Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > And I Wish You Away
Chapter 21
Bob waved goodbye as he slid into the driver's seat of his car. He was exhausted after a long night of performing in his hometown. Bob loved performing in Chicago. He would always tell me how glad he was to be home, how awsome the kids were and how proud he was to be able to go back and kick the shit out of everyone who never believed in him.
That was the great thing about Bob, he was vengeful with more of a "I got something you'll never have" twist. He was an asshole, and we all loved him.
That was the last night any of us ever saw Bob alive again.
I watched him drive away, a smile dancing on my lips at the site of his beat up old car with the million bumper stickers plastered to the rusty bumper.
The story of Bob's death was told to us all by various Crime Scene Investigators and even the Forensic Pathologist on the team. It was the same horrible story we had all grown to hate.
Bob pulled into his little apartment right out of the city and slammed his rusty car door closed. He walked up the stairs and went to unlock the door to his apartment, only to find it was already unlocked. Thinking he had just forgotten to lock it, Bob shrugged it off and stepped inside, locking the door once on the other side.
I suppose he did various things, whatever it is that Bob did in his spare time: playing World Of Warcraft, Halo2, smoking like a chimney, petting his 1000 cats that he shared a home with. He was just being Bob, good old sweet Bob.
The killer was said to have snapped the end off of one of Bob's drumsticks to reveal deadly, jagged wood. A killing instrument.
He struck Bob in the calf with the drumstick, causing him to fall to his knees in pain. The killer tried to catch Bob as he ran out the door, in search of someone, a pay phone, a taxi, anything.
Bob hobbled to a payphone a few blocks down the street and frantically searched his pockets for change.
He didn't see the truck coming towards him, a sleepy driver behind it's large wheel.
The payphone was smashed to bits..and so was Bob.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
I chewed on my nails as I remembered that horrible story the CSI's gave us a few night's after the murder. He was murdered. The sleeping truck driver had to have something to do with the murder, I just knew it.
"Frank?" I looked up and saw Gerard standing in the doorway with a cup of coffee.
I nodded for him to sit down beside the bed I was sitting on in a crosslegged position.
I sighed hopelessly and took the warm liquid from Gerard's shaking hands. "When they fuck are going to let me out of here Gee?" I asked, touching the mug to my lips and blowing lightly on the dark swirly liquid inside.
Gerard averted his eyes and gazed out the window. "They're not letting you go Frank. In fact...." He trailed off and went to stand next to the window to further his birdwatching. "They're puting you in the Phsyc ward of the hospital."
"What?!?!" I jumped from my seat and began pacing the room. Gerard looked at me like I was pathetic, "Frank, you're not well, the Dr, says you may be suffering from some sort of mental illness."
"Why the hell does he say that? I was in a fucking coma!" The sudden curiosity of how in the world I got in a coma struck me. " Um, Gerard...why was I in a coma?"
Gerard didn't look at me, he continued to gaze at the depressing hospital lawn outside the window. "You tried to kill yourself Frank, all the trauma from the overdose...it put you in a coma."
He sighed and continued, "If Jamia hadn't have been so hysterical today, you would never have woken up."
"Overdose? On what?" I asked, returning back to my crosslegged position on the springy bed.
Gerard took a sip of his coffee, "Xanax. You stole some from my bag. You were the only one I ever told about my secret stash for....hard times."
Great, I overdosed on nerve pills. Great idea Frank. I sat awkwardly on the crisp hospital sheets, unsure if I should speak or move, or even breathe.
I gazed around the pasty white room with ugly mauve curtains and pictures of sailboats on the stark walls. I hated hospitals, but unfortunatly, I knew them all too well. My ma and I spent most of my childhood in these crispy springy beds surrounded by these cold, white walls. I had always been sickly phsyically and I struggled with depression as a teenger. I never thought myself mentaly ill in any way and always thought I could handle stress farely well. This whole experience however, proved me dead fucking wrong.
Gerard turned to face me again and set his cup down on the table below the window.
"They can only keep you in there for 30 days, if your'e still fucked up at the end of those 30 days, they'll send you to the loony bin."
