Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > The Five Of Us Are Dying
“Anger is a thief who steals away even the nicest moments.”
The Sharpest Lives
Something is consuming me, but it's not the disease.
I feel it chewing at me every time I talk with Lindsey and Bandit on Skype, or when the band and I group hug before each show. It comes at my most elated moments, dropping a heavy weight on my spirits. A rage builds up inside of me, and is almost always followed by a bought of nausea.
At night, a restlessness overcomes me. I find myself wanting to do everything human possible at six in the morning, but then simultaneously wanting to do nothing at all.
I feel like Spiderman -- when he had his evil alter ego due to the black suit symbiote he wore. I feel like Anakin or Tom Riddle might have, just before the dark side took over them. I feel something monstrous growing inside me, ready to pounce at any moment.
Fine...maybe I'm being a bit dramatic -- but why shouldn't I be? I'm dying. I can do whatever the fuck I want.
As a matter of fact, I find myself thinking it more than a few times: Since I'm dying, what's to stop me from murdering everyone I hate right now? Why not take out at least one, just one person to go down with me? As long as I did it relatively close to when I knew I was going to kick the bucket -- what's stopping me?
I know I'm going to hell anyway.
"Gerard."
"Huh?"
I look beside me to be greeted with a focused stare from Mikey. The sushi bar we are seated in comes back into focus, and I notice some California rolls go past me on the rotating conveyer belt that you take your food from.
"You haven't eaten anything." Mikey remarks, his eyes glancing down at the plate in front of me.
I realize it's true. The first thing I reached for when we came in was the salmon -- and there in front of me were those same two pieces of salmon, completely untouched. When I look over at Mikey and the other guys, I see stacks of empty plates piled up in front of them, while they survey the conveyer belt for more. I suddenly feel inexplicably ashamed.
"I guess I wasn't as hungry as I thought." I try to shrug nonchalantly. But Mikey doesn't seem satisfied with my answer, so I order a miso soup -- pretty much hot water with tofu in it -- and call it even. Mikey seems slightly bothered, but decides against prying and returns back to his meal. If we were having any other kind of food, I'm certain he would have persisted. But almost nothing can ever come between Mikey and sushi.
After dinner that night, we got to a downtown nightclub called Bunker. We meet up with some of Frank's friends -- a group of eyeliner heavy, leather clad types -- and everyone heads for the bar immediately. After drinks are ordered and everyone gets wrapped up in conversation, I stand idly by and then slip away when I think no one will notice.
I know this place pretty well, so I find the stairway quickly despite the crowd of people who seem to want be purposely trying to get in my way. The place is dark, and the fact that I have sunglasses on doesn't really help -- but it's the most I can do to avoid recognition.
The stench of vomit hits me once I'm halfway down the stairs, to a floor predominantly occupied by overly drunk kids who can't hold their liquor and girls passed out on benches. Then there are those who stand in corners by themselves, smoking cigarettes, trying to be unnoticed, but noticed at the same time. I recognize one of them just by an exit door to the outside and head over.
"Gerard. I haven't seen you in some time." Matthew Grodrieck greets me with a smug look. He doesn't smoke a cigarette, but thumbs around the screen of his iPhone. The phones screen are the only thing that lights his face, which is handsome in its features.
"Don't flatter yourself." I roll my eyes for emphasis, "I came for a friend. I'm just picking up for him."
"Uh-huh.", he doesn't even bother look up at me, and the smirk on his face makes me want to smash his entire, pretty boy face in. But I try my best to brush this feeling off and press on.
"So can I have it then? An 8-ball?" I shift uncomfortably, looking behind me and seeing nothing, but still feeling as though disapproving eyes were upon me.
"My rate hasn't changed, Gee." Still not bothering to make eye contact with me, he holds out his hand. My own hands busy themselves with getting out 80 dollars and I press the tender into Matt's palm. He reaches into his pocket, and then, looking up at me finally, he hands me a plastic bag full of coke. A smile is on his face as he chortles, probably high himself, "Welcome back sonny."
"It's for a friend." I mumble one last time, before I hastily stuff the bag in my pocket and walk away.
That night at the hotel room, I have a particularly long Skype session with Lindsey and Bandit. When Mikey is done with his evening shower, he come and joins us, sitting next to me on the bed. We talk about how Bandit is doing in preschool, and what our friends back home have been up to.
Bandit has been very productive lately, and shows me her drawings trough the webcam. Both Mikey and I become dramatic with admiration for her works, claiming that we had never seen art of such beauty in our entire lives. Bandit seems to either really believe us, or is simply amused by our antics. Either way, she's smiling for the rest of the conversation and that makes me happy. Lindsey talks about the fact that the Euringers are coming over for dinner, and whines that she doesn't have me to help her cook like she usually does.
Then Lindsey notes that I look like I'm thinner, and that presence pulls on me again. The atmosphere get tense, and I can feel Mikey refraining himself from agreeing and making it into a thing. I quickly change the subject to some new restaurants I saw today that I had never seen here before. To my great relief, Lindsey becomes very interested in the topic.
Once the Skype session is over, I dismiss myself to the bathroom. It's still humid from Mikey's shower, but I can't keep a door open to air it out. I lock the door and take out the 8-ball of coke from my back pocket. I inhale.
For the next few hours, my monster leaves me be.
Do I feel guilty? Maybe a little. But now that my days are numbered, I've thought of constructing my own bucket list. You know, like the ones you hear about in movies and books --- these lists of things you'd want to do before you kick the bucket.
I tried writing a few entries into my own before I finally decided upon the one thing that I really wanted to do:
Just say fuck it.
