Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > I Never Told You What I Do For A Living
I Live This Every Day
1 reviewGerard is having a hard time coping. Police station coffee is gross.
0Unrated
Chapter 6
Gerard’s POV
Police station coffee is disgusting. I sip it anyways as we watch Mikey’s interrogation video because hey, coffee is coffee. My mom keeps wringing the hem of her sweater like it’s a wet cloth or something. Evelyn, Mikey’s current girlfriend, sits at the end of the table, fiddling with her hair.
Video Mikey is grinning as he answers the questions that the detectives fire at him.
“The gun you allegedly used was a double-action .45 ACP semi-automatic compact pistol, correct?” one of the detectives in the video leans closer to Video Mikey, sliding forward a laminated photograph of a black gun. The image is grainy in the video, but I still recognize it as the gun that my brother held when he- I shake my head as if the memory could be shaken off. But there’s no way I’ll ever forget.
“Correct.” Video Mikey replies, adjusting his glasses with a smirk.
“The surveillance video recorded in the Belleview High School library shows you drinking a carton of cranberry juice cocktail as you allegedly shot Gregory Ziegler and Madison Young. The juice carton was collected as evidence. Did you in fact drink from this juice box?”
“Yeah, I drink juice when I’m killing.” Video Mikey says. Hearing the word kill come from my little brother’s mouth sends a chill up my spine.
The two detectives exchange looks. The taller one turns back to Video Mikey. “Why?”
“Because it’s fucking delicious.”
The detective turns off the old-school TV and turns to my mother. “Did Michael act unusual or get into any trouble in the days leading up to the shooting?” he asks. I wish he wouldn’t say shooting. It reminds me that it actually happened.
My mom shakes her head, still wringing her sweater. “N-no. Not at all. He…he was Mikey.” I pretend not to notice the tear that streams down her cheek.
The detective (I think his name is John) swivels his chair so that he’s facing Evelyn. “How close were you to Michael?”
Evelyn draws imaginary circles on the table. “Very close.” she says quietly.
“Did you notice any peculiar behavior?”
Of course she did. Mikey is a peculiar person all the time. He’s quiet, but when he talks he’s always odd. He’s well-liked despite his awkwardness. Girls always find Mikey’s shyness to be cute and even attractive. He started to really come out of his shell when he started dating Victoria. But then she broke up with him because- I flinch at the memory.
I stand up quickly, clumsily knocking my chair over backwards. “I’m going to g-go get more coffee.” I announce, even though my Styrofoam cup of boiled shit is still half full.
I exit the room before anyone can say anything. Moments later, I find myself in a restroom with no idea as to how I wound up there. My reflection in the mirror fills me with anger. My hair is matted to the sides of my face, and my eyes are red and puffy from lack of sleep. The harsh lighting doesn’t do me any favors, either. I look weak. Pathetic. I dump the cup of so-called coffee down the sink. Why can’t I get a decent cup of coffee?
I crush the cup in my hand and sit on the floor. It’s probably filthy but I don’t care. A drop of coffee streaks down my hand like the tears I know are soon to come. I take deep breaths in attempt to steady my breathing, but the shaking begins anyways. This has been a cycle for the past 4 days. It started when I woke up in the hospital.
It starts with denial. Stop crying, Gerard. There’s nothing to cry about. That boy in a prison jumpsuit sitting in a jail cell is not your brother. It’s not Michael. It’s not the boy that did your math homework when you made him snacks. It’s not the boy that snuck out the kitchen window with you at 12 ‘o clock to see a midnight showing of Sexandroide. It’s not the boy who bootlegs Disney movies for Smashing Pumpkins tickets.
Then the floodgates open and the shaking begins as I remember the reality of the situation. The black, unforgiving gun pointed at Frank and I, like the time that the comic book shop I used to work at was held up. Those two words that Mikey spoke, still stuck in my mind. “Get down.” The ear-splitting gunshot, momentarily deafening me. Frank writhing in pain, his blood dripping down the concrete steps.
Then the calm after the storm. Once I’ve cried out, I’ll amuse myself with a comic book or I’ll visit Frankie to get my mind off of things (he was discharged from the hospital a few hours after me.) But then I’ll turn on the TV and see my brother’s face on every channel. And then my hands will tremble again and tears will pour down my already tear-streaked face. My tears feel like they’re burning into my flesh. It reminds me of the salt and ice challenge that Mikey and I did a few weeks ago.
“There’s no way I’m doing this, Gerard.”
“If you don’t do it, I’ll Photoshop a picture of you in a tutu and put a copy in each locker at school.”
“Fine.”
“On the count of three. One, two…”
“Three!”
Mikey and I began to curse in pain as we held the ice cubes to our salted skin.
It stung like a motherfucker. I look down at my arm. The mark is still there. Faint, but there, like a reminder of the brother I used to have. A tear falls from my face and splashes onto the mark, like an Olympic diver. Suddenly, the bathroom door opens and the detective that was questioning us walks in.
“You okay?” he asks, although he already knows the answer.
“I’m fine.” I tell John coldly. But my upright fetal position on the bathroom floor does not say that I’m fine. Neither does the destroyed Styrofoam cup in my hand. I’ve been ripping it to pieces absent-mindedly.
“I know I seem like the villain here,” John says, kneeling beside me. “but I’m just here to help. I’m here to find answers so we can get Michael’s trial over with as soon as possible.” he reaches out to pat my shoulder, but I jerk away and stand up.
“You’re not here to help!” I shout, my voice echoing throughout the bathroom. “You’re here to point fingers at my baby brother and lock him up in a cold fucking jail cell for the rest of his life!”
John opens his mouth to say something, but I cut him off with words I’ve repeated a thousand times.
