NIGHTMARES

Linda Iero was always a deep sleeper but after her husband left (an ugly divorce when Frank was a child) she started wearing earplugs at night to block out the sound of silence from the empty bed beside her. Sleeping alone was suddenly too much to bear, but if she wore earplugs then the silence felt like her choice and not something forced upon her by loneliness.

She still wears them now and because of this she can't hear the muffled groans and cries of her son sleeping two rooms away, doped up on so much medication that he can't wake up from the endless horrors tearing him apart. No nurses or bandmates or friends are around to shake him out of his nightmares this time and the traumatizing visions rage freely through his head in hellish stampedes:

A torturous din of angry voices and paralyzing chills assault his unconscious mind without mercy until he's reduced to a crying frightened little child and then a dozen strong iron hands grab his body and throw him into a tiny dark coffin to die! There's no air or light and he knows in his quivering heart that he's been buried a mile underground and no one can hear his cries. Spiders crawl in his hair and sweat stings his eyes and he can't sit up – there's not enough space to even lift his head! Panting and wailing with panic as the claustrophobic coffin walls close in tighter and tighter and the creaking wood starts to crush him, he chokes on a hail of thick black dirt that splatters his sweaty face and runs down his neck as he sobs and yells breathlessly for help that will never come...

… Until the dark coffin vanishes in a blur of splinters and suddenly he's lying on the grimy floor of a filthy public restroom. He's tied up and punch-drunk and the towering shape of Lorna's masked killer is alive and standing over him holding a sharp steel butcher knife. Shaking with fear, Frank screams into a dirty rag that's been shoved in his mouth and sharp wire ropes cut his wrists and ankles to shreds as he struggles to free himself and escape his miserable fate. The killer leans down in a haze of dirty smoke and with one swipe of his hand slashes his prey's throat wide open, spraying blood all over the walls. Frank splutters and coughs in shock, drowning in a thick sea of his own blood as it floods his airways and spurts from his mouth and he dies crying and hurting...

... And in the blink of an eye the scummy restroom has morphed into Gerard's quiet bedroom in the basement of the Way's ranch house in Belleville. The deadly wound in Frank's neck is gone but every inch of his body aches and he can barely breathe his throat is so clogged up with tears. Several of Gerard's possessions shine in the gloom around him like dying stars and he recognises an 80s Misfits poster; some Iron Maiden records; a Lord of the Rings replica sword and a box of sketching pencils but Gerard himself isn't here.
Trembling with trauma, he tries to stand but he's too weak and collapses onto his knees just as a dozen broken liquor bottles rain down from above and smash the floor out from under his legs, dropping him into a fiery pit of roaring flames.

A wave of searing heat scorches the hair off his body and sets his raw red skin ablaze and the fire consumes him with a white-hot agonizing pain. He feels like he's been dipped in acid as the piercing flames chew through his flesh, dissolving him into bubbling yellow fat cells, blackened muscle and boiling blood. Reduced to a burning shrivelled monster, he screams himself hoarse as his lips drop away in melting chunks and dribble down his roasted neck. Just before his eyeballs boil and burst in the lethal blaze, he sees Gerard's charred body standing next to him in the fire, already a smoking corpse...

**
At 3am Linda awakes with a knot of anxiety in her belly and groggily reaches for the glass of water by her bed. As she sips the lukewarm liquid she pulls the earplug out of her left ear to reshape it and hears a loud bang coming from the lower floor of her house. With her heart racing, she listens hard to the shadows and the familiar sound of a car door slamming and an engine sputtering to life quickly echo outside before a rumbling vehicle growls away down the street.

Dread and mother's intuition stir in her gut and she quickly slips on her dressing gown and hurries down the hall to check Frankie's room. The door is wide open and her son is gone so she hits the lights and finds a pile of crumpled sheets and pillows, wet with sweat and spotted with blood. The sight chills her to the bone. Yelling Frank's name, she rushes to the bathroom where she can hear the shower running and freezes in the doorway. Frank isn't here either but splashes of scarlet blood are clotting in the sink and wet footprints and dirty towels litter the floor. The toilet is stained with vomit and even more blood and the mirror has been spun crookedly to face the wall. “Ohmygod,” she whispers, running downstairs to find Frank's shoes missing and her car keys gone from the hook by the door. Outside, the driveway is deserted and it's starting to rain. “Frankie, no!” she sobs to the empty house, tears filling her eyes as thunder rumbles in the night sky. She has to find her poor boy before something bad happens to him again.