Next chapter: "You're the only one who knows. Please, help me."
The Sharpest Lives
Something is consuming me, but it's not the disease.
I feel it chewing at me every time I talk with Lindsey and Bandit on Skype, or when the band and I group hug before each show. It comes at my most elated moments, dropping a heavy weight on my spirits. A rage builds up inside of me, and is almost always followed by a bought of nausea.
At night, a restlessness overcomes me. I find myself wanting to do everything human possible at six in the morning, but then simultaneously wanting to do nothing at all.
I feel like Spiderman -- when he had his evil alter ego due to the black suit symbiote he wore. I feel like Anakin or Tom Riddle might have, just before the dark side took over them. I feel something monstrous growing inside me, ready to pounce at any moment.
Fine...maybe I'm being a bit dramatic -- but why shouldn't I be? I'm dying. I can do whatever the fuck I want.
As a matter of fact, I find myself thinking it more than a few times: Since I'm dying, what's to stop me from murdering everyone I hate right now? Why not take out at least one, just one person to go down with me? As long as I did it relatively close to when I knew I was going to kick the bucket -- what's stopping me?
I know I'm going to hell anyway.
"Gerard."
"Huh?"
I look beside me to be greeted with a focused stare from Mikey. The sushi bar we are seated in comes back into focus, and I notice some California rolls go past me on the rotating conveyer belt that you take your food from.
"You haven't eaten anything." Mikey remarks, his eyes glancing down at the plate in front of me.
I realize it's true. The first thing I reached for when we came in was the salmon -- and there in front of me were those same two pieces of salmon, completely untouched. When I look over at Mikey and the other guys, I see stacks of empty plates piled up in front of them, while they survey the conveyer belt for more. I suddenly feel inexplicably ashamed.
"I guess I wasn't as hungry as I thought." I try to shrug nonchalantly. But Mikey doesn't seem satisfied with my answer, so I order a miso soup -- pretty much hot water with tofu in it -- and call it even. Mikey seems slightly bothered, but decides against prying and returns back to his meal. If we were having any other kind of food, I'm certain he would have persisted. But almost nothing can ever come between Mikey and sushi.
After dinner that night, we got to a downtown nightclub called Bunker. We meet up with some of Frank's friends -- a group of eyeliner heavy, leather clad types -- and everyone heads for the bar immediately. After drinks are ordered and everyone gets wrapped up in conversation, I stand idly by and then slip away when I think no one will notice.
I know this place pretty well, so I find the stairway quickly despite the crowd of people who seem to want be purposely trying to get in my way. The place is dark, and the fact that I have sunglasses on doesn't really help -- but it's the most I can do to avoid recognition.
The stench of vomit hits me once I'm halfway down the stairs, to a floor predominantly occupied by overly drunk kids who can't hold their liquor and girls passed out on benches. Then there are those who stand in corners by themselves, smoking cigarettes, trying to be unnoticed, but noticed at the same time. I recognize one of them just by an exit door to the outside and head over.
"Gerard. I haven't seen you in some time." Matthew Grodrieck greets me with a smug look. He doesn't smoke a cigarette, but thumbs around the screen of his iPhone. The phones screen are the only thing that lights his face, which is handsome in its features.
"Don't flatter yourself." I roll my eyes for emphasis, "I came for a friend. I'm just picking up for him."
"Uh-huh.", he doesn't even bother look up at me, and the smirk on his face makes me want to smash his entire, pretty boy face in. But I try my best to brush this feeling off and press on.
"So can I have it then? An 8-ball?" I shift uncomfortably, looking behind me and seeing nothing, but still feeling as though disapproving eyes were upon me.
"My rate hasn't changed, Gee." Still not bothering to make eye contact with me, he holds out his hand. My own hands busy themselves with getting out 80 dollars and I press the tender into Matt's palm. He reaches into his pocket, and then, looking up at me finally, he hands me a plastic bag full of coke. A smile is on his face as he chortles, probably high himself, "Welcome back sonny."
"It's for a friend." I mumble one last time, before I hastily stuff the bag in my pocket and walk away.
That night at the hotel room, I have a particularly long Skype session with Lindsey and Bandit. When Mikey is done with his evening shower, he come and joins us, sitting next to me on the bed. We talk about how Bandit is doing in preschool, and what our friends back home have been up to.
Bandit has been very productive lately, and shows me her drawings trough the webcam. Both Mikey and I become dramatic with admiration for her works, claiming that we had never seen art of such beauty in our entire lives. Bandit seems to either really believe us, or is simply amused by our antics. Either way, she's smiling for the rest of the conversation and that makes me happy. Lindsey talks about the fact that the Euringers are coming over for dinner, and whines that she doesn't have me to help her cook like she usually does.
Then Lindsey notes that I look like I'm thinner, and that presence pulls on me again. The atmosphere get tense, and I can feel Mikey refraining himself from agreeing and making it into a thing. I quickly change the subject to some new restaurants I saw today that I had never seen here before. To my great relief, Lindsey becomes very interested in the topic.
Once the Skype session is over, I dismiss myself to the bathroom. It's still humid from Mikey's shower, but I can't keep a door open to air it out. I lock the door and take out the 8-ball of coke from my back pocket. I inhale.
For the next few hours, my monster leaves me be.
Do I feel guilty? Maybe a little. But now that my days are numbered, I've thought of constructing my own bucket list. You know, like the ones you hear about in movies and books --- these lists of things you'd want to do before you kick the bucket.
I tried writing a few entries into my own before I finally decided upon the one thing that I really wanted to do:
Just say fuck it.
Next chapter: "You're the only one who knows. Please, help me."
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