"The real fucking deal?" I asked, half knowing the answer.
Gerard nodded his head and sat down next to me on the bed.
I cursed under my breath and ran my hand all down my face, fucking up my greasy hair before resting my hand back down into my lap, nervously playing with my overgrown cuticles.
"Ok." I breathed, prolonging the word, breathing into it, trying to figure out what was going to happen to me.
I was at the mercy of about 50 doctors and no, that didn't make me feel good..at all.
"If I can't control myself..I might as well have someone else attempt to." I said, apathy saturating my tone. At that point, I could care less what happend to me. Apparently, I slipped into my coma right before we entered the building where "Johnathon" jumped in the car with us. I guess Xanax takes a while to kick in. The doctors told me that since I was so sickly and hadn't eaten anything for five days, that I was more vulnerable to the drug.
I remember everything that happened before the coma. I wanted Jamia. I wanted to tell her what I did, I wanted to hug her, kiss her, tell her I loved her.
I had no idea what I was going to do about Lilana.
Gerard sighed and looked me square in the eye, "Don't fuck up again Frank. I thought I had lost you. I can't bear to lose another one of my best friends. You're my brother Frank, just please don't do anything like this again."
He was fighting back tears as he spoke. He was genuine, soft and loving, something he hadn't been since before Bob died.
I took him into my arms, wrapping them around his nearly tremblinh body. He sobbed softly on my shoulder and gripped my shirt with his pale hands.
"I won't ever leave you Gerard." I whispered into his hair, "You're my best friend Gee, I fucking love you."
He pulled away and wiped his running nose with the back of his sleeve and chuckled, "Fucking pansy."
I grinned and playfully slapped him on the arm.
A comfortable silence grew between us and the dread of dealing with the two very sensative women in my life, filled me. I was in for it.
It's not much, it's kind of a filler.
This chapter is dedicated to my mom, who came up with the idea for Bob's death and helped me write it. Thanks Mummy!
Thanks for rating and reveiwing. Keep it up.
Bob waved goodbye as he slid into the driver's seat of his car. He was exhausted after a long night of performing in his hometown. Bob loved performing in Chicago. He would always tell me how glad he was to be home, how awsome the kids were and how proud he was to be able to go back and kick the shit out of everyone who never believed in him.
That was the great thing about Bob, he was vengeful with more of a "I got something you'll never have" twist. He was an asshole, and we all loved him.
That was the last night any of us ever saw Bob alive again.
I watched him drive away, a smile dancing on my lips at the site of his beat up old car with the million bumper stickers plastered to the rusty bumper.
The story of Bob's death was told to us all by various Crime Scene Investigators and even the Forensic Pathologist on the team. It was the same horrible story we had all grown to hate.
Bob pulled into his little apartment right out of the city and slammed his rusty car door closed. He walked up the stairs and went to unlock the door to his apartment, only to find it was already unlocked. Thinking he had just forgotten to lock it, Bob shrugged it off and stepped inside, locking the door once on the other side.
I suppose he did various things, whatever it is that Bob did in his spare time: playing World Of Warcraft, Halo2, smoking like a chimney, petting his 1000 cats that he shared a home with. He was just being Bob, good old sweet Bob.
The killer was said to have snapped the end off of one of Bob's drumsticks to reveal deadly, jagged wood. A killing instrument.
He struck Bob in the calf with the drumstick, causing him to fall to his knees in pain. The killer tried to catch Bob as he ran out the door, in search of someone, a pay phone, a taxi, anything.
Bob hobbled to a payphone a few blocks down the street and frantically searched his pockets for change.
He didn't see the truck coming towards him, a sleepy driver behind it's large wheel.
The payphone was smashed to bits..and so was Bob.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
I chewed on my nails as I remembered that horrible story the CSI's gave us a few night's after the murder. He was murdered. The sleeping truck driver had to have something to do with the murder, I just knew it.
"Frank?" I looked up and saw Gerard standing in the doorway with a cup of coffee.
