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Famous Last Words- Behind the Music.

I sat there, horrified. The images on my screen, they horrified me. I felt nauseous, physically sick to my stomach, as I sat on my couch, laptop burning into the skin of my legs through my jeans. A slew of teen suicides, all in the past month. 5 beautiful girls and boys, who felt so hopeless that they took their own lives. Who felt so alone that they thought pills, a rope, a knife, a gun nd a dose of heroin were their only friend, and the only thing that could fix it. Who felt so broken that they couldn’t be fixed. Who felt so… so unneeded, they thought the world was better off without them.

It nearly brought tears to my eyes, seeing just the headlines, accompanied by the smiling pictures of three teens. Three teens. Three kids who should have grown up to be artists, lawyers, doctors, designers, rock stars, anything they wanted to be. Three kids who couldn’t make it anymore. Who couldn’t take it anymore. Who couldn’t shake it off any more, not a damned moment longer.

I click the link, read the horrifying report. It mentions the other two teens that were ripped from this life so much before they should have left this planet. I begin to cry, tears slowly running down my face.

Most people would not cry over this. Most people would feel sad, most people would get over it. But not me. I know what it’s like to be at this point. I know what it’s like to feel like you just can’t go on any longer. I get being at your very rock bottom, the lowest of the low. I remember the pain, the empty feeling, the terror that struck me at the thought of going to school every single day. It’s fresh in my mind, though it happened nearly ten years ago.

Setting my computer down next to a cup of coffee that has now gone cold, having been ignored as I stared in horror and shock at my internet screen, I go to my room. Taking the stairs two at a time, I get to my room. The cold door handle is twisted, and I go in to my bedroom. A few steps and I’m at my bedside table, where a lamp and a few random items sit. Bending over, I open the very bottom drawer, grabbing the black book that was my journal from highschool. I turn to the page marked with a red scrap of paper, and read the tear stained paper.

Today, I came close. So close. It would be easy. Nobody was in the house. Pills were abundant, having just been to the pharmacy the day before. I could find some rope, or use my sheets. I knew there were drugs somewhere. I had the means, and believe me, I’ve got the motive. And I do sure as hell have an oppruntity. So why haven’t I?

I have realized something. Mikey was lying next to me, asleep. He, of course, was on the bed across from mine. The joy of twin beds, right? I realized something. Life is love. It is a love that is incredibly demanding. I mean, I’d planned on killing myself tonight. I had it all planned out. Pills were ready, and if that didn’t work, the rope was there. I knew how to tie it and everything.

And then Mikey woke up. He looked at me, and he spoke.

”Y’know…. As bad as things get sometimes…. I just remember that I’ve got you.” He said, and drifted back off to sleep. That really hit me. I couldn’t sleep, the rest of the night, even though I had school the next day. School. Eight long, torturous hours of ridicule and humiliation by my so called ‘peers’. When I finally got to that hellhole the next morning, I was greeted with the regular taunts and teases. “Faggot!” they called when I walked by. One or two come up, shove me against a locker, and harras me well into the first class. I had nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide. I stood there, and I took every harsh, demeaning word. I took it like I’d taken it for the past year and a half. When the bullies left, I made my way to the bathroom. My hands shook, and I placed them firmly on the off white counter of the sink, which is covered in grime and God knows what else. I’m looking at the sink drain, little holes allowing for liquids to go down it easily. My self confidence was drained, every little piece of it having been washed down a metaphorical drain b the bullies who hated me for my hair, my makeup, the clothes I wore, the music I listened to, the people I liked. And you know what occurred to me?

I am, even with the torment, okay with that. What they thought no longer mattered to me. I looked up at myself in the mirror. I saw my face. So what if it wasn’t what people considered beautiful? So what if I was different? So what if I wasn’t into rap and pop music? So. What. The bullies could throw words at me, tell me I’d forever walk the world by myself, eternally lonesome. But you know what?

I am not afraid to keep on living. I am not afraid to walk this world alone.

And that’s why I haven’t killed myself. Nothing they can stay can stop me from coming home. I feel oh so weak sometimes, and it may be hard understanding I feel incomplete, especially in this love that’s so demanding. I still, am unafraid to keep on living.

I am who I am. They will not change me. Nobody will. And that’s why, as of this moment, I no longer have the motive to kill myself. Because then, these bullies win. Because then, I only miss out on the opportunity to prove them wrong. To prove that I am worth something. To prove that I am beautiful. To Prove that I am loved. To prove I have talent. To prove that I’m smart.

To prove that I am more than a name, a face, an outcast. To prove that I will keep on living. TO prove that their words are just words, not fact.

I close the book, crying. That entry had started as my suicide note, and had ended as my testament to continuing to fight for my self worth. I shut the book, tuck it under my arm, and return to my laptop down stairs, where the faces of three beautiful people stare at me, all now cold and dead in a box under the earth, because they felt like I had at one point.

I set down the book, and pick up my phone, punching into speed dial immediately. Five rings later, the person picks up. Before they can say hello, I speak.

“Get over here. Now.” I speak into the phone, and end the call, not waiting for a response. Ten minutes later, someone busts in the door, car keys being shoved into a pocket as they run through to the living room to get to me. They sit down next to me, and see the book.