**
TWO HOURS EARLIER:

Convinced he's about to die, Frank's body forces his mind back to consciousness and jolts him awake so hard he stops breathing, blind with terror and hallucinations. Falling off the bed in a tangle of sweat-soaked sheets, he half-stumbles half-crawls to the bathroom as his skin peels away in sizzling strips of flaming ash and his lungs are so contracted with shock that he's coughing and gasping for air that just won't come. Flames roar in his ears and his head hurts so much it feels like his skull is cracking open. All he can taste is blood and smoke and he's dying! He's fucking BURNING! Falling into the bath, he fumbles blindly for the shower lever and turns it on, collapsing under the cool rush of icy water and passing out into silent weightless oblivion.

When he comes around a few minutes later, soaking wet and shivering with cold, the fire is gone and he's so relieved to find himself still alive and unburned that he starts to cry. Shuddering sobs of moist air flood his oxygen-starved lungs and as the haze of death and trauma lifts his vision returns, showing him the safe shadowy bathroom of his mom's house and no knives, coffins or flames anywhere. A migraine headache starts pounding away at his skull and he curls up into a small trembling ball under the raining shower hose as cold water fills the bath and gently laps at his tense, feverish skin.

After a while of sitting in the dark, he forces himself to stand up on shaking legs and pull the cord for the bathroom light but the harsh glare worsens his headache and he cowers back into the tub with a clumsy splash and a whimper of pain as the freezing water drenches his goose-bumped skin. Biting his tongue against a fresh flood of sobs, he buries his face in his hands and concentrates on breathing slowly and deeply through his chattering teeth until he's sure he won't black out again. Thank fuck his mom is a heavy sleeper because she would totally freak out if she saw him like this. He literally feels like death.

Slowly lowering his trembling fingers, he looks at them through blurry eyes and his heart skips a beat because they're stained ruby red. Fearfully touching his wet face he realizes that his nose is bleeding and trails of inky crimson have run down his bony arms to mix with the bathwater. The death dreams must have really done a number on him this time. Fuck, what if he has brain damage?!

Whimpering tearfully, he drags his weary bones out of the bath and pulls the plug but leaves the shower running because the soothing sound of water is something he really needs to hear right now. For a couple of minutes he stands dripping and shivering in his wet shorts by the sink, trying to avoid the mirror with his eyes as drops of blood trickle down his lips and chin and splatter into the plughole. He has no idea what to do now, although stopping his nosebleed would probably be a good start. Shakily grabbing a dry towel, he presses it to his nose and shuts his eyes, trying to remember the Gerard-related parts of his nightmare but he can't picture anything through the throbbing pain in his head. Snotty nasal blood runs down his throat and he feels his aching stomach convulse so he drops to knees in a sadly familiar routine and lifts the toilet lid just in time to puke the soggy remains of his dinner into the cold bleached bowl. No wonder he's all skin and bones these days: he can't remember the last time he was able to keep down a decent meal.

When the nausea passes he wearily pulls another towel off the rack behind him and wraps himself in the soft blue fabric before trudging back to his room with some painkillers, wiping tired tears and blood off his face. Huddling up on the damp bed, he grabs his thermos and swallows a double dose of nerve-numbing pills, forcing himself to keep breathing as a heavy bitter-tasting panic grows and screams in his hollow chest.

Just before 3am when his nose has dried up and his headache is dull enough to let him move around without fainting or barfing, he slowly gets out of bed and gingerly dresses himself in old black jeans, a long-sleeved shirt and two thick baggy sweaters. Forgetting about the mess in the bathroom he creeps downstairs and tries calling Gerard's cell phone once, twice, and then three times but there's no answer. That's not really surprising at this time of night but whatever disaster is going to kill his friend he's certain that it's already in motion. Gerard could be dead right now and he wouldn't even know about it yet! Maybe Mikey too... There's a dozen different reasons why people could die in a fire: broken smoke alarms, jammed locks, gas leak explosions, arsonists... A single spark can burn down a whole fucking street!

Crazed with paranoia, Frank grabs his mom's keys and runs out of the house, slamming the door behind him without thinking. A smog of thunderclouds has swept over Trenton and lightning flickers on the black horizon as a cold breeze ruffles his damp hair. His vision is still a little messed up and blurry and he'll need more painkillers soon for the migraine raving in his head but he should be able to drive to Gee's place. If only he can get there in time...

**
Awww shit, Gerard snickers to himself, You are sooooo fuckin wasted, kid.
Hidden away in his little basement den, he's got so high and drunk he can't see straight and his legs are numb but it's not like anyone's around to care about his debauchery. Ain't nobody here but him and it's not as if he has a job or a girlfriend or a fucking glorious rock band with responsibilities anymore so it's not like anything fucking MATTERS now. Oh how the not-so-mighty have fallen.

