Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance
Broken
15 reviewsTitle from the song by Seether. Unfortunately based on a true story. (WARNING: ATTEMPTED SUICIDE)
4Moving
Somewhere, bathed in the harsh light of his private bathroom and crouched in agony, a boy was puking. His hands clenched into fists against the white porcelain, spasming with each wave of nausia. He coughed, his scrawny frame shuddering with the after-effects of vomiting. Once he was certain he'd gotten everything up, he rolled off to one side and panted up at the blinding lightbulb that dangled from its wire.
He'd been so close this time.
It had been a split decision to swallow those pills, as if some unseen force had crashed down and possessed him. One minute he'd been on the couch, propped up against the arm with a Coke in one hand and his computer on his lap. The next minute he was tearing at the lid of a bottle of Advil wih shaking fingers, seeking the small tablets that rested inside and intending to swallow them all like they were candy. Tears had been pouring down his face, he remembered, and he reached up with one hand to see if they were still there.
They were.
Of course, he knew what made him do it. Or at least, he knew part of the reason. For years he'd been fascinated with the idea of suicide; the idea that should anything go wrong, all he had to do was pop a few pills and it wouldn't matter. And something was wrong; no matter what he did, he wasn't good enough. Sure, people would argue and say that he was amazing, but deep down he knew they were lying. He knew that as soon as he started to believe them, the truth would come out in a violent splatter of words and insults.
The boy coughed again, but this time he was ninety-percent sure that it was really a sob. He pulled himself into a sitting position, putting his hand over his mouth to smother the screams he kept locked inside. If he made too much noise, the monsters upstairs would wake up. Then there would be questions that he couldn't answer, and he knew why he couldn't answer them.
The person asking the questions would ultimately be the answer.
He glared up at the ceiling, his eyes still watering from the puking and the emotions that stormed under his skin. If only he could get away from them. If only he didn't have to deal with the people that picked him apart and left him bleeding for all to see. It was painful to hear them laugh, to see them beat him at everything he tried, to watch other people praise them while he blended in with the wall. If they knew just how good other people thought he was, maybe they'd finally pay attention to him.
But they could never know what he did. He'd be grounded for the rest of his life, or sent away to some camp. They'd be horrified and disgusted, and he would lose the one thing that kept him here.
Well, he supposed he shouldn't say that. There was one more thing that kept his heart beating, one person that was physically there to help him. But they weren't there right then, and it had been easy to get caught up in the moment.
He loved him. He loved him so much, and he knew that by taking those pills, he was hurting the boy that tried so hard to make him happy. The boy hated himself for doing it. It was such a stupid thing to think that he was alone when there was someone that would be waiting for him the next day. After everything that his boyfriend had done to save him, how could he just throw it all away?
It had been that comment that ultimately broke him. It had been written almost carelessly, as if the writer didn't even have the willpower to hate him properly. He'd later been told that it had been a misunderstanding, but it made the boy think of everything he'd done wrong.
His writing was sloppy.
His plots were weak and unoriginal.
His characters were boring.
Another sob escaped his lips, muffled only slightly by the fingers he kept pressed to his mouth. He was over-reacting, and he knew it. One little comment shouldn't break him like this. It really shouldn't.
But it did.
A face came into his mind, one that was so familiar that he could remember every dark fleck through the deep brown eyes. It was there, thinking of the beautiful boy that was miraculously his own, that he realized something.
He was such an idiot.
The tears were coming faster, now, and they dripped onto the white tiles like salt rain. That was it. He was done with this stupidity. From then on, he would never look back to death as an escape. No matter how many times his family shunned him, no matter how many times they whispered in the halls, the boy was through with the bottles of Advil in his medicine cabinet. He stood, his legs weak but his mind strong, and stumbled into his bedroom.
The boy threw himself into his desk chair, almost falling out of it before he rightened himself. His hands were light as air, almost as if they weren't even there at all. With clumsy movements, he moved the mouse to the little WordPad icon and clicked.