“What is this?” They ask me. I smile through my tear stained face, eyes bloodshot, throat a little tight still, and hand the book to them. They open to the correct page, read through the page, and stop at the end, handing me back the book. A piece of paper comes out, and is quickly scribbled on. I smile when they finish the scribbling. I add a few things in my own handwriting, and they quickly grab their phone. They add a few notes, and then, we jump in my car.

(Three days later)

Three exhaustive days later, I sit infront of my computer. I’m staring at a web cam, about to record a video. With one deep breath, I push record.”

“Hi everybody. It’s me. Yeah, you know who I am. My name is Gerard Way. I am twenty six years old. And when I was sixteen, I was bullied. It was terrible.” I give a weak shudder at the memories. “ I was a gawky, awkward, gay little teenager. And an artist who used too much eyeliner, abused the color black, and seemed to need a hair cut. I’m sure you’ve all found pictures. They’re terrible, yeah?” I chuckle a bit. “But I’m here because I know what it’s like to feel hopeless. I know the depression, the suicidal thoughts and actions. I’ve been there. And guess what… it get’s better.”

I take a short pause to compose myself.

“At this point, I’m sure you’ve all heard the song we just put out. It’s based off a line or two I’d written in my journal, the day I realized that suicide is fucking bullshit. When I realized that we are the band that is here to remind you that the world is NOT better off without you. The chorus is based off a line in that journal entry I mentioned. And you know what? It holds true. You have to NOT be afraid to keep living, even if it means walking the world alone. There is ALWAYS a reason to keep living. There is ALWAYS someone who cares about you. You ALWAYS are perfect, regardless of what others or the media says. Keep living. Keep being beautiful. Even if the media syas you’re ugly… keep being YOU.”

I stop recording, and post the video, closing my laptop afterwards, laying back on the couch, and falling asleep.

(Somewhere in the middle of Brooklyn. Girl’s POV)

I had the pill bottle in hand. The note all typed up on my computer, in my email because my word processor, of course wasn’t working. Why would it? Nothing worked for me. The make up, it did nothing to cover the ugly face I’ve got. The clothes didn’t hide the ugly body I’ve got. Music somewhere, is playing softly, something that I knew would be the last thing I heard. It is interrupted, by a beep.

I set the bright orange and white bottle of Xanax down on the table where my laptop was in my room. I click on the email. It’s from the My Chemical Romance update. I figure I might as well listen to a new song, before I did this. I mean, what’s death without a great song to go out to?

I click the link, sitting down to listen to it, fiddling with the pill bottle that I’ve picked up again as I do. A sound file loads, and starts blaring, my speakers naturally cranked up. Teenage thing, I guess.

The music starts. It’s slow. Gerard’s voice is as gravelly as it is, and he sounds PISSED. I nearly laugh, at how quick he changes moods. The guitar is good, drums are amazing…. But yet, it hasn’t quite jumped full throttle like their songs usually do.

“I am not afraid to keep on living.” It hits the chorus, and I go slack jawed. By the end of the song, I’m in tears. I click the link below it, and watch a video pop up.

Gerard way appears before me. He looks… sad and happy at the same time. Odd. And then… he speaks.

Five minutes later, I’m bawling.

I walk to the bathroom, open the door to the pill cabinet, and grab every bottle I can, still crying. Lining them up is easy, opening the caps even easier. And then, I take a bottle in my hand, pour the pills into it….

And throw them in the toilet. I do it for bottle after bottle. I burn the rope in the fire place next, after flushing hundreds of pills down the drain.

I was no longer afraid. I was now strong. I knew it got better. Someone told me so.

The next morning, I walk in to school. The mean girls come up, in a pack. They look at me like a pride of lionesses stalking a gazelle. For once, I wasn’t the gazelle that wanted to run. I was a proud, strong gazelle that stared the pack of pink clad, polo wearing, pearls toting, sparkly furred lionesses down.

“God DAMN you’re ugly. No wonder nobody likes you! Why don’t you just go die in a hole/ The world would be SO much better off without you.” One sneers at me, lipglossed lips waiting to smirk when I burst into tears. But not this time. I shrug, bust through the group of them, and walk to my locker, wishing I had eyes in the back of my head to watch their shocked faces as I lifted one hand, flipped them the bird, and walked into class.

It was the first time in months I had smiled.

FIN.
A/N Hi everyone. This is the first piece I’ve written that’s a one shot. And It’s gonna be part of a series of one shots about HOW songs got written. Some are funny, some depressing, some uplifting, most fluffy. Some Ferard, a Frikey… I’ll do Panic! At The Disco Songs next. Maybe. I dunno.

I picked this song because frankly, it means a lot to me. It was one of the first songs I heard after the Black parade came out, and it really it me. With all the teen suicides that have happened in the past year, I decided to write this. I’m NOT suicidal, quite the opposite, actually. I love life. I see it as a challenge, and I love a good challenge. But I am HERE for people who ARE at their lowest. I’m always here, just to listen. I always have been, I always will be.

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Not afraid to keep on living,

-A