Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > And Without A Sound....And I Wish You Away
Part One:: Cobains Disease [ Chapter Six - It's Better To Burn Out ]
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6: It's Better To Burn Out
January 9. 2009: 5:34 AM
Frank woke up early the morning of Friday, January ninth in his own house. The pillows still smelled of Jamia's perfume, an intoxicatingly strong, spicy scent that had left him dazed the first time he inhaled it. Neither she nor Carmen was there-they'd left the night before. He had slept in his clothes: His favorite old Nirvana T-shirt, a comfy pair of Levi's and his brown leather jacket. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and laced up the only pair of shoes he owned-Converse sneakers.
He turned on the TV and found that it was on MTV, then flipped on the lamp. He blinked in the dazzling light until his eyes adjusted and pushed back the curtain.
The sun wasn't up, yet the edges of the horizon were stained a pearly gray and faint smudges of lilac blue were making way through the dark sky. The stars were disappearing and a slow breeze ruffled the treetops back and forth, silhouetted against the near-black skyline. Most early-winter mornings were like this-beautiful and chilly.
He reached out for the notebook on his bed-stand and found a pen gradually. He leaned back against the wall and propped the notebook on his knees. The paper entranced him for a moment, not because of writer's block but because the simple notebook paper seemed so small, so finite.
In the James Center, he'd began a note like this to Carmen and Jamia. After several revisions, he'd finished it.
I love you both. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. This isn't your fault, Jamia, I love you more than anything in the world, you and Carmen are everything to me. I'm sorry.
He'd filled almost a page with that plea. Now he was writing a second one.
This note should be pretty easy to understand: All the warnings from the punk rock 101 courses over the years have proven to be very true. I haven't felt the excitement of listening to as well as creating music for too many years now. I feel guilty beyond words about these things. When we're backstage and the lights go out and the manic roar of the crowd begins it doesn't affect me like it does for Gerard, who glows in the adoration from the crowd, which is something I totally admire and envy. I can't take being here. I'm going to end up dying of an overdose someday soon, so go out with a bang I guess. The fact is I can't fool you. Any one of you. It simply isn't fair to you or me. The worst crime I can think of would be to rip people off by faking it and pretending as if I'm having 100 % fun. Sometimes I feel as if I should have a punch-in time clock before I walk out on stage. I've tried everything within my power to appreciate it, (and I do. God, believe me I do) but it's not enough. I appreciate the fact that I and we have affected and entertained a lot of people. I must be one of those narcissists who only appreciate things when they're gone. On our last three tours I've had a much better appreciation for all the people I've known personally and as fans of our music, but I still can't get over the frustration, the guilt I have for everyone. Why don't you just enjoy it? I don't know! I have a goddess of a wife who sweats ambition and empathy and a daughter who reminds me too much of what I used to be. Full of love and joy smiling at every person she meets because everyone is good and will do her no harm. I can't stand the thought of Carmen becoming the miserable self-destructive, junkie rocker that I've become. I have it good, very good, and I'm grateful. I love and feel sorry for people too much I guess.
To the Guys: You guys and my family are the best things that ever happened to me. Torosaurous, Gee, Mikey, Bob, I love you all more than you can ever know. Keep going and win more Grammys for me.
Thank you all for your concern during the past years. I'm too much of an erratic, moody baby! I don't have the passion anymore and so remember, its better to burn out than to fade away.
Jamia, don't blame yourself for this. I love you more than anything, he wrote again.
Peace, love, rock and roll. Frankie Iero.
He reread it once, twice; there were misspellings and half-complete sentences, but there wasn't time to rewrite it. It had taken six cigarettes to finish it. He tore out the piece of paper, folded it and put it in his coat pocket, his fingers nudging the pack of Marlboros. Then he went to the closet and reached up to the top shelf, his fingers curling around a small box of Tom Moore cigars. The box held much more sinister items now.
One of them was more than a hundred dollars worth of heroin. The other was a Browning 9 millimeter semiautomatic pistol.
With the box in one hand, he walked out into the hallway and stood on the stairwell. He balanced the box on the railing and went into the small bathroom, pulling two paper cups out of the dispenser, pouring a little water into one. He walked back out to the landing and opened the box.
The little bag was there along with a small spoon. He poured heroin into the empty cup-more than was safe, way more-and added water, stirring it slowly, drawing it up into the syringe.
He glanced out the small window, seeing his daughter's swing set, the slide, his skateboard. He would never see them again. He would never see his daughter, or Jamia, or Ray.
Frank loaded and cocked the gun, turning off the safety. He reached inside his coat pocket and withdrew the note. He pressed it against the wall and wrote one more line-"I love you"-and dropped the pen, where it clattered to the hardwood. He clutched the note in his left hand.
No turning back now.
He plunged the needle into the thin skin just above his elbow. He had to work fast; everything was getting hazy. His breathing slowed as everything-the gun he held in his hand was the only clear thing-was framed in an aqua-green hue. He pressed the gun to the roof of his mouth. It would be loud; he was sure of that.
