Save Me From My Self-Destruction//(Frerard AU)

Save Me From My Self-destruction

*A/N: This story IS a Frerard-ish.

This may be TRIGGERING to some people, (self-harm, etc.)

GERARD’S POV

I know what it’s like to be dead, and still feel the breath of life in my lungs. I prefered it that way. When you don’t feel anything, not a single nagging emotion, you’re given the power to be ignorant of anything happening around you and not feel a thing. Considering most of the events in my life are tragic, I found my usual lack of emotion to be a blessing.

Numb is what I felt and what I craved in my darkest hours. In the dead of night when I’m struggling to contain myself from a manic episode of self-destruction, numb is what I need, and I got it from two poisons; painkillers and alcohal.

Sure it was a dangerous mixture, and given I never read labels or take only what I “need” I should be dead by now, but that’s the fun part. Taking a handful of pills and half a bottle of vodka, it’s like playing russian roullete.

Take right now for an example, I had stolen a bottle of pills from my mom and took maybe ten before drinking as much as I could. I was numbed up and barely breathing on my roughed up old couch in my apartment.

Empty bottles of booze layed around the small place along with empty presiption pill bottles and dirt. I was twenty-five and far from having any sort of “life” together, not that I wanted one.

You see, I could be making it big, drawing comics and maybe even cartoons. Selling my creativity and making others happy, but I wasn’t.

A year ago, I was working in New York as an intern at Cartoon Network, hoping to make it as an artist. I was a little introverted and shy, but overall life was good. Until the fatefull attacks on Semptember 11, 2001 at the twin towers.

I was on my way to work when I witnessed the tragedy myself. It was absolutley horrible and opened my eyes to how I was living my life. I was hiding pratically, and not really living. I decided to say, “fuck it”, and quit my job to pursue music and actually get out there.

I moved into a small apartment with my younger brother Mikey, who shared my love of music. I got together with a friend, Ray, who wanted in.

We got a few bars to let us play, and managed to find guys to drum for us ln those nights since we didn’t have a drummer. Life was looking good, and er didn’t sound half bad, until three months after 9/11, a closer tragedy struck; Mikey died.

He was driving home from work during a rainy storm and slid, crashing head-on into a tree. I still remember getting the news, the cops showed up at my door. I told them it wasn’t true. It had to be a sick joke. They tried to tell me but I wouldn’t let myself believe it.

When Ray came by later, in tears, I knew it was true. He never cried.

I broke. I drank away the pain and hid myself from everyone. The band didn’t matter anymore, nothing did. I gave up everything in New York for music here, and it was taken away.

I felt it.

I felt the heartbreak, the sadness, the deppressing thoughts…the emotions of it all. Nothing could numb the pain of his death. I cried out in frustration and felt tears running down my face. I could feel my heartbeat, going faster in my veins. I wiped the tears and clutched the empty bottle from the table. I want to be numb.

I busted it on the table and shakily held the broken glass in front of me. It was thick and sharp and tempting. I squeezed my eyes shut and held out my left arm, bringing the bottle down quickly and slashing my arm. All I could feel was the sharp, burning pain, and the blood slowly leaving my veins. It was more bearable.

I fell back dizzily on the couch and felt my breathing slow.

“I don’t wanna feel…” I slurred slowly as my surroundings faded to a sublime darkness.

—-

“Gerard, come on, get up.” The familar voice of Ray woke me up. I’d blacked out.

I opened my eyes slowly to my surroundings. I was on my bed, and a white bandage was on my arm. It still stung, but less then earlier. My head was pounding and it was nighttime now.

“Wha-How?” I said confused and sat up more in bed.

“Hadn’t heard from you since last Friday when we went to a concert, but remember you got too drunk…So I decided to stop by and found you nearly dead.” He said with a long dissapointed sigh.

“Oh.” Was all I said. I was ashamed he had found me like that, although glad he did. I do a lot of crazy shit that hurts me, but death scares me. I think about it a lot, as an escape from all of this pain, but fear keeps me back.

“Why? Tell me why you still do this Gee?” I cringed at ‘Gee’, that was what Mikey called me…

I sighed and ran my fingers through my tangly, unwashed black hair. This was hard, to open up.

“I’m tired of the pain Ray, it never goes away.” I said and looked at him in the eyes.

“Okay, imagine if Mikey could see you right now, and all the other times since his death. How do you think Mikey would feel about you now?” He asked, his voice sounding sad and broken.

“I-I, fuck. I’m so sorry, I’m so so, so fucking sorry. Fuck! I-I, Mikey!” I started crying into my pillow. Mikey would be so ashamed of me, so fucking ashamed.

The guilt made me feel worse and I couldn’t stop crying. I could barely breath and my pillow was stained with tears. I felt Ray pat my back and rub it soothingly. He sighed and moved his hand.

“Look, I know you’re not in the best shape and don’t want to admit it, but Gerard, you need to get help…like rehab.” He said quietly. I turned over and looked at him.

“I don’t need rehab…” I said in a small voice.

“I need my little brother.”

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*A/N: Frank doesn't show up right away, sorry...but he will next chapter. Tell me what you think! (: