The Only Hope for Me is You-Frerard

17-Gerard

 I don't want to go to the recording studio. I don't want to play shows. I don't want to lie in bed or move around the apartment or go out or call my mom. I just don't want to do anything. I want to be nowhere and do nothing. I'm just not happy. I thought being in a band would make me happy, and take all my problems and pains away. But I have depression. And honestly, going to the studio and playing shows and being surrounded by flashing lights and colourful people with pretty drugs promising to take it all away isn't really helping.

Wouldn't it be romantic to say that Frank can take that all away? Sometimes I feel better when I'm with him, or my symptoms are less bad, but they don't disappear. He can get me out of bed some days, and he can be with me. I appreciate that he's trying. But my demons live in my head, where he can't slay them.

I'm thinking about what can. Blades made of white power and pills, that will kill my demons, but that will kill me too.

We're getting more and more famous. We have a whole album recorded. Frank didn't want any of his songs to be on it, but they are anyways, because he's way more talented than he thinks he is. We actually seem to have a decent, underground following. Some fans even follow us around New York City, showing up at the clubs we play at and getting us beer and cigarettes. I wish Frankie wouldn't smoke, but by the time the show starts, I'm usually too drunk to do anything about it.

Alcohol impairs your judgement. Everyone knows that. For me, it impairs my judgement by drawing me to other judgement-impairing substances.

I've never done cocaine before. I've always been afraid of it, as I should be. But when I'm drunk, I can't remember why it ever seemed like a bad idea.

I'm completely plastered by the end of our show that night. I leave the other band members to deal with the instruments and equipment, and I go backstage. People are sitting around on couches there. The room is dark and smoky. People some cigarettes and pot. The scent reminds me of high school.

I stumble up to a couch and sit next to a girl I've seen at a few of our shows. She's wearing a black leather vest on top, zipped up to her belly button and no higher. Her chest hangs out. She leans close to me. She probably thinks I find her hot. She doesn't know about Frank, or that fact that her lack of a dick deters me quite a bit. I chat her up while a man sets a mirror before her. She smiles and I watch as she snorts it up her nose.

The guy sets a mirror in front of me too. I don't even feel nervous. The alcohol keeps the anxiety and apprehension at bay. I try to imitate what I saw the girl do. I lean down and breathe in through my nose sharply. I can feel it there, sliding inside me.

For a moment, I don't know if it's working. But after not too long, I can feel it setting in. The first thing I feel is euphoria. I'm hyper-aware of everything around me, and I feel alive. I feel really alive. I don't feel my usual depression. I just feel artificial euphoria sliding through me. My blood feels warm and jittery in my veins, and I am hyper-aware of every sensation. I sometimes get like that when I kiss Frank.

Frank...

I think of Frank deeply. I can picture every little thing about him. His hazel eyes. Black hair. The feeling of his hands and lips caressing my skin. The way he lets out little moans of pleasure when I kiss this one spot on his neck. The scars that crisscross his arms. The way he stopped doing that, but scratches himself instead. The three round scars from the cigarette...

He suffered an actual beating. The guy could have broken his ribs or caused him internal bleeding. The whole side of his face was bruised, he broke his knuckles and split is lip, he was covered in cuts and bruises, and he got burned three times with a cigarette. All so I wouldn't do cocaine.