‹ Prequel: Say a Prayer
Sloth.
One-Shot.
I slouched in the armchair. Rough, synthetic materials scraped my skin as I writhed around attempting to get comfortable.
That was impossible, obviously. An hour after the burial of my best friend; my secret love.
It still seemed like he could slip in through the door laughing, crying or bleeding. It felt like he’d be back soon. It didn’t feel like he was gone. Not forever. It felt like a really bad, numb dream. It felt like he’d come in now, any second, laughing about some stupid stunt the girl in the music store pulled when she saw him, crying about a breakup, or bleeding from a fight.
But of course he couldn’t. He was dead, and a part of me died with him as I cradled his stone cold body in my arms. A piece of me was thrown away with the empty vodka bottles and the small, plastic anti-depressant containers left on Gerard’s bunk before they were thrown into a large plastic bag, and carelessly put in a trash can to be left in a pile of rubbish in a landfill site somewhere, or burned into new bottles and containers, melted and recycled so that another person could drink their way into alcoholism, or rely so heavily on pills it crushes them. Some of me fell to ashes as the fire that burnt behind his greenish brown eyes constantly flickered out. A part of me remains paralyzed from the moment I stopped feeling his heavy breathing on my shoulder and his chest stopped its rhythmic pace.
Gerard Way took too many of his Xanax, and drank more liquor than any body could handle in a week, let alone in one go. Clear, bitter tasting cyanide poisoned his blood slowly, as small white tablets dissolved to powder in his stomach. Gerard Way knew what would happen. Gerard Way committed suicide.
I decided to go to sleep, so I walked into the bedroom. An empty bed greeted me. It kind of reminded me of Pencey Prep’s lyrics to ‘PS Don’t Write’. ‘Maybe you'll understand when you're waking up alone, in a cold and empty bed.’
I hated, despised and detested walking into bedrooms alone now. It was almost like I expected to see a dying lover on the bed, waiting for me to cradle them to death. Oh god, who am I?
Cold, heartless sheets wrapped around me, blanketing me in fake softness.I wanted the sheets to feel warm again. I wanted there to be a passed out man next to me, for me to comfort. I half wished he'd be there, but by choice, not because he needed someone to look after him in a drunken state. I wanted there to be movement in my chest - my heart to start beating again and my lungs to inhale and exhale normally.
I wanted my Gerard. My Gee. My lover. My favorite person in the world. My ‘crush’. My love.
And the worst part was, I couldn’t stop him. I decided to shift my ass from the chair too late, and as a result, I lost my best friend. I guess sloth really is a deadly sin.
That was impossible, obviously. An hour after the burial of my best friend; my secret love.
It still seemed like he could slip in through the door laughing, crying or bleeding. It felt like he’d be back soon. It didn’t feel like he was gone. Not forever. It felt like a really bad, numb dream. It felt like he’d come in now, any second, laughing about some stupid stunt the girl in the music store pulled when she saw him, crying about a breakup, or bleeding from a fight.
But of course he couldn’t. He was dead, and a part of me died with him as I cradled his stone cold body in my arms. A piece of me was thrown away with the empty vodka bottles and the small, plastic anti-depressant containers left on Gerard’s bunk before they were thrown into a large plastic bag, and carelessly put in a trash can to be left in a pile of rubbish in a landfill site somewhere, or burned into new bottles and containers, melted and recycled so that another person could drink their way into alcoholism, or rely so heavily on pills it crushes them. Some of me fell to ashes as the fire that burnt behind his greenish brown eyes constantly flickered out. A part of me remains paralyzed from the moment I stopped feeling his heavy breathing on my shoulder and his chest stopped its rhythmic pace.
Gerard Way took too many of his Xanax, and drank more liquor than any body could handle in a week, let alone in one go. Clear, bitter tasting cyanide poisoned his blood slowly, as small white tablets dissolved to powder in his stomach. Gerard Way knew what would happen. Gerard Way committed suicide.
I decided to go to sleep, so I walked into the bedroom. An empty bed greeted me. It kind of reminded me of Pencey Prep’s lyrics to ‘PS Don’t Write’. ‘Maybe you'll understand when you're waking up alone, in a cold and empty bed.’
I hated, despised and detested walking into bedrooms alone now. It was almost like I expected to see a dying lover on the bed, waiting for me to cradle them to death. Oh god, who am I?
Cold, heartless sheets wrapped around me, blanketing me in fake softness.I wanted the sheets to feel warm again. I wanted there to be a passed out man next to me, for me to comfort. I half wished he'd be there, but by choice, not because he needed someone to look after him in a drunken state. I wanted there to be movement in my chest - my heart to start beating again and my lungs to inhale and exhale normally.
I wanted my Gerard. My Gee. My lover. My favorite person in the world. My ‘crush’. My love.
And the worst part was, I couldn’t stop him. I decided to shift my ass from the chair too late, and as a result, I lost my best friend. I guess sloth really is a deadly sin.