And then he was gone.
January 9. 2009: 5:34 AM
Frank woke up early the morning of Friday, January ninth in his own house. The pillows still smelled of Jamia's perfume, an intoxicatingly strong, spicy scent that had left him dazed the first time he inhaled it. Neither she nor Carmen was there-they'd left the night before. He had slept in his clothes: His favorite old Nirvana T-shirt, a comfy pair of Levi's and his brown leather jacket. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and laced up the only pair of shoes he owned-Converse sneakers.
He turned on the TV and found that it was on MTV, then flipped on the lamp. He blinked in the dazzling light until his eyes adjusted and pushed back the curtain.
The sun wasn't up, yet the edges of the horizon were stained a pearly gray and faint smudges of lilac blue were making way through the dark sky. The stars were disappearing and a slow breeze ruffled the treetops back and forth, silhouetted against the near-black skyline. Most early-winter mornings were like this-beautiful and chilly.
He reached out for the notebook on his bed-stand and found a pen gradually. He leaned back against the wall and propped the notebook on his knees. The paper entranced him for a moment, not because of writer's block but because the simple notebook paper seemed so small, so finite.
In the James Center, he'd began a note like this to Carmen and Jamia. After several revisions, he'd finished it.
I love you both. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. This isn't your fault, Jamia, I love you more than anything in the world, you and Carmen are everything to me. I'm sorry.
He'd filled almost a page with that plea. Now he was writing a second one.
This note should be pretty easy to understand: All the warnings from the punk rock 101 courses over the years have proven to be very true. I haven't felt the excitement of listening to as well as creating music for too many years now. I feel guilty beyond words about these things. When we're backstage and the lights go out and the manic roar of the crowd begins it doesn't affect me like it does for Gerard, who glows in the adoration from the crowd, which is something I totally admire and envy. I can't take being here. I'm going to end up dying of an overdose someday soon, so go out with a bang I guess. The fact is I can't fool you. Any one of you. It simply isn't fair to you or me. The worst crime I can think of would be to rip people off by faking it and pretending as if I'm having 100 % fun. Sometimes I feel as if I should have a punch-in time clock before I walk out on stage. I've tried everything within my power to appreciate it, (and I do. God, believe me I do) but it's not enough. I appreciate the fact that I and we have affected and entertained a lot of people. I must be one of those narcissists who only appreciate things when they're gone. On our last three tours I've had a much better appreciation for all the people I've known personally and as fans of our music, but I still can't get over the frustration, the guilt I have for everyone. Why don't you just enjoy it? I don't know! I have a goddess of a wife who sweats ambition and empathy and a daughter who reminds me too much of what I used to be. Full of love and joy smiling at every person she meets because everyone is good and will do her no harm. I can't stand the thought of Carmen becoming the miserable self-destructive, junkie rocker that I've become. I have it good, very good, and I'm grateful. I love and feel sorry for people too much I guess.
To the Guys: You guys and my family are the best things that ever happened to me. Torosaurous, Gee, Mikey, Bob, I love you all more than you can ever know. Keep going and win more Grammys for me.
Thank you all for your concern during the past years. I'm too much of an erratic, moody baby! I don't have the passion anymore and so remember, its better to burn out than to fade away.
Jamia, don't blame yourself for this. I love you more than anything, he wrote again.
Peace, love, rock and roll. Frankie Iero.
He reread it once, twice; there were misspellings and half-complete sentences, but there wasn't time to rewrite it. It had taken six cigarettes to finish it. He tore out the piece of paper, folded it and put it in his coat pocket, his fingers nudging the pack of Marlboros. Then he went to the closet and reached up to the top shelf, his fingers curling around a small box of Tom Moore cigars. The box held much more sinister items now.
One of them was more than a hundred dollars worth of heroin. The other was a Browning 9 millimeter semiautomatic pistol.
With the box in one hand, he walked out into the hallway and stood on the stairwell. He balanced the box on the railing and went into the small bathroom, pulling two paper cups out of the dispenser, pouring a little water into one. He walked back out to the landing and opened the box.
The little bag was there along with a small spoon. He poured heroin into the empty cup-more than was safe, way more-and added water, stirring it slowly, drawing it up into the syringe.
He glanced out the small window, seeing his daughter's swing set, the slide, his skateboard. He would never see them again. He would never see his daughter, or Jamia, or Ray.
Frank loaded and cocked the gun, turning off the safety. He reached inside his coat pocket and withdrew the note. He pressed it against the wall and wrote one more line-"I love you"-and dropped the pen, where it clattered to the hardwood. He clutched the note in his left hand.
No turning back now.
He plunged the needle into the thin skin just above his elbow. He had to work fast; everything was getting hazy. His breathing slowed as everything-the gun he held in his hand was the only clear thing-was framed in an aqua-green hue. He pressed the gun to the roof of his mouth. It would be loud; he was sure of that.
And then he was gone.
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