FicWad

I was just re-reading this story, and all I can think of is: Wow. What was going through my mind when I wrote this??? Sometimes I scare myself.

What would happen if My Chemical Romance didn't exist- for its members and listeners. Read and review please!


She had learned to live with and ignore the ceaseless pounding on her door, as well as the angry shouts of, "Open the damn door right now!" It finally ended with mutterings and the thump of her door being kicked as her father walked away.
If she didn't run to hide fast enough, he would catch her, taking the stairs two at a time, and throw her into her room by her arm and hit her until his anger subsided or she crawled under the bed in pain. The next morning she would sit in her room and sneak ice onto the numerous bruises he had left. She would skip school, knowing no one would miss her, not even the teachers. They all said the same things- "She's a bright girl but needs to speak up in class more often. And where do all those bruises on her arms come from?"
As she sat in her room sobbing that day, she wondered what she could do, staring at an angry yellow-blue mark on her leg where he had thrown a book at her two days ago. She lugged a duffle bag out from under her bed and began to throw her belongings into it, but stopped when she realized she had nowhere to go. She had nothing. All the kids hated her, she had no books or anything to play with, and she had to wear the same jeans every day. She didn't even like any music. There were no bands that she liked, and she only had a radio because her mother, one of the few and amazing times that she wasn't drunk, had given her the old one after it had accidentally fallen out the window and now had a gigantic dent in its left side.
Suddenly the idea came to her- she could commit suicide! No one would miss her. She deserved to die. What did she have to live for anyway? If only someone would speak encouraging words that would give her some hope, just something that could tell her, "You have so much to live for," maybe she would stay on Earth. But there was nothing, and as she quietly tiptoed to her mother's medicine cabinet, she was happy for the first time in a long time.
She sat on her bed, the pills in one hand, still unsure if this was the right choice. She heard the broken-down radio's hum and thought, "If the next song on the radio can give me hope, I won't end my life." She waited and listened.
The current song ended, and suddenly, a strange thing happened. The radio stopped playing for a few moments, like there should have been a song there, but there wasn't. It was like a signal for her.
"No one cares," she whispered. "I might as well die now." Slowly, she swallowed all the pills and sunk down onto the bed as darkness consumed her.



There was a knock on the door. At first Gerard didn't want to answer. In his state of stupor, he lay against the wall and searched in his liquor-addled mind for a flicker of recognition that would say who it was. "Mikey?" he whispered, and tried to get to his feet, but fell against a table and couldn't stand.
At last Frank managed to open the door. The hinge was rusted, like it hadn't been touched for a long time. The scent of alcohol overpowered him as he stepped into the darkened room. His heart raced as he saw a figure lying on the floor.
"Gerard? Are you alright?" He held his breath, then let it out as the form stirred.
"Mikey, I missed you, where were you? Mikey? Mikey?!" the man slurred.
Frank's heart ached. "Gerard, Mikey..." he trailed off, unable to tell the man where his brother was. It looked like he hadn't been out of the filthy apartment in a while. His clothes were beer-stained, and there were broken bottles strewn throughout the apartment. Gerard's eyes were bloodshot and there were dark circles under his eyes. Blood stained bandages covered his arms.
"Gerard, you can't live like this!" Frank exclaimed. "Please come with me," he pleaded.
Gerard staggered to his feet. "I don't need you!" he shouted, almost falling but righting himself. "You abandoned me, Mikey! Where are you?!!!" he fell to the ground, sobbing in a crumpled heap.
Frank, knowing that Gerard was delusional, eased toward him carefully, like Gerard was a mad dog about to bite. "I want to help you. Please don't ruin your life"
Gerard leaped up, waving a broken bottle with jagged, sharp edges. "Get out!" he roared. "GET OUT!!!" He lunged towards Frank with the bottle and Frank raced toward the door and collapsed, panting on the doorframe, trying to ward Gerard off.
"Please..." he gasped.
"Just leave, Mikey," Gerard mumbled. "Who do you think you are, abandoning me..."
Frank let himself out of the apartment and stood in the hall, his shoulders heaving. "Mikey's dead," he sobbed, crying for the man that was slowly committing suicide.
Inside, Gerard got to his feet. He reached under the cobwebbed bed for a small package. Wrapped in a dirty cloth was a razor, the edge dull but still able to cut. Gerard clasped it to his heart, then put the instrument to his wrist, unwrapping it and gazing fondly at the scars he had created.
"My savior," he whispered, before he drew the blade slowly down his arm across his vein. This last time, the stroke was made to kill.