Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance
Don't Touch Me(Oneshot)
0 reviewsGerard upsets Beth, set AFTER 'The Worst You Take Is the Heart You Break'. You don't have to have read TWYTITHYB first.
0Unrated
"I hate you! I hate you, I hate you!"
"No, sweetie, don't-"
"Get the hell out of here. Where's my scotch?"
This was the average conversation between me and my boyfriend, Gerard Way, of the rock band My Chemical Romance. They recently released their second album, and are on tour. Gerard at the time was an alcoholic.
He stumbled around the tour bus, knocking over Frank's guitar stand and my laptop at the same time. I followed behind him, trying to stop the wreckage as it was happening.
He tripped over a book, and fell to the floor with a grunt. I tried to help him up, and he smacked my hand away.
"Don't . . .touch me," he mumbled, and grabbed a bunk for support.
"Please, Gerard, don't . . ."
"I hate you! Get away from me, you bitch!" I recoiled, as his words were like a slap in the face.
"But . . . you said you loved me, Gee," I said as a tear rolled down my face.
"Well, that was then, this is now," his tone was harsh and oddly clear for him being on a drunken rampage. I put my face in my hands and began to softly sob. As my sobs grew, I
began to wail.
"Would you just shut the hell up?!" he yelled."Where's my drink, baby?" He looked at me through half-closed lids and slurred unintelligible nonsense.
"DON'T CALL ME BABY!" I nearly shrieked."Why, why did you ruin everything?"
"Where my pills?" he looked around himself, ignoring me, teetering dangerously on one foot. I looked at him, done sobbing, disgusted. I thought of how this had begun, when it had begun, and why the hell I hadn't seen the signs of alcoholism and drug addiction creeping in. How he started to party with fellow bands, how late he was getting back to the bus. And after Grandma( I considered her my grandmother, even though it was his blood relative) died, it just got worse, him spiraling into a deep pit of depression, drugs, and booze, even though he had been on the verge of a breakthrough when she passed away. I began flashing back to all the times he had targeted me when he was drunk and feeling insecure. All the times I had waited for him on the bus after a show, and having him stumble through the door, drunk and usually stoned. One of the most prominent memories was him vomiting all over a hundred dollar dress I had bought for an evening out, celebrating their signing to a major label. And worse, all the things he had slurred to me as he lay on the small couch on the bus, head on my shoulder, the strong scent of alcohol streaming from his mouth. All the times he had called me a whore or a slut, accusing me of using him just for money. The memories buzzed in my head like poisonous hornets, not allowing any of the thousands of good memories in, though there were many more good than bad. They droned on and on until I thought I would scream. I knew I had to do something.
I finally decided on an action and pulled him to the ground. He looked around with a rather child-like anger, as if a bully in the schoolyard were picking on him. I grabbed his face in my hands. His eyes closed and he passed out.
Please God, I prayed in my head, please let him come out of it. I just need one minute.
And my prayers were answered as his eyes opened fully, as if shocked, five minutes later. I had waited out those five minutes in silence, saying my prayer over and over again and crying.
When his eyes snapped open, he looked straight into mine for a good ten seconds, as if assessing his predicament and figuring out who I was.
"Gee?" I asked weakly.
"Damn," he said slowly and quietly, blinking.
"Why can't you just stop?" Tears were spilling more quickly over my lids now, and his eyes were brimming.
"What did I say?" he asked, rubbing his forehead as we continued to sit on the floor of the bus.
"Why can't you just stop?" I repeated.
"What did I say, Beth?" he asked again."Tell me." I hesitated.
"You called me a bitch and said you hated me," I told him numbly, focusing on a discarded liquor label that was lying on the floor.
His eyes opened wide."Oh . . .oh hell, Bethy," he said, his voice shaking. He succumbed to the tears threatening his lashes, and put his face in his hands.
"It doesn't have to be like this, Gerard," I said after a moment, rubbing his back as salty tears cascaded down my cheeks."You're tearing us all apart."
"I know, I know," he said, then looked up at me."But I don't think I can stop," he said, his voice hitching and almost breaking down in sobs again. I thought for a minute, wallowing in misery.
"Remember that time when we were little?" I asked. He looked at me curiously, moisture gleaming in his eyes."We were in the sixth grade, and all six of us pricked our fingers. Blood brothers."
"And sister," he added, almost laughing at the memory. I nodded.
