Gerard Way: Serial Killer

Chapter Five.

I dashed like a bitch from the party after Frank and I made out. This couldn't be happening. It was only supposed to be friendship. Right?

'Oh, Jesus fuck! What ever are we going to do?' a voice inside my head yelled sarcastically.

'Get your head straight, Gerard. Think clearly,' another, calmer voice coaxed.

Don't let the voices argue like politicians. It's not healthy.

"Kissing your friend isn't healthy either!'

'Shut up!'

Stop arguing, voices, STOP IT!

Ugh, they were back. They've left me alone to my own thoughts for a while, but now they're back after how many years? Fuck!

I streaked across the parking lot, my hands clamped on my ears in an attempt to block out the arguing internal voices, and burst into my apartment building and climbed the stairs like an Olympian Stairclimber Champion. If those existed.

I staggered up to my door, palms of my hands still digging into my ears. I fumbled with my keys to get in. My senses were blurred with frustration. I almost broke down the entrance out of impatience before I forced the key in and unlocked it and stumbled inside, raving mad, hands itching to destroy anything and everything tangible. I slammed the door behind me.

I only played this game every once in a great while. Here is the rule: what you see is what you can break. So, the first thing I see is the first thing I smash. In this case, it happened to be a coffee mug that had a smiley face printed on the side.

I snatched it by the handle and broke it as if I had just called "cheers" and went to clink my glass against someone else's, except I rammed it against the nearest wall instead. The mug shattered with a satisfying "KRSSH"; some of the broken ceramic chunks embedding themselves into my knuckles. I still held the unscathed handle, which I whipped down onto the pile of coffee mug rubble.

Oh, did that feel good. I stumbled over to a cabinet, ceramic crunching underneath my shoes, and extracted a stack of clear glass plates and tossed them one-by-one like frisbees across the room. They completely exploded into shards of sharp crystal as they made impact with the tile floor. I was feeling a tiny bit more calm, but I still needed to smash things.

Hah, I giggled at myself.

'What are you, the Hulk?' an angry voice from deep inside my brain taunted, 'Hulk smash! Ha ha, dumbass.'

'I'm not dumb. I'm a smart boy.' Another sarcastically retorted.

Oh, balls. They were arguing again! They'd better stop soon, before I fly off the handle and kill someone.

The coffeepot came next. I chucked it on the floor and stomped my foot onto it, the pot obliterating underneath the sheer wrath of my Converse, the sound of shattering glass like music to my ears.

I started laughing. Loudly. That loud, rambling, stereotypical, crazy-psycho-killer cackle. I just needed the voices to cut it out. Just for a moment or two while I cleaned up my mess. Is that too much to ask?

'Yes.'

Wasn't fucking asking you!

I ventured erratically down the hall to retrieve the dustpan and broom from the hallway closet. When I came back and kneeled on the floor, preparing to sweep up the dusted coffee pot, I heard a knock on the door.

Oh, fuck no.

'Someone heard crazy little Gee lose his mind!'

I ignored the voice to walk over to the door and open it.

There was a girl standing there; dressed in grey skinny jeans and a black crewneck sweatshirt. She looked about fourteen and had short brown hair.

She pushed her black, squarish glasses further up on her nose. "Uh, dude, you okay? I heard your door slam and-"

I made sure no one was in the corridor and placed my hand over her mouth and yanked her into my apartment.

'How dare someone knock on our door?'

It's my door. Not 'ours'. You're just voices in my brain.

'Just voices? Ha, we're fucking controlling you right now!'

I dragged her into the kitchen. It was true. They were controlling me. She was struggling against my deathgrip on her face, yelling, kicking and punching at me. She even licked my hand, trying to urge me somehow to let go. I just tightened my hold. Well, they tightened my hold. I was no longer in control.

I walked backwards over to a kitchen cabinet, still dragging along the poor victim of my mental instability.

Oh no. I know what the voices are doing. Oh, no. My hand trembled as it opened the cabinet. No no no no I lifted out an antique butcher's knife I kept hidden in there. God, no. She's too young no I can't do this no no no I cannot kill a young teenager no please

'Ha. "Just voices," he says,' one voice sneers.

The girl was screaming now, but it was somewhat muffled by my hand. I lugged her further into the apartment into my bedroom to further quiet her cries for help, knife in hand. The voices forced me to drag her up onto my bed.

No, no, please. I tried to negotiate with the voices that only I could hear.

The knife rested its blood-hungry blade on the teenager's mark-free neck. Well, mark-free-for-now neck.

Much too young to die. She is pleading for life. For God's sake. Please. Please don't make me do this.

I- they- pressed the knife down harder, piercing her skin. She was bellowing from under the clasp of my trembling, clammy fingers; tears streaming down her face. Blood started to well out of the incision.

STOP! Don't kill her!

One wrench of my arm finished her off. The knife slid down into her neck, slicing clean through.

Her screams were merely gurgles now, dying off into silence.

She, an innocent fourteen year old, was dead. I killed her. I my knees buckled meekly as I broke down onto the floor in a puddle of tears.

How did I let the voices control me?

How could I not stop them?

How was I going to hide her body?

She was bleeding more blood than the Pacific has water. My sheets are going to be SO damn stained.

"Happy Halloween," a voice giggled. But that time it wasn't in my head. That one was out loud.