Just Look at All That Pain

I stared off into the silence, the haunting and slightly chilly midnight air drifting through the open window of the nearly abandoned studio. The curtains billowed inward with another small gust of wind, not quite reaching my knees from where I sat on the old tired couch. It was as if they were reaching for me, trying to remind me that I was still alive and that it was becoming impossible not to act as if I was.

Another tear makes its way toward the corner of my eye. It was becoming something I couldn't control. I had tried to hide it at first, to force it to retreat back into my eyes. I now realized that not only impossible, but it was also the opposite of helpful. I found that, as if my tears were the physical form of my sorrow, the more I tried to suppress them, the more they took over. It began to fall now, as silent as it had formed and as silent as the studio had become when we realized what had happened. It traced its way down my cheek before falling off the corner of my chin and dropping onto the hand I held tightly in my own. An unmoving hand, but a warm hand nonetheless. I was thankful for its warmth and comfort, something the world seemed to lack in this moment. It was Mikey's hand, he, in realization of what had happened, had had a panic attack and was now sleeping beside me, his head against my thigh and his hand in mine. I rubbed his callused fingers in what I hoped was a comforting way.

I felt my throat constrict as I let out a short fit of coughs. When they had subsided, I began to wonder what had caused them. Was it the constant and ever present cold that seemed to plague the band and me specifically? Was it the suppressed sobs that couldn't seem to make their way to the surface? Was it the slowly burning cigarette I held in my right hand? I brought the cigarette to my lips, the poison nicotine soothing my body. I sniffed and decided that the cough must be a combination of the three. I could spend an entire night contemplating the true cause, but it still wouldn't matter. It seemed so superficial, and nothing superficial seemed to matter in this moment. Besides, it was already 3 AM, and there were more important things to worry about right now.

I lean forward to reach the ash tray placed in the middle of the coffee table. My eyes linger on the small slip of paper pinned beneath Gerard's favorite coffee mug. It was sitting beside the ash tray. It was as if he had left himself behind when he went. His cigarettes, his coffee, his brother, his best friends. Another tear rolled down my face and I choked back a sob at the notion of Gerard leaving his life behind. Had he given up on himself? Or had he simply realized that he was no longer the person he used to be? Had he realized what his life had become?

I let out a shuddering sigh as I pick up the slip of paper for what must have been the tenth time that night. I clutch it and shake as I draw it to my chest, dreading to read the words again. I knew they could never change to a more favorable meaning and I was left with a question. Not one of whether to read it again or to put it back under the coffee cup, for I had already decided that, but a question of another kind. Why was I going to read it again? Was I longing and hoping to find a hint of hope or a hidden meaning? Or was I seeking a feeling? Was I seeking to loath myself even more than I already did? Was I seeking more misery? Did I feel that I deserved it? After all, it was us who ignored the signs and close calls. It was us who enabled him. Perhaps we did deserve it.

I let out another shudder as I bring the note close to my face. In the absence of light, it would be hard to make out the writing. However, I already knew what it said. Perhaps I just wished to feel connected to him, to see his familiar handwriting. I began to recite, more than read, the words.

"I'm sorry it had to be this way but you know how it is. I can't control it anymore. Life's a bag of shit and I'm done fighting. This is who I am whether any of us like it or not. I'm sorry I couldn't finish the record. I'm sorry I had to leave Mikey without a brother. I'm sorry I had to leave any of you like this. I'm sorry I'm a disappointment. I have a million things I could apologize for but it wouldn't get me anywhere. It seems like I'm going to be the next Jim Morrison. At least I'm keeping good company.
Love,
G

I repeated the last two words in my head. "Love, G". He doesn't mean it. If he meant it, he wouldn't have left. That's not something you do to the people you love and the people who love you back. That's the danger of love. When you are in pain, you also cause pain. I recalled all the times he lied about the drugs. We always asked, "Gerard are you okay? We're worried about you." And he always smiled and said "I'm fine, don't worry about me" but he was never fine. He was trying to protect us. He didn't want us to suffer along with him because the one part of himself that he didn't loath, was the part that held his friends dear. He chose to protect us but at what cost? He held that beer bottle alone, that bottle of pills alone, that bag of white powder alone, and now as the day was dawning, I feared that he may just hold that gun alone.

A sob escaped my throat and I felt Mikey stir beside me. Not wishing to wake him yet, I gently placed his arm by his side as I rose from the couch. I proceeded into the connected room where I saw Ray, slumped over at a desk. His head rested on one hand and he whispered hurriedly into a phone. He had been at it all night, calling everybody we knew and everybody we could trust. Had anybody seen him? Had Gerard contacted anybody? He had a cellphone but had rejected all of our calls. It was becoming a hopeless effort, and I was beginning to feel helpless.

Ray let out a sigh "Okay thanks anyway, please let us know if you hear or see anything" before hanging up the phone. He swiveled around in his chair to face me. His eyes looked red from exhaustion and worry. The corners of his mouth were pinned down in what seemed like a long-standing frown. He sighed again. "What are we going to do Frankie? We can't give up on him but I've called everybody in my contacts and no one's seen him!" he threw his exhausted face down into the palms of his hands.

I threw myself down into a lounge chair and rubbed my tired eyes. "Ray, what if we ask the fans? I know it seems crazy, and we may not want anybody else to know, but that's a lot more people looking for him. We might not have any other choice." He peered up at me through his fingers and seemed to be considering my suggestion.