"You promised we would never hurt each other on purpose, and that we'd always stay together," I continued."That we would grow up and be rockstars, and use music to save lives. And to show those other kids at school, we'd never hurt ourselves on purpose, cause we weren't that kind of people." I stopped, and fresh tears came."Well, Gerard, you hurt us. You've lied-yes, we know about the cocaine-and completely ignored our trying to reason with you. You promised you wouldn't hurt yourself either, and that's exactly what you are doing. You are hurting yourself. Hell, slowly killing yourself. One day will bring too much booze, too many pills in addition, and you will have broken a promise to us. To your family.
"But it doesn't have to be that way," I began again with renewed vigor, trying to reach him."You can go on living, for us. We could get married, buy a house, have fifty damn kids." I laughed weakly. I stopped as a dark look came over my face."But if this goes on-this shit you call living the dream-it's never gonna happen, Gerard. We'll be missing one vital piece of the puzzle. You'll break up our family unit that we've worked so hard to build.
"All because you can't stop trying to feel better about yourself and trying to forget your pain by getting wasted. Grandma wouldn't have wanted you to waste away like this. So please, please, Gerard. Stay with us." I looked into his eyes intently, and he was crying again, and I was crying again, and we both grabbed onto each other for dear life.
And through our sea of emotions, I began kissing away each tear on his face.
"Can you forgive me?" he asked, sobbing.
"Yes, of course, baby, of course," I said, joy exploding in my veins, my lungs, my heart as I punctuated every word with a kiss.
And so we sat on the floor of the bus, not knowing what time it was, nor caring, crying and holding each other. After a measureless amount of time, the others entered the bus, coming back from signing autographs and chatting with fans. It took only a wordless glance, and things suddenly clicked into place for them, and they, too, joined us on the floor littered with wrappers and comic books.
After awhile, I got up and led Gerard to his bunk. Everyone else got ready for bed, too, and left Gerard and I to some privacy.
After they were in their bunks, I sat on the edge of Gerard's.
"I love you," I said, pushing his hair behind his ear. He looked up at me through watery, bloodshot eyes.
"Will you stay with me?" he asked, his voice trembling. I looked at him and nodded, my heart almost breaking at the broken sound of his voice, sliding down beside him.
"I love you," he whispered and kissed my cheek.
We drifted off to sleep at 3 A.M., on August 11, on the first day of Gerard being sober.
"No, sweetie, don't-"
"Get the hell out of here. Where's my scotch?"
This was the average conversation between me and my boyfriend, Gerard Way, of the rock band My Chemical Romance. They recently released their second album, and are on tour. Gerard at the time was an alcoholic.
He stumbled around the tour bus, knocking over Frank's guitar stand and my laptop at the same time. I followed behind him, trying to stop the wreckage as it was happening.
He tripped over a book, and fell to the floor with a grunt. I tried to help him up, and he smacked my hand away.
"Don't . . .touch me," he mumbled, and grabbed a bunk for support.
"Please, Gerard, don't . . ."
"I hate you! Get away from me, you bitch!" I recoiled, as his words were like a slap in the face.
"But . . . you said you loved me, Gee," I said as a tear rolled down my face.
"Well, that was then, this is now," his tone was harsh and oddly clear for him being on a drunken rampage. I put my face in my hands and began to softly sob. As my sobs grew, I
began to wail.
"Would you just shut the hell up?!" he yelled."Where's my drink, baby?" He looked at me through half-closed lids and slurred unintelligible nonsense.
"DON'T CALL ME BABY!" I nearly shrieked."Why, why did you ruin everything?"
"Where my pills?" he looked around himself, ignoring me, teetering dangerously on one foot. I looked at him, done sobbing, disgusted. I thought of how this had begun, when it had begun, and why the hell I hadn't seen the signs of alcoholism and drug addiction creeping in. How he started to party with fellow bands, how late he was getting back to the bus. And after Grandma( I considered her my grandmother, even though it was his blood relative) died, it just got worse, him spiraling into a deep pit of depression, drugs, and booze, even though he had been on the verge of a breakthrough when she passed away. I began flashing back to all the times he had targeted me when he was drunk and feeling insecure. All the times I had waited for him on the bus after a show, and having him stumble through the door, drunk and usually stoned. One of the most prominent memories was him vomiting all over a hundred dollar dress I had bought for an evening out, celebrating their signing to a major label. And worse, all the things he had slurred to me as he lay on the small couch on the bus, head on my shoulder, the strong scent of alcohol streaming from his mouth. All the times he had called me a whore or a slut, accusing me of using him just for money. The memories buzzed in my head like poisonous hornets, not allowing any of the thousands of good memories in, though there were many more good than bad. They droned on and on until I thought I would scream. I knew I had to do something.
