Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > And Without A Sound....And I Wish You Away
4: Cobain's Disease
December 20. 2008
Like he was trying to cover everything up, Frank was now the hardest worker in the band. Without anything to hold him back-he'd lost Jamia and the guys knew better than to try to interfere; it'd just lead him farther-he was doing heroin on almost a daily basis. He'd found that it was revoltingly easy to get it almost anywhere.
This was what it had all come to.
It was December twentieth and the little clock in the dashboard read two fifty-eight A.M. in little red digital numbers. A member of one of the most globally famous bands in the world was in the backseat of a beat-up Taurus that he never remembered getting in, staring at the ceiling, unable to move or talk, inches away from death once again.
Frank didn't die that weekend. In yet another feat, he survived a dose of heroin that would have killed most people. When he woke up the next morning in the car, the emotional and physical pain was coming back. Even the drugs weren't helping him now.
When he stumbled back to the bus, Ray was waiting for him.
"What the hell?" Frank's voice was groggy and muffled. He could barely move his lips.
"Car. In. Now." Ray was gruff when he grabbed Frank's arm and hauled him to the car.
"Where the hell are we going?"
"Where the hell are you going," Ray corrected him. "You're going to the James Center."
"I'm what?" That cleared his brain pretty damn fast.
"The James Center. It's a rehab center." Ray barked out a short, mirthless laugh. "Feel honored, it's where Cobain and Courtney Love went to try and get clean. You got Cobain's disease. You oughta fit right in."
"No way in hell am I going to rehab," Frank said shortly.
"Yeah. You are." Ray grabbed his arm and forced him around to look him in the eyes. "I'm not letting you do this."
"It's not up to you what I do and don't do."
"It is if I can do anything about it," Ray snapped and started the car.
"You lousy motherfucker!" Frank said loudly. "You're really haulin' me off?"
"Yeah. Now shut your mouth. You're not getting out of this car."
Was this really Ray? Frank wondered. He'd never seen his friend like this.
Frank was quiet the entire forty-five-minute drive until they were almost at the gates of the James Center.
"Come on, man," he pleaded. "I'll clean up my act if you don't take me in there. Don't take me in there."
"You should have thought about that," Ray said and opened the car door, stretching his long legs and then going around to let Frank out.
"Come on." He kept a grip on Frank's arm until Frank ripped it away.
"I'm not going to run away."
"I wouldn't put it past you," Ray said tersely. Frank saw the beginning of a sneer on his wide mouth.
Was this really his friend? What the hell was going on? Ray was never like this. Ray seemed not to have anything but contempt for him now.
As soon as they were inside the main building, Frank filled out several sheets of paper filled with questions about food, the outdoors, his parents, his friends, his children, his spouse.
"How long am I in here for?" Frank asked Ray worriedly.
"A week," Ray said shortly. "It'll be a hell of a lot longer if you don't really clean up."
This was going to be a hell of a week.
December 20. 2008
Like he was trying to cover everything up, Frank was now the hardest worker in the band. Without anything to hold him back-he'd lost Jamia and the guys knew better than to try to interfere; it'd just lead him farther-he was doing heroin on almost a daily basis. He'd found that it was revoltingly easy to get it almost anywhere.
This was what it had all come to.
It was December twentieth and the little clock in the dashboard read two fifty-eight A.M. in little red digital numbers. A member of one of the most globally famous bands in the world was in the backseat of a beat-up Taurus that he never remembered getting in, staring at the ceiling, unable to move or talk, inches away from death once again.
Frank didn't die that weekend. In yet another feat, he survived a dose of heroin that would have killed most people. When he woke up the next morning in the car, the emotional and physical pain was coming back. Even the drugs weren't helping him now.
When he stumbled back to the bus, Ray was waiting for him.
"What the hell?" Frank's voice was groggy and muffled. He could barely move his lips.
"Car. In. Now." Ray was gruff when he grabbed Frank's arm and hauled him to the car.
"Where the hell are we going?"
"Where the hell are you going," Ray corrected him. "You're going to the James Center."
"I'm what?" That cleared his brain pretty damn fast.
"The James Center. It's a rehab center." Ray barked out a short, mirthless laugh. "Feel honored, it's where Cobain and Courtney Love went to try and get clean. You got Cobain's disease. You oughta fit right in."
"No way in hell am I going to rehab," Frank said shortly.
"Yeah. You are." Ray grabbed his arm and forced him around to look him in the eyes. "I'm not letting you do this."
"It's not up to you what I do and don't do."
"It is if I can do anything about it," Ray snapped and started the car.
"You lousy motherfucker!" Frank said loudly. "You're really haulin' me off?"
"Yeah. Now shut your mouth. You're not getting out of this car."
Was this really Ray? Frank wondered. He'd never seen his friend like this.
Frank was quiet the entire forty-five-minute drive until they were almost at the gates of the James Center.
"Come on, man," he pleaded. "I'll clean up my act if you don't take me in there. Don't take me in there."
"You should have thought about that," Ray said and opened the car door, stretching his long legs and then going around to let Frank out.
"Come on." He kept a grip on Frank's arm until Frank ripped it away.
"I'm not going to run away."
"I wouldn't put it past you," Ray said tersely. Frank saw the beginning of a sneer on his wide mouth.
Was this really his friend? What the hell was going on? Ray was never like this. Ray seemed not to have anything but contempt for him now.
As soon as they were inside the main building, Frank filled out several sheets of paper filled with questions about food, the outdoors, his parents, his friends, his children, his spouse.
"How long am I in here for?" Frank asked Ray worriedly.
"A week," Ray said shortly. "It'll be a hell of a lot longer if you don't really clean up."
This was going to be a hell of a week.
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