Then, after shifting his bright red glasses back onto his nose and running a trembling hand through his brown locks, he began to type.
'Somewhere, bathed in the harsh light of his private bathroom and crouched in agony, a boy was puking...'
AN: I really think you should all listen to Beautiful by Eminem. It helps so much.
- Ben
He'd been so close this time.
It had been a split decision to swallow those pills, as if some unseen force had crashed down and possessed him. One minute he'd been on the couch, propped up against the arm with a Coke in one hand and his computer on his lap. The next minute he was tearing at the lid of a bottle of Advil wih shaking fingers, seeking the small tablets that rested inside and intending to swallow them all like they were candy. Tears had been pouring down his face, he remembered, and he reached up with one hand to see if they were still there.
They were.
Of course, he knew what made him do it. Or at least, he knew part of the reason. For years he'd been fascinated with the idea of suicide; the idea that should anything go wrong, all he had to do was pop a few pills and it wouldn't matter. And something was wrong; no matter what he did, he wasn't good enough. Sure, people would argue and say that he was amazing, but deep down he knew they were lying. He knew that as soon as he started to believe them, the truth would come out in a violent splatter of words and insults.
The boy coughed again, but this time he was ninety-percent sure that it was really a sob. He pulled himself into a sitting position, putting his hand over his mouth to smother the screams he kept locked inside. If he made too much noise, the monsters upstairs would wake up. Then there would be questions that he couldn't answer, and he knew why he couldn't answer them.
The person asking the questions would ultimately be the answer.
He glared up at the ceiling, his eyes still watering from the puking and the emotions that stormed under his skin. If only he could get away from them. If only he didn't have to deal with the people that picked him apart and left him bleeding for all to see. It was painful to hear them laugh, to see them beat him at everything he tried, to watch other people praise them while he blended in with the wall. If they knew just how good other people thought he was, maybe they'd finally pay attention to him.
But they could never know what he did. He'd be grounded for the rest of his life, or sent away to some camp. They'd be horrified and disgusted, and he would lose the one thing that kept him here.
Well, he supposed he shouldn't say that. There was one more thing that kept his heart beating, one person that was physically there to help him. But they weren't there right then, and it had been easy to get caught up in the moment.
He loved him. He loved him so much, and he knew that by taking those pills, he was hurting the boy that tried so hard to make him happy. The boy hated himself for doing it. It was such a stupid thing to think that he was alone when there was someone that would be waiting for him the next day. After everything that his boyfriend had done to save him, how could he just throw it all away?
It had been that comment that ultimately broke him. It had been written almost carelessly, as if the writer didn't even have the willpower to hate him properly. He'd later been told that it had been a misunderstanding, but it made the boy think of everything he'd done wrong.
His writing was sloppy.
His plots were weak and unoriginal.
His characters were boring.
Another sob escaped his lips, muffled only slightly by the fingers he kept pressed to his mouth. He was over-reacting, and he knew it. One little comment shouldn't break him like this. It really shouldn't.
But it did.
A face came into his mind, one that was so familiar that he could remember every dark fleck through the deep brown eyes. It was there, thinking of the beautiful boy that was miraculously his own, that he realized something.
He was such an idiot.
The tears were coming faster, now, and they dripped onto the white tiles like salt rain. That was it. He was done with this stupidity. From then on, he would never look back to death as an escape. No matter how many times his family shunned him, no matter how many times they whispered in the halls, the boy was through with the bottles of Advil in his medicine cabinet. He stood, his legs weak but his mind strong, and stumbled into his bedroom.
The boy threw himself into his desk chair, almost falling out of it before he rightened himself. His hands were light as air, almost as if they weren't even there at all. With clumsy movements, he moved the mouse to the little WordPad icon and clicked.
Then, after shifting his bright red glasses back onto his nose and running a trembling hand through his brown locks, he began to type.
'Somewhere, bathed in the harsh light of his private bathroom and crouched in agony, a boy was puking...'
AN: I really think you should all listen to Beautiful by Eminem. It helps so much.
- Ben
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