“AND HIS NAME IS MIKEY!”
I slam the door behind me, with my famous last words still lingering in the air.
Gerard’s POV
Police station coffee is disgusting. I sip it anyways as we watch Mikey’s interrogation video because hey, coffee is coffee. My mom keeps wringing the hem of her sweater like it’s a wet cloth or something. Evelyn, Mikey’s current girlfriend, sits at the end of the table, fiddling with her hair.
Video Mikey is grinning as he answers the questions that the detectives fire at him.
“The gun you allegedly used was a double-action .45 ACP semi-automatic compact pistol, correct?” one of the detectives in the video leans closer to Video Mikey, sliding forward a laminated photograph of a black gun. The image is grainy in the video, but I still recognize it as the gun that my brother held when he- I shake my head as if the memory could be shaken off. But there’s no way I’ll ever forget.
“Correct.” Video Mikey replies, adjusting his glasses with a smirk.
“The surveillance video recorded in the Belleview High School library shows you drinking a carton of cranberry juice cocktail as you allegedly shot Gregory Ziegler and Madison Young. The juice carton was collected as evidence. Did you in fact drink from this juice box?”
“Yeah, I drink juice when I’m killing.” Video Mikey says. Hearing the word kill come from my little brother’s mouth sends a chill up my spine.
The two detectives exchange looks. The taller one turns back to Video Mikey. “Why?”
“Because it’s fucking delicious.”
The detective turns off the old-school TV and turns to my mother. “Did Michael act unusual or get into any trouble in the days leading up to the shooting?” he asks. I wish he wouldn’t say shooting. It reminds me that it actually happened.
My mom shakes her head, still wringing her sweater. “N-no. Not at all. He…he was Mikey.” I pretend not to notice the tear that streams down her cheek.
The detective (I think his name is John) swivels his chair so that he’s facing Evelyn. “How close were you to Michael?”
Evelyn draws imaginary circles on the table. “Very close.” she says quietly.
“Did you notice any peculiar behavior?”
Of course she did. Mikey is a peculiar person all the time. He’s quiet, but when he talks he’s always odd. He’s well-liked despite his awkwardness. Girls always find Mikey’s shyness to be cute and even attractive. He started to really come out of his shell when he started dating Victoria. But then she broke up with him because- I flinch at the memory.
I stand up quickly, clumsily knocking my chair over backwards. “I’m going to g-go get more coffee.” I announce, even though my Styrofoam cup of boiled shit is still half full.
I exit the room before anyone can say anything. Moments later, I find myself in a restroom with no idea as to how I wound up there. My reflection in the mirror fills me with anger. My hair is matted to the sides of my face, and my eyes are red and puffy from lack of sleep. The harsh lighting doesn’t do me any favors, either. I look weak. Pathetic. I dump the cup of so-called coffee down the sink. Why can’t I get a decent cup of coffee?
I crush the cup in my hand and sit on the floor. It’s probably filthy but I don’t care. A drop of coffee streaks down my hand like the tears I know are soon to come. I take deep breaths in attempt to steady my breathing, but the shaking begins anyways. This has been a cycle for the past 4 days. It started when I woke up in the hospital.
It starts with denial. Stop crying, Gerard. There’s nothing to cry about. That boy in a prison jumpsuit sitting in a jail cell is not your brother. It’s not Michael. It’s not the boy that did your math homework when you made him snacks. It’s not the boy that snuck out the kitchen window with you at 12 ‘o clock to see a midnight showing of Sexandroide. It’s not the boy who bootlegs Disney movies for Smashing Pumpkins tickets.
Then the floodgates open and the shaking begins as I remember the reality of the situation. The black, unforgiving gun pointed at Frank and I, like the time that the comic book shop I used to work at was held up. Those two words that Mikey spoke, still stuck in my mind. “Get down.” The ear-splitting gunshot, momentarily deafening me. Frank writhing in pain, his blood dripping down the concrete steps.
Then the calm after the storm. Once I’ve cried out, I’ll amuse myself with a comic book or I’ll visit Frankie to get my mind off of things (he was discharged from the hospital a few hours after me.) But then I’ll turn on the TV and see my brother’s face on every channel. And then my hands will tremble again and tears will pour down my already tear-streaked face. My tears feel like they’re burning into my flesh. It reminds me of the salt and ice challenge that Mikey and I did a few weeks ago.
“There’s no way I’m doing this, Gerard.”
“If you don’t do it, I’ll Photoshop a picture of you in a tutu and put a copy in each locker at school.”
“Fine.”
“On the count of three. One, two…”
“Three!”
Mikey and I began to curse in pain as we held the ice cubes to our salted skin.
It stung like a motherfucker. I look down at my arm. The mark is still there. Faint, but there, like a reminder of the brother I used to have. A tear falls from my face and splashes onto the mark, like an Olympic diver. Suddenly, the bathroom door opens and the detective that was questioning us walks in.
“You okay?” he asks, although he already knows the answer.
“I’m fine.” I tell John coldly. But my upright fetal position on the bathroom floor does not say that I’m fine. Neither does the destroyed Styrofoam cup in my hand. I’ve been ripping it to pieces absent-mindedly.
“I know I seem like the villain here,” John says, kneeling beside me. “but I’m just here to help. I’m here to find answers so we can get Michael’s trial over with as soon as possible.” he reaches out to pat my shoulder, but I jerk away and stand up.
“You’re not here to help!” I shout, my voice echoing throughout the bathroom. “You’re here to point fingers at my baby brother and lock him up in a cold fucking jail cell for the rest of his life!”
John opens his mouth to say something, but I cut him off with words I’ve repeated a thousand times.
“AND HIS NAME IS MIKEY!”
I slam the door behind me, with my famous last words still lingering in the air.
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