A Collection Of Andy Biersack Images

Lost and Insecure

Another pint! What a way to start another messy year. Another sunset; another boy inside my bed.

"Thank you, Mr. Jones" I say as the old, balding barman passes memy bubbling, ginger coloured beer as it spilled over the brim onto the table. I took a swig from the clear glass and placed it back down. I began to make little circles with my finger around the knots on the brown table.

"Anything to eat, dear?" the frail, elderly man asked with a cheerful smile; too cheerful if you ask me.

"No thank you, Mr. Jones" I sighed. I would've smiled but I'm in too bad a state to pretend to be happy. This had been my seventh night in a row spent in this bar getting drunk to forget the blur that has been my life. If you drink enough alcohol, it tastes like love.

"Please, call me George" I gave him a crooked smile in response.

Once I had gulped down my third beer that night, I thanked the barman and walked out, brushing the hairs off my red dress. I leaned across the concrete building, shivering as the coldness shocked the bare skin on my back, giving me goose bumps. I took out my Benson and Hedges, (which I smoked a pack of per day and kept a few of in my bra) placed it between my teeth and flicked at the lighter to turn it on after grazing my thumb on it a few times.

"Ah, shit" I muttered, frowning angrily at the battered contraption.

After I had finally lit my cigarette, I breathed in the tobacco and attempted at blowing smoke rings. I squinted my eyes shut and leant my head against the back of the wall and hoped that I was too drunk to remember my troubles. But no avail. No amount of alcohol could make me forget I'm such a said, sick waste of a human being. No amount of alcohol could remind me why I'm alive. I opened my eyes and admired my deep red nails. I had lost myself in tobacco and salty sadness. I hadn't eaten for days on end. I sighed. I remembered 2 weeks back. I came home from the office that day and I saw his lips were red. He stank of Chanel No5. I never wear lipstick and I can't afford Chanel. But what made me explode was the pink thong lain across the carpet. He didn't make a sound. He knew I knew. So I made him leave. I choked on my cigarette just thinking about his ugly, disgusting face. I feel sick thinking that I invested a year to him. Those beady little brown eyes. Those big, gross pores on his nose. I hope he dies.

I tapped the end of my cigarette with my finger and let it fall to the floor; I removed the high-heeled shoes that had been paining my feet all night, not caring if I stepped on glass. Not caring if I get hit by a bus. All I can think about it dying, though I do not want to die, I just want to escape this life. A few weeks back, I had been diagnosed with depression. I was asked to describe my depression to my GP. I couldn't, though. I can not put into words, the horror of being like this. It's hard to visualise. Imagine drowning, but everyone around you is still breathing. I began to cry, It was too dark for anyone to see. I don't care anyway. I would happily be murdered.

I kept my head down as I walked down the dark street and to the bridge above the highway. This was it. One jump and I could end all the pain. This has not been my first attempt, but it would kill me for sure. I took a seat on the bridge. I slowly began to slide myself off. I tried not to look down as my legs dangled above the moving cars, that looked like specs as they were hundreds of feet below. I took one last breath, more salt filled my eyes.

"Goodbye" I choked to myself.

I felt myself slipping , I was falling only about five centimetres when I felt myself slipping, I was falling only about five centimetres when I felt a strong pair of hands tightly grasp my waist. I gasped, It hurt a little; I couldn't breathe, his grip so tight. I felt as though my ribs might shatter. He turned me around to face him, so that I was perched on the wall of the bridge. I felt rain drops on my shoulders.