I nodded for him to sit down beside the bed I was sitting on in a crosslegged position.
I sighed hopelessly and took the warm liquid from Gerard's shaking hands. "When they fuck are going to let me out of here Gee?" I asked, touching the mug to my lips and blowing lightly on the dark swirly liquid inside.
Gerard averted his eyes and gazed out the window. "They're not letting you go Frank. In fact...." He trailed off and went to stand next to the window to further his birdwatching. "They're puting you in the Phsyc ward of the hospital."
"What?!?!" I jumped from my seat and began pacing the room. Gerard looked at me like I was pathetic, "Frank, you're not well, the Dr, says you may be suffering from some sort of mental illness."
"Why the hell does he say that? I was in a fucking coma!" The sudden curiosity of how in the world I got in a coma struck me. " Um, Gerard...why was I in a coma?"
Gerard didn't look at me, he continued to gaze at the depressing hospital lawn outside the window. "You tried to kill yourself Frank, all the trauma from the overdose...it put you in a coma."
He sighed and continued, "If Jamia hadn't have been so hysterical today, you would never have woken up."
"Overdose? On what?" I asked, returning back to my crosslegged position on the springy bed.
Gerard took a sip of his coffee, "Xanax. You stole some from my bag. You were the only one I ever told about my secret stash for....hard times."
Great, I overdosed on nerve pills. Great idea Frank. I sat awkwardly on the crisp hospital sheets, unsure if I should speak or move, or even breathe.
I gazed around the pasty white room with ugly mauve curtains and pictures of sailboats on the stark walls. I hated hospitals, but unfortunatly, I knew them all too well. My ma and I spent most of my childhood in these crispy springy beds surrounded by these cold, white walls. I had always been sickly phsyically and I struggled with depression as a teenger. I never thought myself mentaly ill in any way and always thought I could handle stress farely well. This whole experience however, proved me dead fucking wrong.
Gerard turned to face me again and set his cup down on the table below the window.
"They can only keep you in there for 30 days, if your'e still fucked up at the end of those 30 days, they'll send you to the loony bin."
"The real fucking deal?" I asked, half knowing the answer.
Gerard nodded his head and sat down next to me on the bed.
I cursed under my breath and ran my hand all down my face, fucking up my greasy hair before resting my hand back down into my lap, nervously playing with my overgrown cuticles.
"Ok." I breathed, prolonging the word, breathing into it, trying to figure out what was going to happen to me.
I was at the mercy of about 50 doctors and no, that didn't make me feel good..at all.
"If I can't control myself..I might as well have someone else attempt to." I said, apathy saturating my tone. At that point, I could care less what happend to me. Apparently, I slipped into my coma right before we entered the building where "Johnathon" jumped in the car with us. I guess Xanax takes a while to kick in. The doctors told me that since I was so sickly and hadn't eaten anything for five days, that I was more vulnerable to the drug.
I remember everything that happened before the coma. I wanted Jamia. I wanted to tell her what I did, I wanted to hug her, kiss her, tell her I loved her.
I had no idea what I was going to do about Lilana.
Gerard sighed and looked me square in the eye, "Don't fuck up again Frank. I thought I had lost you. I can't bear to lose another one of my best friends. You're my brother Frank, just please don't do anything like this again."
He was fighting back tears as he spoke. He was genuine, soft and loving, something he hadn't been since before Bob died.
I took him into my arms, wrapping them around his nearly tremblinh body. He sobbed softly on my shoulder and gripped my shirt with his pale hands.
"I won't ever leave you Gerard." I whispered into his hair, "You're my best friend Gee, I fucking love you."
He pulled away and wiped his running nose with the back of his sleeve and chuckled, "Fucking pansy."
I grinned and playfully slapped him on the arm.
A comfortable silence grew between us and the dread of dealing with the two very sensative women in my life, filled me. I was in for it.
It's not much, it's kind of a filler.
This chapter is dedicated to my mom, who came up with the idea for Bob's death and helped me write it. Thanks Mummy!
Thanks for rating and reveiwing. Keep it up.
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