Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > This Is The Best Day Ever
They Encourage Your Complete Cooperation
1 reviewGerard spills about his painful past. Bert gives pretty good back rubs.
1Original
Chapter 9
That day, after lunch, I take Bert to the library, only to find that I’m not allowed to go there anymore. Apparently I can only come out of my room during mealtimes. Well, that explains why my door is always locked from the outside.
Back in our room, I break down in tears. “It took me years to get the privileges I had!” I cry.
“It’s okay.” Bert says, rubbing my back.
“No it’s not.” I whine.
Bert pushes the hair out of my eyes. “We can get out, you know.” he tells me.
I tilt my head slightly. “Out of this room?” I ask.
“No. Berkman’s. We don’t have to stay inside this place.” Bert says. He looks around the simple room. “We can’t stay inside this place.”
My jaw drops open slightly. Escape Berkman’s? It’s impossible to escape this place. About a year ago, a guy named Tim tried to break out. He was caught, and I haven’t seen him since. There are no windows in the institute, and the one entrance is heavily guarded and covered in locks.
“We can’t.” I whisper.
“Yes we can! Gerard, keep in mind that I’ve been here for about two days. You’ve been here…” Bert trails off.
“Five years.” I say bitterly.
Bert’s eyes widen. “Oh my god.” he whispers. “They can’t do that to people.”
I shrug. “I guess they can. Most of the people here have been here much longer than I have.”
“How much longer?” Bert asks.
“I don’t know… this one woman named Heather was admitted when she was 13.” I say.
“And how old is she now?” Bert looks frightened.
I bite my lip. “47.”
Bert gapes at me. Then he pulls me close and buries his face in my hair. “We have to get you out of here.” he says in a strained voice.
“We’ll get caught.” I reply.
“I don’t care if I get caught. But I will never let them hurt you. I promise.” Bert tells me.
I promise. Those words, those two little words, are so simple, yet so powerful. Can I trust them? Five years ago, before I was sentenced to a life of misery in this prison, I had a life. A meaningless one, but a life nevertheless. I trusted people and their promises. I welcomed everybody into my life with open arms. But then, starting in high school, the tables turned. People betrayed me. My hallucinations got worse, and I was called freak when I reacted to them at school. I decided I didn’t want people to notice me, so I started dressing in black and keeping to myself. I didn’t talk to anybody and nobody talked to me. My “friends” became my enemies, pushing me into lockers and stealing my homework. I wrote the names they called me onto my arm in bold black so I would never forget who I was. Even now, if I look at my arm, I can almost see the words freak, emo, faggot, and queer written against the background of cuts.
My parents couldn’t deal with my unstable life. It embarrassed my mother to the point of tears one night when she invited some friends over for dinner. Everything was going fine until large black birds began to fly around the dining room. Obviously, they were just hallucinations, but they freaked me the fuck out. The blackbirds turned into dead, rotting vultures and I began to sob. My mother’s friends politely excused themselves and never came back.
My family always told me they loved me, but did they? I don’t think so. They never took me to a doctor or a psychologist to get a diagnosis for my hallucinations. Instead, they locked me in my room whenever the carpet turned into worms or when a shadowy figure peered through the window. They told me to get over it, that it was just my imagination and I needed to calm the fuck down.
When I turned 21, I discovered a new way to cope. Alcohol. I was so hammered all the time that the bathtub became my bed and…
STOP IT, GERARD. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to think of anything other than my past. It’s hard to block out, but I know I can do it.
“Gerard?” Bert interrupts my internal monologue. “Are you okay?”
“No.” I say, my voice wavering. “I’m not okay.”
“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” Bert asks, his eyes full of concern. I collapse onto my bed and bury my face in the pillow. Unlike my previous room, the material doesn’t smell like me. Probably because Bert’s bed is the only one we use.
“Baby, what’s going on?” Bert sits on the edge of the bed and slides his hands under my shirt to rub my back. I sigh and melt under his firm touch. I love it when he massages me.
“My mind likes to torment me by bringing up painful memories.” I tell him, my voice muffled by the pillow. Bert balls his hands into fists and kneads the area just under my shoulder blades.
“Painful memories?” he questions.
“Yeah.” I mumble. Bert runs his fingers down my spine, the shivers causing me to arch my back and clutch the pillow. “F-fuck, Bert.” I gasp quietly.
Bert leans down and kisses me behind my ear. “Eventually, darling. Now what were you saying about painful memories?”
I roll over so I’m lying on my back. Then I begin to tell him my story, like a song. Each memory is a lyric. It starts off slow and hesitant, but rises in tempo as the emotion and pain builds. The words are pouring out of my mouth like the tears from my eyes. The song is eventually cut short when I begin to cry. I sob harder than I ever have in my entire life. But the tears are almost tears of joy. I’ve finally found someone I can trust, someone I can tell my story to. Someone… someone I can love. Bert is holding me close as I choke out the last words to my story.
“And t-then I m-met you.”
--
Sigh
I kept telling myself to revise this chapter... but I obviously didn't. It's just kind of a filler chapter. I realize that the ending makes no sense. It seems like the end of the story but it is not at all! I'm planning on doing at least thirty chapters. I have two more written out already. Another thing about the end of the chapter... Gerard is not singing. He's speaking but I compared it to a song. It's terribly written but I haven't had much time to write. This chapter was written in bits and pieces, some paragraphs hastily scrawled on scrap paper and a plane ticket during a 4th of July party. I was going to wait until the 5th to write it, but my mind is impatient.
