she was clean, she got out and wiped the condensation off the mirror, staring at her body. Thankfully, it was the beginning of winter, so her long sleeves and jeans weren’t out of place in the frosty air. She covered her scars whenever she could, and it was only now, in the shower that she saw the true extent of what Jackson had done to her.
She was a mass of tight, sore scars, concentrated most on her head and torso; that was where the gasoline had been poured. When the heat from the flames had melted the tarmac beneath her feet, her skin had peeled away, leaving her feet as exposed and tender as the inside of a clam. She looked at her hands; she had been wearing black nail polish at the time, and her nails had melted into her cuticles, now, she would always have short, black nails. Her knuckles and the bones of her hands showed clearly through the thin scars, her skin constantly peeling away to reveal painful blisters. She never told anyone about the chaffing from even the lightest cotton, but carried needles and bandages around to pop and cover the sores.
Grimacing, she slathered the lotion that the doctor had prescribed over her, working the thick white glop into her face, neck, shoulders, back and arms. Gently, she covered the scars in the lightest white gauze, apparently designed to heal her skin, whilst letting it breathe. When she had finished, she looked like a greasy mummy from waist up, brown eyes scrutinizing her handiwork. Satisfied, she clambered into her bed and fell into her first deep sleep since before her accident.
A.N- this chapter is dedicated to my friend who suffers from EB (Epidermal Bullosa) and she really does have to carry around needles to pop the blisters that form due to her delicate skin.
Their lunchtimes were whiled away underneath the gnarled oak, which absorbed their conversations on superheros, cheerleaders (Mikey in particular was smitten with ‘Josie’), their plans for after school, the latest movies, and every other conversation topic under the sun.
“Batman Returns! I don’t think I’ve EVER seen a movie to rival it!”
“What about the first Batman?”
“Nah, Tim Burton’s influence makes the second movie.”
There was a chorus of agreement at Tim Burton’s genius.
“Hey, I heard he’s releasing an animated film; A Nightmare before Christmas, next year! We have to go see it!” Nods all round greeted Mikey’s claim. But Aimee looked troubled
“What’s up Aims?”
“I, I don’t know where I’ll be next year…” Aimee trailed off fearfully. Gerard pulled her into a hug.
“You’ll be with me, cos wherever you go, I’ll follow you,” Gerard murmured into Aimee’s ear. She smiled shakily, but remained subdued all lunch, taking small comfort in Gerard’s arm around her shoulder.
The truth was that Aimee just couldn’t comprehend life outside school. She just wasn’t ready, she was too immature, too scared of the big bad world to face it in just a few short months. But, she swallowed her fear and trudged after Gerard to English.
“What is this Miss Callen?” Aimee looked up into Ms Waller’s beaky nose and bushy monobrow. She looked down at the piece of paper her English teacher was holding like a dead rat
“Umm…it’s my creative writing piece on ‘things we love’, see, I love Mississippi mud cake.” She said happily, her grin widening by a few molars when she noticed the twitch in her teachers neck.
“You cannot love cake! I told you to write about love, not superficial love, real love!” exasperated, Ms Waller’s voice rose in pitch
“Yes, but Ms, you can’t tell me off for writing about superficial love, when Tom wrote about his girlfriend, that’s not love Ms, that’s lust.” Baffled, the teacher spun on her heel, after one last evil glare at Aimee, and returned to the blackboard.
“Oh, Aims, that was sweet! I couldn’t believe the look on the teacher’s face! Fantastic!” Aimee laughed a gentle, honest sound that Gerard hadn’t heard in months. He stared at her goofily for a second before realising he was being spoken to
“Huh…what sorry?”
“I said, what did you write about?” Gerard hastily stuffed his paper into his folder
“Nothing” and he hurried to the art room, leaving a mystified Aimee in his wake.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Gerard had invited Aimee home during their free last period where they had made an explosion of cheese, tomato, ham and pineapple that Mikey (who was ditching) proudly proclaimed as ‘pizza’. Gerard had stood over Aimee, watching her every bite and not letting her out of his sight the entire afternoon. When the boys decided to play on their Nintendo like the geeks they were, Aimee muttered an excuse about homework and made her escape. She ran all the way home, ignoring the blisters on her feet from the still delicately burned skin.
She nearly ploughed her mother down in the hallway, throwing an apology over her shoulder as she headed to the bathroom. She locked the door behind her and tied up her hair that now grazed her jawline. Leaning over the toilet, she shoved a finger down her throat and began to gag, it was routine, normally, but every time her stomach heaved, an image of Gerard’s drawing flashed in the toilet bowl. Tears fell from her bloodshot eyes, disturbing the water, but nothing could erase the image from her mind’s eye. Aimee slumped against the toilet if there’s so much food in my stomach, why do I feel so empty. She drew her knees to her thin chest and let the silent, hot tears cascade down her cheeks and pool on the tiles.
She had promised Gerard that she would try. Sniffling, she snaked a hand out of the bathroom door and grabbed the phone on the table in the hall. She punched in Gerard’s number and waited for his voice to crackle over the line
“Help me.” she whispered.
Gerard’s soothing voice came over the phone, singing to her as her tears dried. Houses away, Gerard’s eyes swam with his own tears as he sang to his suffering friend.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
That night, Aimee had a catharsis of sorts. She tipped all her pills down the toilet and flushed. Her cigarettes, used for killing hunger, went the same way. She grinned as she thought of Gerard’s response to such a waste of nicotine. Her journal, where she had detailed all the calorie contents and her weight on the scales was torn, then, for good measure, burned. Any well hidden diet books went into the trash, defaced beyond recognition.
Then, she jumped into the shower, turning it as hot as it could go. She watched as her raw skin turned lobster red and swelled up, stretching the shiny scars into until she couldn’t recognise herself anymore. Once she was clean, she got out and wiped the condensation off the mirror, staring at her body. Thankfully, it was the beginning of winter, so her long sleeves and jeans weren’t out of place in the frosty air. She covered her scars whenever she could, and it was only now, in the shower that she saw the true extent of what Jackson had done to her.
She was a mass of tight, sore scars, concentrated most on her head and torso; that was where the gasoline had been poured. When the heat from the flames had melted the tarmac beneath her feet, her skin had peeled away, leaving her feet as exposed and tender as the inside of a clam. She looked at her hands; she had been wearing black nail polish at the time, and her nails had melted into her cuticles, now, she would always have short, black nails. Her knuckles and the bones of her hands showed clearly through the thin scars, her skin constantly peeling away to reveal painful blisters. She never told anyone about the chaffing from even the lightest cotton, but carried needles and bandages around to pop and cover the sores.
Grimacing, she slathered the lotion that the doctor had prescribed over her, working the thick white glop into her face, neck, shoulders, back and arms. Gently, she covered the scars in the lightest white gauze, apparently designed to heal her skin, whilst letting it breathe. When she had finished, she looked like a greasy mummy from waist up, brown eyes scrutinizing her handiwork. Satisfied, she clambered into her bed and fell into her first deep sleep since before her accident.
A.N- this chapter is dedicated to my friend who suffers from EB (Epidermal Bullosa) and she really does have to carry around needles to pop the blisters that form due to her delicate skin.
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