Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > And Without A Sound....And I Wish You Away
Part One:: Cobains Disease [ Chapter Five - Little Monster In My Head ]
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5: Little Monster In My Head
January 6, 2009
Frank got clean in The James Center.
For a few days after, he was off heroin. But then the stomach pains and the migraines that he knew so well came to remind him that he needed the drug. He needed it.
It's like there's a little monster in my head, he penned in one journal entry, saying, "You know you want it. You'll feel better. I'll feel better."
He gave in to the 'little monster'. He rang in the year 2009 by vomiting in the arena bathroom from marijuana, alcohol and an excess of improperly cooked heroin.
Much like he had in the last week of December, Frank found himself in the car with Ray, heading for an airport, this time. He wasn't going to the James Center: he was going to Exodus. The hardcore detoxification center.
He didn't go quietly.
He made it very clear that he had no intention of going. He yelled and swore and pled, but Ray didn't give in. As much as it hurt him, he kept driving.
On Interstate 5, Frank tried to open the door and jump out of the moving vehicle. Ray couldn't believe this was happening. With his long arms, he managed to hold onto Frank as he drove, even as the car swerved. They made it to the airport a few minutes later; Frank had quieted but his sullen, stubborn attitude hadn't improved.
Ray had to half-drag Frank out of the car, one hand firmly gripping his arm and the other ensnared in the fabric of his shirt collar.
Frank swung out wildly and got a blow right on Ray's cheekbone. He tried to bolt and Ray tackled him. A wrestling match ensued.
"You fucker!" Ray snarled from between clenched teeth, straining with the effort of trying to hold onto him.
"Let go of me, asshole," Frank yelled and kicked out at him.
The two old friends brawled in the parking lot, swearing and punching each other like two drunks in a Kearny bar while shocked onlookers watched. Frank freed himself from his older, stronger friend's grasp by slamming Ray's head into the pavement. Ray's hair did have its uses-the blow only left him dazed. The left he saw of Frank was his dark head whipping around the corner, screaming 'Fuck you!'.
Ray drove back to the tour bus alone, trying to keep his composure and not break down like he was dangerously close to doing.
He and Frankie had lived in the same quarters for nearly eight years. They'd figured out each other's habits and quirks and what made them tick. They'd told each other things that they'd never told another living soul.
But that Sunday, he knew in his heart that he'd never see Frank Anthony Iero alive again, and he was right.
January 6, 2009
Frank got clean in The James Center.
For a few days after, he was off heroin. But then the stomach pains and the migraines that he knew so well came to remind him that he needed the drug. He needed it.
It's like there's a little monster in my head, he penned in one journal entry, saying, "You know you want it. You'll feel better. I'll feel better."
He gave in to the 'little monster'. He rang in the year 2009 by vomiting in the arena bathroom from marijuana, alcohol and an excess of improperly cooked heroin.
Much like he had in the last week of December, Frank found himself in the car with Ray, heading for an airport, this time. He wasn't going to the James Center: he was going to Exodus. The hardcore detoxification center.
He didn't go quietly.
He made it very clear that he had no intention of going. He yelled and swore and pled, but Ray didn't give in. As much as it hurt him, he kept driving.
On Interstate 5, Frank tried to open the door and jump out of the moving vehicle. Ray couldn't believe this was happening. With his long arms, he managed to hold onto Frank as he drove, even as the car swerved. They made it to the airport a few minutes later; Frank had quieted but his sullen, stubborn attitude hadn't improved.
Ray had to half-drag Frank out of the car, one hand firmly gripping his arm and the other ensnared in the fabric of his shirt collar.
Frank swung out wildly and got a blow right on Ray's cheekbone. He tried to bolt and Ray tackled him. A wrestling match ensued.
"You fucker!" Ray snarled from between clenched teeth, straining with the effort of trying to hold onto him.
"Let go of me, asshole," Frank yelled and kicked out at him.
The two old friends brawled in the parking lot, swearing and punching each other like two drunks in a Kearny bar while shocked onlookers watched. Frank freed himself from his older, stronger friend's grasp by slamming Ray's head into the pavement. Ray's hair did have its uses-the blow only left him dazed. The left he saw of Frank was his dark head whipping around the corner, screaming 'Fuck you!'.
Ray drove back to the tour bus alone, trying to keep his composure and not break down like he was dangerously close to doing.
He and Frankie had lived in the same quarters for nearly eight years. They'd figured out each other's habits and quirks and what made them tick. They'd told each other things that they'd never told another living soul.
But that Sunday, he knew in his heart that he'd never see Frank Anthony Iero alive again, and he was right.
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