Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Murder Scene
Yeah, I was a complete psychopath I guess, but he fucking deserved it. If you had seen it- if you had seen what he’d done to my mother and brother, you would have painted the walls with his brains, too. I don’t know, one day I just snapped. One day I just got so tired of seeing her on the ground, bloody and pleading with a picture of Jesus hanging on the wall behind her. I went to some cheap-ass pawn store and bought a gun, and then I blew that motherfucker’s brains out. My mother, with her big brown eyes, told me: “Get out.”
And so I did. I grabbed my shit, stomped out the door, past my baby brother cowering in the hallway, and took off in my Trans. I was on the run now. Nowhere to hide, you don’t hide from the police, you just run. I’d run until I couldn’t run anymore. I’d run until someone got as sick of me as I’d gotten of my step-father, and they’d put a gun of relief to my head. I didn’t want to die, no, but I didn’t really want to live either. Killing, it takes its toll on your soul, even if the motherfucker got what’s coming to him. Justice is served in the most brutal and draining way.
A twenty year old fugitive, escaping down the backroads from Belleville, New Jersey. 1973 Trans-Am stocked with sketching pencils and pads, alcohol under the seats, and plenty of antidepressants. Yeah, I grabbed some spare clothes, but all I really needed was some booze and pills. That’s all I really needed, and I could survive. That’s all a depressed alcoholic needs to live.
I don’t remember what I did with the gun. Maybe I dropped it after he went down, or maybe it disintegrated after the barrel exploded with gunpowder. I don’t know, and I don’t care. What the fuck would I do with the gun after I’d given the son of a bitch his brutal treatment? You think I’m a terrible person? If you had been there- I’m not a born killer. I was just dishing out some brutal and draining justice.
Fuck, Jersey is one piece of work. The beauty in the filth of the place. It was one of the biggest shit-holes on this planet, but it was my home. It was where I was born and raised, home to some of the best punk and rock musicians to ever lay their hands on a guitar. That justified all the fucked up shit that went down there in my opinion. In Jersey, there are no excuses. You have to pull your head out of your ass, and face all of your flaws and fuck-ups. That’s the only way you can survive in Jersey.
That was the reason why I left.
And so I did. I grabbed my shit, stomped out the door, past my baby brother cowering in the hallway, and took off in my Trans. I was on the run now. Nowhere to hide, you don’t hide from the police, you just run. I’d run until I couldn’t run anymore. I’d run until someone got as sick of me as I’d gotten of my step-father, and they’d put a gun of relief to my head. I didn’t want to die, no, but I didn’t really want to live either. Killing, it takes its toll on your soul, even if the motherfucker got what’s coming to him. Justice is served in the most brutal and draining way.
A twenty year old fugitive, escaping down the backroads from Belleville, New Jersey. 1973 Trans-Am stocked with sketching pencils and pads, alcohol under the seats, and plenty of antidepressants. Yeah, I grabbed some spare clothes, but all I really needed was some booze and pills. That’s all I really needed, and I could survive. That’s all a depressed alcoholic needs to live.
I don’t remember what I did with the gun. Maybe I dropped it after he went down, or maybe it disintegrated after the barrel exploded with gunpowder. I don’t know, and I don’t care. What the fuck would I do with the gun after I’d given the son of a bitch his brutal treatment? You think I’m a terrible person? If you had been there- I’m not a born killer. I was just dishing out some brutal and draining justice.
Fuck, Jersey is one piece of work. The beauty in the filth of the place. It was one of the biggest shit-holes on this planet, but it was my home. It was where I was born and raised, home to some of the best punk and rock musicians to ever lay their hands on a guitar. That justified all the fucked up shit that went down there in my opinion. In Jersey, there are no excuses. You have to pull your head out of your ass, and face all of your flaws and fuck-ups. That’s the only way you can survive in Jersey.
That was the reason why I left.
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