FicWad

Mikey strode off stage, ignoring everyone, including Gerard, who had complimented him on his playing. He grabbed one of the beers Ray kept in a cooler for after the show. He placed his bass on one of the stands backstage and headed for the bathroom. He swung the bottle back and forth, his fingers barely gripping the sides of the cap. He kicked the door open and walked into the men’s bathroom. He kicked the bathroom door open and made his way towards the stall furthest from the door and locked it behind him. He leaned against one of the stall’s walls and popped the beer open with the corner of the door’s lock. He took a long drink from the ice cold bottle and exhaled.

“You need to give this shit up,” he spoke to himself. “You need to stop this bullshit.” He finished the rest of the beer a little too quickly. Again, he let bottle slip so his fingertips were barely clinging to the mouth of it. He continued to converse with himself,

“You know for a fact you’re only in this fucking band because of your brother, right?” He gripped the neck of the bottle in his fist. It was like he had two different personalities: his normal side, the original Mikey Way, and his alter ego, an all-negative side that always talked down to the original Mikey Way.

“Stop…” It couldn’t be true. He was talented. Right…? His alter ego just laughed. It was a cruel, bitter laugh. A laugh Mikey could never have fathomed. The voice just kept spitting insults at Mikey. Then, in one sudden movement, he raised his hand with the beer bottle, and threw in on the ground. The barren bathroom echoed with the sound of clinking glass. Sharp green shards covered the floor in front of Mikey. His mind was empty. The voice was silenced; temporarily. He placed his foot on the broken glass. It crunched under his black boot. You are worthless. No. Make it leave. Make it stop. Frustration and anger churned within Mikey. In rage, he kicked the bottom edge of the stall with the inside of his leg. He hit it with such force, he fell back. He back slid down the edge of the stall. His hand landed on the ground first, tiny spikes of glass digging into his palm. He sat on the ground. His leg was throbbing and his hand stung. He studied his palm and picked out the little shards of glass. Little spots of red rose from his hand.

“You are worthless. You are alone. You will never win. Give up.” Mikey started to finger the little pieces of glass on the tile floor. He picked up a piece with a perfectly straight edge. He rubbed his thumb over the edge. It pierced his skin, leaving a paper cut liked mark on his thumb. This voice had lived inside of him for so long. It created his insecurity, his hopelessness, his depression. It destroyed his hope, his life, everything he loved. He also found that the only way to temporarily silence it was violence. Mikey remembered all the times Gerard had told their fans never to resort to violence. If only Gerard knew someone so close to him was destroying himself. Mikey flipped the glass in his hand for a while. Worthless. Mikey rose the glass to his right arm.

“Leave. Leave. Leave. Please. Leave,” he pleaded as he dragged the jagged glass from his wrist down to the inside of his elbow. He didn’t dare look what he did to himself. He inhaled sharply and clutched his right arm, just below his shoulder. He clenched his jaw. He slowly stood up, back pressed again the wall. Finally, he relaxed. He let his arms go limp. The voice wouldn’t bother him for a while now. Mikey smirked. He started to snicker. Then, his loud laughter filled the bathroom, bouncing off the walls and surrounding him in lunacy. Violence wasn’t so bad. He stood there, smile slowly fading, staring at the patterns on the opposite wall, until he looked down at his arm. Blood had gently gushed out of his wound down the length of his arm. His hand was bright red and droplets of blood fell steadily off of his middle finger onto the white tile floor.

“Shit,” he said, pulling out some toilet paper from the dispenser. He pressed the paper on his arm and wiped the blood from the floor.

~~~

Mikey climbed up the stairs of the band’s van, trying to hide his limp from the bruise on his leg. He started to walk towards the back of the band but was stopped by Gerard.
“Mikey what happened to you!” he exclaimed, referring to both of Mikey’s injuries. Mikey mumbled,

“Someone shut a door on my leg and I scratched my arm on a string post on my bass.”
“You alright? You should get that arm wrapped up,” Gerard suggested. Mikey said nothing and pushed past Gerard. Mikey sat in solitude in the back of the bus. He couldn’t go on like this. He knew he couldn’t.

Don’t worry; I’ll make sure you’ll be gone soon. No more worries. No more cares. The voice had won once again.