Somewhere between starting his second bottle of whiskey and snorting his fourth dose of cheap speed, his brain and liver rebelled and left him lying in this pool of spilled liquor and watery puke watching spaceships dance on the ceiling as it spins round and around and around – wheeeeeeeee! - like those fuckin... what are those horse things called that spin around at the fairground? Horse-nados? Like Sharknado? Ahaha, probably not. Who gives a shit?

Trashy 80s punk is blaring at full volume from his stereo speakers and a hundred whiskey droplets quiver and shine on the floorboards with the beat around his body. His warm skin is buzzing with druggy tremors and slick with the boozy sweat soaking through his clothes and his eyes feel prickly and hot. Licking his numb lips with a sloppy tongue, he rolls lazily onto his side as the music changes and guitars shriek like the devil. Fuck headphones, man. His parents are out of town and Mikey called a while ago to say he'd gone to his girlfriend Alicia's house to sleep over. As for the neighbors? Fuck them, it's Friday night goddammit! He's just trying to have a little fun!

But who is he kidding, this is a No Fun Club tonight and he's the only member. A pathetic party of one. Wincing as his stomach gurgles noisily he realizes that he's fucked up the booze/pills ratio of his liquid diet because he's getting pretty woozy and is dangerously close to falling asleep. That's not good. He should get some fresh air.

Stumbling blearily to his feet, Gerard staggers sideways as his head spins and catches himself on a bookcase, knocking a stack of paper comics onto the wet gunky floor. Aw crap, some of those were collectables! Fuck it. Weaving through the sticky mess towards the door, he lurches drunkenly into the wooden frame and bangs his head, laughing at the numb lack of pain as he pulls back the bolt and turns the door handle. Nothing happens. The door is locked. Oh yeah, he locked it about an hour ago like he does every night since he nearly died in L.A. No mystery assassins in motorcycle helmets are ever gonna get into his room. No sir!

Hmmm, so where did he put his keys? Staggering around the stuffy basement room in search of his discarded hoodie, he trips over the stereo's power cord and lands with a thud back on the slippery floor. He must be more wasted than he thought. Ow, is that broken glass?
Licking a sliver of blood off his palm, he flinches as thunder booms loudly outside and then laughs at himself but it stops being funny a second later when the lights go out and his stereo dies, plunging him into darkness and silence. A power blackout. Stupid storm. Too bad his room doesn't have any proper windows or he could watch the lightning. Sitting up, he giddily licks booze off his dirty fingers and fumbles in his damp pockets for cigarettes, drunkenly jamming one between his lips and sparking up his Zippo lighter. The small flame illuminates a few beloved objects around him leftover from happier times: sketching pencils, some of his old artwork, a replica sword and his original 1981 Misfits poster, but he ignores them all, lost in a smelly dark pit of depression and chemicals that he doesn't ever want to crawl out of. What's the point of being sober when all his dreams are on permanent hiatus and nightmares are all he can see? He may as well be six feet under.

Lighting the cigarette, he takes a long throat-burning drag and exhales into the stuffy darkness, sweat dripping from his greasy black hair. His watch says 02:59am and it's too hot in here. He's got a lot of time to kill before dawn. Climbing clumsily onto the unmade bed, he thumbs the zippo's flame on and off and on and off and on again as the smouldering cigarette dangles from his numb lips. Fire is such a magical thing. So pure. So fierce. Maybe he'll find his keys later when the lights come back on. He could stand to rot away in here for a few more hours and if he needs a piss he'll just use an old beer can or something.

Firing up a portable DVD player – God bless the battery! - he starts watching 'Scream 2' to keep himself awake but pretty soon the darkness is swirling around him like boiled molasses and his dizzy head hits the pillows, making a muffled clunking sound. Yesterday he'd stashed a tobacco tin inside his pillowcase filled with the unmarked pills he confiscated from Frank at the clinic and forgot it was there. Sitting up groggily, he opens the small tin in the zippo's flickering glow and gazes drowsily at the treasure inside. He doesn't know which pills do what but mental patients get all kinds of awesome pharmaceutical shit and he's read online somewhere that drugs for calming down crazy brains can make normal brains hyperactive. Like Ritalin and stuff. That sounds like fun.
Grabbing a beer from the floor, he opens it with his teeth and tosses two random pills of different colors into his mouth, ignoring the lighter as it tumbles from his shaky grip onto the floor. Let the party continue!

Notes

(I hope people are still reading this - sorry for the late update!)