I finally decided on an action and pulled him to the ground. He looked around with a rather child-like anger, as if a bully in the schoolyard were picking on him. I grabbed his face in my hands. His eyes closed and he passed out.
Please God, I prayed in my head, please let him come out of it. I just need one minute.
And my prayers were answered as his eyes opened fully, as if shocked, five minutes later. I had waited out those five minutes in silence, saying my prayer over and over again and crying.
When his eyes snapped open, he looked straight into mine for a good ten seconds, as if assessing his predicament and figuring out who I was.
"Gee?" I asked weakly.
"Damn," he said slowly and quietly, blinking.
"Why can't you just stop?" Tears were spilling more quickly over my lids now, and his eyes were brimming.
"What did I say?" he asked, rubbing his forehead as we continued to sit on the floor of the bus.
"Why can't you just stop?" I repeated.
"What did I say, Beth?" he asked again."Tell me." I hesitated.
"You called me a bitch and said you hated me," I told him numbly, focusing on a discarded liquor label that was lying on the floor.
His eyes opened wide."Oh . . .oh hell, Bethy," he said, his voice shaking. He succumbed to the tears threatening his lashes, and put his face in his hands.
"It doesn't have to be like this, Gerard," I said after a moment, rubbing his back as salty tears cascaded down my cheeks."You're tearing us all apart."
"I know, I know," he said, then looked up at me."But I don't think I can stop," he said, his voice hitching and almost breaking down in sobs again. I thought for a minute, wallowing in misery.
"Remember that time when we were little?" I asked. He looked at me curiously, moisture gleaming in his eyes."We were in the sixth grade, and all six of us pricked our fingers. Blood brothers."
"And sister," he added, almost laughing at the memory. I nodded.
"You promised we would never hurt each other on purpose, and that we'd always stay together," I continued."That we would grow up and be rockstars, and use music to save lives. And to show those other kids at school, we'd never hurt ourselves on purpose, cause we weren't that kind of people." I stopped, and fresh tears came."Well, Gerard, you hurt us. You've lied-yes, we know about the cocaine-and completely ignored our trying to reason with you. You promised you wouldn't hurt yourself either, and that's exactly what you are doing. You are hurting yourself. Hell, slowly killing yourself. One day will bring too much booze, too many pills in addition, and you will have broken a promise to us. To your family.
"But it doesn't have to be that way," I began again with renewed vigor, trying to reach him."You can go on living, for us. We could get married, buy a house, have fifty damn kids." I laughed weakly. I stopped as a dark look came over my face."But if this goes on-this shit you call living the dream-it's never gonna happen, Gerard. We'll be missing one vital piece of the puzzle. You'll break up our family unit that we've worked so hard to build.
"All because you can't stop trying to feel better about yourself and trying to forget your pain by getting wasted. Grandma wouldn't have wanted you to waste away like this. So please, please, Gerard. Stay with us." I looked into his eyes intently, and he was crying again, and I was crying again, and we both grabbed onto each other for dear life.
And through our sea of emotions, I began kissing away each tear on his face.
"Can you forgive me?" he asked, sobbing.
"Yes, of course, baby, of course," I said, joy exploding in my veins, my lungs, my heart as I punctuated every word with a kiss.
And so we sat on the floor of the bus, not knowing what time it was, nor caring, crying and holding each other. After a measureless amount of time, the others entered the bus, coming back from signing autographs and chatting with fans. It took only a wordless glance, and things suddenly clicked into place for them, and they, too, joined us on the floor littered with wrappers and comic books.
After awhile, I got up and led Gerard to his bunk. Everyone else got ready for bed, too, and left Gerard and I to some privacy.
After they were in their bunks, I sat on the edge of Gerard's.
"I love you," I said, pushing his hair behind his ear. He looked up at me through watery, bloodshot eyes.
"Will you stay with me?" he asked, his voice trembling. I looked at him and nodded, my heart almost breaking at the broken sound of his voice, sliding down beside him.
"I love you," he whispered and kissed my cheek.
We drifted off to sleep at 3 A.M., on August 11, on the first day of Gerard being sober.
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