"Along what lines were you thinking? I don't know how many people we'd be able to reach. It's also probably not a great idea to tell thousands of kids that their favorite front man has a drug problem." He turned around and logged into his laptop, pulling up any form of social media he could think of and considering the options. He shakes his head and turns back around. "If we're going to do it, the best way would probably be an audio recording on our website. That's where we get the most hits on a daily basis."

"Okay, whatever you think is going to help." I say and move my chair next to his.
"You're going to have to do the talking. I'm not going to wake Mikey up to tell the world the devastating news about his brother, and I have to do the recording process." I sigh and nod, not wanting to argue with him, despite my unwillingness to do the talking.

"What are we going to say? We can't just tell a bunch of kids that he got high and ran out, leaving us a cryptic note eluding to his own death. That probably wouldn't be the best." I say in somewhat of a sarcastic and biting manor. A silence lingered in the room as Ray scribbled a rough script onto a piece of paper torn from Gerard's lyric notebook. I made a mental note to read through the book and look for clues to what type of self-deprecating and toxic thoughts were going through his mind. There had to be something. Gerard is a very sensitive person. He not only has his own shit he's going through, but he can very easily pick up on the other emotions and feelings of the people around him. That's what makes him so good at writing lyrics. He relates to the audience very well because they feel a deep sense of empathy for each other.

Ray hands me the paper he had just finished. It was in no way refined. There were several places where his already sloppy handwriting had been scribbled out and new words written beside the marks. Having been familiarized with Ray's writing over the past three years, it took me little effort to read it. I scanned the single paragraph and nodded my agreeance. He seemed to have covered the important parts and had come up with a convincing cover story. He had even thought to make something up about my cracking voice and stuffy nose.

He nodded back. "Okay, let's get started then. I want to get some sleep at some point tonight." He tossed the headset in my direction and pointed me toward the recording booth. I opened the heavy sound proof door and then pulled it closed behind me when I had entered. I sat down at the stool behind the microphone and placed the headset over my ears. I saw the red light, indicating that were recording and no one should enter the room, pop on over the door. I looked to Ray in time to see him give me a point, telling me to start whenever I was ready. I looked down at the note in my hands and began to read.

"Hi Guys, its Frank from the band My Chemical Romance. This message is very important but I'm sick so I'm going to make it quick. We have a few more songs to do for the record and Gerard said he was going to get to them as quick as possible but he left two days ago for a hike, wearing a black shirt with a grizzly bear on it and we haven't seen him since. We found a note. It said something about being the next Jim Morrison and something about life being a bag of shit. He's wearing denim yankee blue Jeans and a black shirt so if you have any information as to his whereabouts, please contact the website. I'll talk to you guys later. Peace."

Ray's looks up at me and gives a nod. The red light turns back to green and I slide the headset off my ears as I leave the booth. When I walk up beside him I see him editing the recording to remove the silence at the beginning. He clicks play and it's not hard to tell that I was not feeling the best. My voice cracks and pauses in awkward places. He shrugs his shoulders. That's why he added the part about me being sick. He knew I wouldn't be able to do it in a stable voice. He uploads it to the website and I see the recording pop up at the top of the news page.

I watch the bottom left corner of the article and see the view count slowly begin to rise. One, two, ten, one hundred. The count rises and so does my hope that we can find Gerard before it's too late.

Speaking of things being too late, it seems the night was almost over, you could already see the first signs of dawn peeking through the window outside the door. Ray slowly drags himself out of the computer chair and over to the small couch across from the recording booth. He throws himself down on it, exhausted from being awake and worried for much longer that is healthy. He lays at a weird angle, only able to fit his head and torso in the cushions. His legs are bent and hang off the side. I know that it can't be the most comfortable place to sleep but he seems to have no problem, falling comatose as soon as his body hits the couch.

I wander out of the room and around to the front of the larger sofa to make sure that Mikey is still doing okay. He lays on his side, his still booted feet hang slightly off the end of the couch. He seems to be in a deep but troubled sleep. I can tell that his body was at war with itself, not knowing whether to choose rest, or an anxiety filled search for his older brother. The first being something his body required, and the latter being something his very soul and being required. He would run himself into the ground if it only meant that he could save the very thing that gave his life meaning.

I look to the reclining chair and was suddenly envious of Ray's sleeping situation. Sighing, I grab a blanket off the side off the couch and throw it over Mikey. I grab a second one from a bookshelf to my left and wrap myself in it before throwing myself into the chair, I pull the lever to open the recliner and squirm around until I trick my body into thinking it's comfortable. It's still better than the ground. Drifting off to sleep, my mind goes blank. I would have expected to have a moment of reflection, or perhaps to think about Gerard's life. The only thing that came to mind was nothingness. Nothingness. Was it because I was simply too tired to form coherent thoughts? Or was it because Gerard's life meant nothing to him, and without him, my life and the lives of so many others also meant nothing? I didn't know the answer, nor did I want to. Perhaps the hardest thing to accept, is how meaningless we all really are.

XXXXXXXXXXX
I hope you enjoyed the first chapter! This will be a relatively short fic! It will probably only be a few chapters. This story is mainly based off of an actual audio recording from YouTube. If you want to hear the actual audio recording of Frank saying this, you can find it here;
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BQk4XuTT0hs&list=FLaMFHwqBbcSH31nvJzUl8dw&index=1

Notes