MCR Imagines And Oneshots

♡^The horror that I'm in | G.W.

(A/n)

Requested by mqddieeee

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also, note for everyone: Oct 20 is a good day
stay tuned

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The Revenge tour and all the outcomes of it felt like a dream – a fever induced dream, which had melted in thin air like smoke as soon as we started working on the Black Parade album for real. It's not possible to determine a day in which we stopped thinking about Revenge, paused, and only then decided to work on Parade. It just happened. We didn't even pause, anyways, carried away by excitement brought to us by Revenge's success.

Too many information to be processed.

I wonder if that was the problem. The trigger. I mean, what made my drug addiction get worse. Feeling like if I can conclude the whole album if I continue awake for five more minutes, then just clean my mind for a moment and 'have some fun'. Or maybe it's the emptiness that never seems to cease. I'm not sure, everything passes by like a blur; it's like if I've fallen in a hole and just noticed it when I was in the bottom and, instead of trying to get out of there, I'm just lying on the ground, accepting an end I brought to myself.

To be honest, the drug addiction isn't any new. The whole band fell in the same pit around 2003, things got worse during Taste of Chaos and God knows what happened after it. Things aren't very clear. Sometimes I'm still surprised by videos, interviews or stories I don't remember happening.

I'm thankful practically no one comes into my room. I can just go over to Gerard's if I want to hang out. Long ago, I've lost the motivation of hiding the zip bags with Xanax and other pills inside it or maybe cleaning the cocaine left on the desk – or of organizing the room at all. There's no point in doing it. Or maybe I just don't want to. Or can't bring myself too. Fuck, too many thoughts again.

A groan escapes my lips as I bring my hands to my eyes, rubbing them like if it'd help me getting rid of this awful feeling. Every fucking damn cell in my body seems to be wanting to kill me – or maybe themselves to get rid of this terrible reality I've put them in.

Honestly, there's not even any sense in using drugs. Not anymore. There's nothing to run away from.

Like, is it really worth having some pleasure – that's not even so good or funny anymore – that'll not last forever and will leave me feeling like trash? It honestly makes me want to quit. I always tell myself I'll fucking stop when I'm in this trashy state, but, before I can notice, I'm chewing down pills like candy, with a messily rolled blunt between my middle and index fingers. Deplorable.

A sigh escapes my nose as I roll onto my side, letting my feet fall from the edge of the bed so I can curl up into a ball on the fluffy carpet and hope the fucking feeling will magically go away or something similar.

Unfortunately, my plans end up taking a different turn when I hear Ray's faint voice probably coming from the end of the hall. I can just make out a few words, but it's enough to understand that either I go downstairs now or the food's next destination will be Frank's or Mikey's stomach instead. He probably knows I've listened to it even without receiving a response or else there'll be a knock on my door in five minutes, but none bother me anyways.

I do want to go downstairs, maybe a glass of cold water will help me; however, I still need this feeling to cease so I can at least say I'm tired instead of messing up with excuses when Gerard or Ray ask me what's wrong.

The feeling thankfully goes away after a few minutes, probably two, then I'm finally pushing myself up from the ground, groaning when the room spins under my gaze or I make a too harsh movement. I'm up to my feet before I can notice. It's easier to leave the room, running my fingers through my messy strands to get them back to place and also smoothening my clothes to make myself at least more presentable.