Club 27 [Incomplete]

• 1 •

October 30, 1991

   Gerard came back with a gun. That was what sent Kent, his closest band mate, completely off the rails. He came back with a fucking gun. Not only a gun, but he also had a bag of vodka and a smaller bag of coke.

"It's none of your business anyways." Gerard mumbled, his eyes red from a hangover and pupils overly dilated from the drugs. He sniffed and took the vodka out of the bag, taking off the top, and throwing his head back along with the contents.

    "I just don't get it, Gerard. We're taking off. We're getting everything we want and you want to just completely ruin yourself!" Kent exclaimed. "I care about you. Your other mates care about you. The fans care about you. Your family. Gerard, what about Mikey? He's at your house right now, with your poster on his wall. He looks up to you. What if he found out about your addictions?"

    "He'd hate me." Gerard whispered. He closed his eyes and tucked his black hair behind his ear. He sighed and opened his eyes again, pulling out the cocaine.

   "Then again, I hate myself just as much. You don't understand it, Kent. The hatred I feel. How fucking depressed I always am. You think I don't know we're taking off? I do. I hate myself for feeling unfulfilled. For wanting to be wasted and completely fucked up all of the time. I hate it. But it distracts me. It makes me feel fulfilled. So please, just forget it."

    "Gerard, you've never even shot a gun. Give it to me."

    "No!" Gerard yelled, his eyes half lidded. Before he could reach the gun, Kent had swiped it from the bed, along with the box of bullets Gerard had bought with it.

"Give it back!" He argued. Kent shook his head.

"I'm not letting you kill yourself over your addictions. You can beat them. I know you can. I believe in you. You can beat everything, drugs, alcohol, depression. Please just.. try."

"You don't get it Kent! I've been trying for so fucking long. Why can't you understand that?! Why can't anyone? I'm so tired. I'm so tired of fighting. I don't want to be here anymore. I've tried so so so hard and nothing has helped. I'm useless. Worthless. I can't handle it anymore. Let me do this!"

"No, Gerard!" Kent stormed off of the tour bus, along with the gun and the bullets. Gerard groaned and took a long swing of vodka, the biggest he could take. He then emptied some of the coke onto the counter, using his credit card to make a nice little line. He slipped the card back into his wallet and bent over. He plugged one nostril and sniffed deeply as he went down the line, the white powder like a magnet to his addiction.

He stepped back and blinked a few times, smiling dumbly. He turned back to his bunk and sat down. He sniffed the air a few more times to relieve the itching in his sinuses. He then slowly turned to the wall. He gripped it as much as he could and banged his head against it, hard. He didn't pass out the first time so he tried again. And again, and again. Until finally, he had hit the wall so hard that he felt his world going black, a seemingly never ending abyss swallowing him whole.

-

Gerard woke up in a dark room, with only the light from the widow shining in. It was nighttime, and the moonlight crept onto the floor a little past the bed. He lifted his head, groaning. He touched his forehead which he immediately regretted. It was obviously pretty heavily bruised. He looked to the left of him, where there was another bed. Kent was sleeping in it, his soft snores coming from the other side of him. His eyes drifted to the alarm clock which read "3:02 A.M.". He knew he was in a hotel room. They band always paired up for the rooms.

He looked back at Kent before slowly sliding out of the bed. He tiptoed around the room, until his eyes landed on the nightstand. He bit his lip, wondering if it would make too much noise to open it. After carefully thinking about it, he snuck up to the small table and slowly slid the drawer out from it. Sure enough, his gun and bullets that he had earlier purchased were both in the drawer together. He bit his lip and looked over at Kent before grabbing the gun and bullets quietly. He really didn't want to wake him up, or anyone else in the hotel for that matter. He didn't feel like writing a note. He loved the band, and everyone, but they already knew the whole story of his addiction and mental illness. But as Gerard reached the door, he stopped immediately.