I'll be writing of course, but I can't promise frequent updates. I thought I wouldn't have any web access and I'm surprised I do. But I'll be busy for the next two weeks. Please don't hate me! DX
I'm not going to have coffee for two weeks either. My mother frowns upon caffeine. Double DX
POOF BITCHES
That day, after lunch, I take Bert to the library, only to find that I’m not allowed to go there anymore. Apparently I can only come out of my room during mealtimes. Well, that explains why my door is always locked from the outside.
Back in our room, I break down in tears. “It took me years to get the privileges I had!” I cry.
“It’s okay.” Bert says, rubbing my back.
“No it’s not.” I whine.
Bert pushes the hair out of my eyes. “We can get out, you know.” he tells me.
I tilt my head slightly. “Out of this room?” I ask.
“No. Berkman’s. We don’t have to stay inside this place.” Bert says. He looks around the simple room. “We can’t stay inside this place.”
My jaw drops open slightly. Escape Berkman’s? It’s impossible to escape this place. About a year ago, a guy named Tim tried to break out. He was caught, and I haven’t seen him since. There are no windows in the institute, and the one entrance is heavily guarded and covered in locks.
“We can’t.” I whisper.
“Yes we can! Gerard, keep in mind that I’ve been here for about two days. You’ve been here…” Bert trails off.
“Five years.” I say bitterly.
Bert’s eyes widen. “Oh my god.” he whispers. “They can’t do that to people.”
I shrug. “I guess they can. Most of the people here have been here much longer than I have.”
“How much longer?” Bert asks.
“I don’t know… this one woman named Heather was admitted when she was 13.” I say.
“And how old is she now?” Bert looks frightened.
I bite my lip. “47.”
Bert gapes at me. Then he pulls me close and buries his face in my hair. “We have to get you out of here.” he says in a strained voice.
“We’ll get caught.” I reply.
“I don’t care if I get caught. But I will never let them hurt you. I promise.” Bert tells me.
I promise. Those words, those two little words, are so simple, yet so powerful. Can I trust them? Five years ago, before I was sentenced to a life of misery in this prison, I had a life. A meaningless one, but a life nevertheless. I trusted people and their promises. I welcomed everybody into my life with open arms. But then, starting in high school, the tables turned. People betrayed me. My hallucinations got worse, and I was called freak when I reacted to them at school. I decided I didn’t want people to notice me, so I started dressing in black and keeping to myself. I didn’t talk to anybody and nobody talked to me. My “friends” became my enemies, pushing me into lockers and stealing my homework. I wrote the names they called me onto my arm in bold black so I would never forget who I was. Even now, if I look at my arm, I can almost see the words freak, emo, faggot, and queer written against the background of cuts.
My parents couldn’t deal with my unstable life. It embarrassed my mother to the point of tears one night when she invited some friends over for dinner. Everything was going fine until large black birds began to fly around the dining room. Obviously, they were just hallucinations, but they freaked me the fuck out. The blackbirds turned into dead, rotting vultures and I began to sob. My mother’s friends politely excused themselves and never came back.
My family always told me they loved me, but did they? I don’t think so. They never took me to a doctor or a psychologist to get a diagnosis for my hallucinations. Instead, they locked me in my room whenever the carpet turned into worms or when a shadowy figure peered through the window. They told me to get over it, that it was just my imagination and I needed to calm the fuck down.
When I turned 21, I discovered a new way to cope. Alcohol. I was so hammered all the time that the bathtub became my bed and…
STOP IT, GERARD. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to think of anything other than my past. It’s hard to block out, but I know I can do it.
“Gerard?” Bert interrupts my internal monologue. “Are you okay?”
“No.” I say, my voice wavering. “I’m not okay.”
“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” Bert asks, his eyes full of concern. I collapse onto my bed and bury my face in the pillow. Unlike my previous room, the material doesn’t smell like me. Probably because Bert’s bed is the only one we use.
“Baby, what’s going on?” Bert sits on the edge of the bed and slides his hands under my shirt to rub my back. I sigh and melt under his firm touch. I love it when he massages me.
“My mind likes to torment me by bringing up painful memories.” I tell him, my voice muffled by the pillow. Bert balls his hands into fists and kneads the area just under my shoulder blades.
“Painful memories?” he questions.
“Yeah.” I mumble. Bert runs his fingers down my spine, the shivers causing me to arch my back and clutch the pillow. “F-fuck, Bert.” I gasp quietly.
Bert leans down and kisses me behind my ear. “Eventually, darling. Now what were you saying about painful memories?”
I roll over so I’m lying on my back. Then I begin to tell him my story, like a song. Each memory is a lyric. It starts off slow and hesitant, but rises in tempo as the emotion and pain builds. The words are pouring out of my mouth like the tears from my eyes. The song is eventually cut short when I begin to cry. I sob harder than I ever have in my entire life. But the tears are almost tears of joy. I’ve finally found someone I can trust, someone I can tell my story to. Someone… someone I can love. Bert is holding me close as I choke out the last words to my story.
“And t-then I m-met you.”
--
Sigh
I kept telling myself to revise this chapter... but I obviously didn't. It's just kind of a filler chapter. I realize that the ending makes no sense. It seems like the end of the story but it is not at all! I'm planning on doing at least thirty chapters. I have two more written out already. Another thing about the end of the chapter... Gerard is not singing. He's speaking but I compared it to a song. It's terribly written but I haven't had much time to write. This chapter was written in bits and pieces, some paragraphs hastily scrawled on scrap paper and a plane ticket during a 4th of July party. I was going to wait until the 5th to write it, but my mind is impatient.
I'll be writing of course, but I can't promise frequent updates. I thought I wouldn't have any web access and I'm surprised I do. But I'll be busy for the next two weeks. Please don't hate me! DX
I'm not going to have coffee for two weeks either. My mother frowns upon caffeine. Double DX
POOF BITCHES
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