Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance
People Never Change
3 reviews'You don't care anymore. You make me sick.' Rated for [infrequent] language. Not Slash
0Unrated
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Frank’s POV
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It’s two minutes until we take to the stage and I sit back watching everyone else do the traditional jumping jacks, that I traditionally don’t do, before the lights dim and we rush on stage like caged animals on the scent of freedom.
Ironic really that what we were running from lead is onto the stage and gave us the signal to start up the first song. Ironic that the man threatening to ruin out paradise created it. Ironic that the man who preaches the importance of honesty and self-belief like a priest to his parish should be destroying himself all over again.
I take a look at you. You smirk over at me and stagger slightly from where you stand basking in the glory of a thousand admiring faces. You smell of alcohol and I can see the drunken look on your face even through your protective layers of makeup and under the glare of the stage lights. The lights that illuminate us as if we were angels fallen from heaven rather than a bunch of broken men.
I turn my head and pretend to be absorbed in my guitar as you continue to take glances in my direction. We all know I could play this song blindfolded, in fact I have once, but you just move away and taunt the crowd some more on their ‘lacking’ screams. They think you’re drunk off them, off the excitement of playing live again after a few months off, off the music like they are.
You’re not though are you? You’ve been drinking vodka since 3 o clock this afternoon and you didn’t even wake up until past noon. You’re falling apart again and we all know it. Even you see it this time but you just don’t care. You don’t care about what you’re doing to yourself, to your insides or your head or your reputation. You don’t care about your parents who call me 3 times a week now to keep tabs on you. You don’t care about your brother who spends no time with us anymore, either on the bus or in hotels just hanging out, after your outburst the other week. You don’t care about the band or the fans and the way they need you to be Ok so that they can be too. You don’t care about your friends. You don’t care about me.
You approach me with an expression of boyish innocence on your face but it’s so obviously a mask that the effect is haunting. You scare me. You take hold of my chin with the thumb and forefingers of your left hand and drag your tongue down my cheek. The crowd cheer and I play my part like I always do. Then I push you away and retreat to the far side of the stage because you are a bastard Gerard Arthur Way. You’re a fucking bastard.
You look into the crowd and search amongst the faces for something. I’m not sure what you are looking for; an answer, an escape, a friendly face, a quick lay? I don’t know and I don’t even try to understand you anymore either. I used to boast about being your best friend and knowing everything about you. Now I look at you and I see a stranger.
And so I stand here and watch you take a poster most graciously from the mob of screaming fans. Maybe that was what had caught your eye. You read it aloud with a wide smile and for the first time I wonder if you do know what you are doing to yourself again or if you’re as oblivious as the first time. “Happy 3 years Gerard.” You beam over at me and I plaster a fake smile onto my face. You show me the poster in amazement, realising as if for the first time how much these people care about you. They care enough to know the exact date of when you stopped drinking, you care enough to hide your continued drinking from them. I know your realisations wont change anything though, not it the end. The words scream out at me as you hold it there like a kick in the teeth.
In that moment you repulse me Gerard. You make me sick
AN- I didn’t write this because I think I have a say in whether Gerard drinks or not. He’s a grown man and I’m sure he can make those decisions for himself without the help of a teenage girl in England who has never met him. I do however write as someone who became suddenly inspired at 11:32 PM whilst trying to get to sleep and thinking about MCR gossip and as someone with personal experience with alcoholics promising you they’ll get better and make it Ok and then 6 months later they’re passed out on the floor again… So yeah… I hope you liked it…
Frank’s POV
------------------------------------
It’s two minutes until we take to the stage and I sit back watching everyone else do the traditional jumping jacks, that I traditionally don’t do, before the lights dim and we rush on stage like caged animals on the scent of freedom.
Ironic really that what we were running from lead is onto the stage and gave us the signal to start up the first song. Ironic that the man threatening to ruin out paradise created it. Ironic that the man who preaches the importance of honesty and self-belief like a priest to his parish should be destroying himself all over again.
I take a look at you. You smirk over at me and stagger slightly from where you stand basking in the glory of a thousand admiring faces. You smell of alcohol and I can see the drunken look on your face even through your protective layers of makeup and under the glare of the stage lights. The lights that illuminate us as if we were angels fallen from heaven rather than a bunch of broken men.
I turn my head and pretend to be absorbed in my guitar as you continue to take glances in my direction. We all know I could play this song blindfolded, in fact I have once, but you just move away and taunt the crowd some more on their ‘lacking’ screams. They think you’re drunk off them, off the excitement of playing live again after a few months off, off the music like they are.
You’re not though are you? You’ve been drinking vodka since 3 o clock this afternoon and you didn’t even wake up until past noon. You’re falling apart again and we all know it. Even you see it this time but you just don’t care. You don’t care about what you’re doing to yourself, to your insides or your head or your reputation. You don’t care about your parents who call me 3 times a week now to keep tabs on you. You don’t care about your brother who spends no time with us anymore, either on the bus or in hotels just hanging out, after your outburst the other week. You don’t care about the band or the fans and the way they need you to be Ok so that they can be too. You don’t care about your friends. You don’t care about me.
You approach me with an expression of boyish innocence on your face but it’s so obviously a mask that the effect is haunting. You scare me. You take hold of my chin with the thumb and forefingers of your left hand and drag your tongue down my cheek. The crowd cheer and I play my part like I always do. Then I push you away and retreat to the far side of the stage because you are a bastard Gerard Arthur Way. You’re a fucking bastard.
You look into the crowd and search amongst the faces for something. I’m not sure what you are looking for; an answer, an escape, a friendly face, a quick lay? I don’t know and I don’t even try to understand you anymore either. I used to boast about being your best friend and knowing everything about you. Now I look at you and I see a stranger.
And so I stand here and watch you take a poster most graciously from the mob of screaming fans. Maybe that was what had caught your eye. You read it aloud with a wide smile and for the first time I wonder if you do know what you are doing to yourself again or if you’re as oblivious as the first time. “Happy 3 years Gerard.” You beam over at me and I plaster a fake smile onto my face. You show me the poster in amazement, realising as if for the first time how much these people care about you. They care enough to know the exact date of when you stopped drinking, you care enough to hide your continued drinking from them. I know your realisations wont change anything though, not it the end. The words scream out at me as you hold it there like a kick in the teeth.
In that moment you repulse me Gerard. You make me sick
AN- I didn’t write this because I think I have a say in whether Gerard drinks or not. He’s a grown man and I’m sure he can make those decisions for himself without the help of a teenage girl in England who has never met him. I do however write as someone who became suddenly inspired at 11:32 PM whilst trying to get to sleep and thinking about MCR gossip and as someone with personal experience with alcoholics promising you they’ll get better and make it Ok and then 6 months later they’re passed out on the floor again… So yeah… I hope you liked it…
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