Through the Light of the Bottle
Let's Throw Some Salt On These Wounds
“So lemme get this straight, some jackass injected alcohol into you, and then put you in a tub of alcohol and then you goddamn drowned in it,” Brian’s voice echoes through the off-white room, “and that’s why you went into a fucking coma?”
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to keep your voice down,” an elderly nurse speaks timidly from my bedside, pausing in her actions of checking my fluid bag, trying to reason with my boss. Key word being trying.
“No, I flew from goddamn New York to fucking Baltimore to find her in a goddamn hospital bed!”
“Brian, shut the fuck up,” I sigh, letting my head sink into the stiff white pillow.
“Kate! Look what this is doing to our company! How the hell are we going to get ourselves out of this one?” he bellows, pacing up and down the aisles of empty beds.
“We’ll find a loop hole,” I sigh, shutting my eyes tightly.
He scoffs, mutters random curses under his breath. I open my eyes and offer a strained smile to the nurse before directing my attention to my anxious boss. I rub my temples, my fingers gliding over the rough material of the gauze, before closing my eyes again.
Suddenly, the clicks of his obnoxious shoes stop and I hear the quick snap of his fingers. He walks up briskly to my bedside, pulling a chair along with him and positioning himself to the right of my face.
I sigh, turning my head slowly so my eyes meet with his. A small smirk was etched into his face and the florescent lights shined above us danced in his eyes, revealing a small glint in the green orbs.
“Here’s what we do,” he leans in and I roll my eyes slightly, bring my head closer to hear the plan.
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I’ve always hated press conferences; the flashing bulbs, the smart ass reporters, attempting to make me fumble over every answer so they can scribble it down quickly on their little notepads.
I’d rather be on Oprah sitting next to a woman whose son was killed by alcohol poisoning than endure a ten minute press conferences.
But this time is different; they aren’t criticizing me. Instead of stories of mockery, I hear sympathy stories running through the reporter’s minds. The flashes of the camera seem a little less invasive. The microphone doesn’t seem to squeal with as much feedback, the lights don’t cause my cheeks to burn as hard red as they sometimes tend to do.
I stand tall in front of a blue background; the name of the hospital printed boldly in white letters adorns the paper countless times. For once my hair looks like utter shit, and I don’t have about a pound of foundation caked on my face, in an attempt to make me look “flawless.”
No, in fact, Brian wants the opposite. Milk my bruises for all they're worth.
He would have ripped the bandage from the back of my head to have the affect of blood dripping on the stage if the woman hadn’t come into my room, telling me it was time to go out there.
I clear my throat automatically and lean slightly forward into the black microphone. The room silences immediately, pencils poised, ready to capture every word that leaks from my mouth.
“Two weeks ago, I was abducted from a parking lot outside a bar that was holding an after party for the concert held earlier than night by My Chemical Romance and A.F.I.,” I glance into the crowd, and catch the said bands along the back wall. A small look is passed through each of them.
They know where I’m going with this. I contemplate going through with the plan immediately, but hold off, getting the rest of my information out there.
“A cloth soaked with chloroform was placed over my mouth and I became unconscious. When I woke up, I was in a bath tub of a Hilton hotel room with my arms tied behind my back. I was then attacked from behind and quickly blindfolded. To my knowledge there were only two attackers in the bathroom with me. The back of my head was badly damaged and bleeding, as were several other places along my body. A woman came up to me, while I was blindfolded and injected something into my arm, while a man poured a liquid, reportedly alcohol, into the bathtub. He then pushed me down in the liquid and as a result of shock and panic, I became unconscious again. The police can fill you in on any other details, including how I was found. I’m sorry, but seeing as I was unconscious, I don’t think I’d be a great source,” cue the strained laughter.
I smile slightly. Clicks and flashes fill my senses, and I tilt my head to the side, letting my hair fall, revealing a large bruise near my hair line.
“Other than that, I can take any other questions,” I smile sickly, hoping someone will play into our plan.
“It’s rumored that you were in a coma for two weeks as a result of severe alcohol poisoning,” I nod my head, my smile falters a little. I know what question she’s asking, the little bitch.
“And previous comments suggest that you don’t believe alcohol can be that harmful to a person’s body. So have your views changed at all as a result of this incident?” She leans back in her chair, lips threatening to break into a small smile.
“Absolutely not,” I reply simply, as we trade facial expressions, as her lips fall into a thin, straight line and I smirk, continuing, “I was in a coma because the lack of air my brain received from being forced under the liquid. It could have been apple juice, and it would've ended in the same results probably.”
“What about the reports that they injected alcohol into your blood stream? You don’t think that was harmful to your body?” A young man stands up in the front, shouting his question before I raise my hand to signal him to talk.
“First of all, they have no proof that it was alcohol in the tube, ask my doctor and he’ll say the same thing,” I inwardly remind myself that it’s simply because his name is now written a large check that’s signed from NASI, “Besides, a lot of worse things have been injected into people, and you don’t see them dropping down left and right.”
A look of skepticism passes over his face and he sits down slowly, digesting my answer.
“Anyone else,” I look around hopefully, spotting a large man in the back raising his hand slightly.
“You said you were at a party, and you obviously left alone, seeing as there are no witnesses. So what occurred that caused you to be in a parking lot, late at night, when a party was occurring inside?”
Perfect. He played right into my opener, asking a question I could only hope for. My eyes glance to the back, meeting with Gerard’s for a brief second.
I smirk and he shuts his eyes slowly.
“Well, to give some background, I was doing an expose on the college tour they were giving across America. Proceeds from ticket sales would be given to Students Against Drunk Driving, an anti-alcohol organization commonly known as SADD. It was one of their first concerts, so an after party was held at a local bar. When I arrived I was given a very strong drink of what I assume was a type of straight up vodka,”
“At the band’s after party?” a reporter shouts out from the side.
“Correct,” I pause, waiting for her to ask the next part. See, the thing about my job is, even though I absolutely hate the press conferences, I know how to play into the reporters. You can’t just come out and say what you want, or else you're deemed a snitching bitch by whoever you're talking about.
No, you have to leave holes in your stories and loose ends, so the reporter will think they’re jumping on your case, you’re dying for them to ask those questions to you can answer it, giving them that little piece of information that can absolutely destroy a person.
And currently that person, was the good names of nine men, making up the two bands that stood along the back row.
“And there was alcohol present at this party?” the report continues, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from breaking out in a smile, as I casually respond with another correct.
“And you said they were giving proceeds to a organization that’s against alcohol?” the report asks, a hint of disbelief in her question.
“Correct,” a small smile breaks out across my face. I notice Davey Havok’s eyes widen considerably as he realizes where I’m going with the press conference. I see Frank open his mouth to protest, only to be nudged by their body guard, who was shaking his head at Frank’s attempted actions. Ray rolls his eyes slightly. Mikey glares at me, but it’s not like that’s straying from the norm.
“But, as I was saying, I became considerably uncomfortable with the situation,” I continue, my eyes drifting to Gerard’s form as he scoffs and walks out of the room quickly.
“What situation?” someone speaks up from the back.
“The fact that so many people had driven to that bar and were throwing back shots. I mean, I may not think that drunk driving is harmful, but I sure know how to stand up for what I believe in, and I didn’t feel like it was appropriate for the bands and those on the tour, including myself, to go against the main purpose to the tour.”
I pause. Silence washes over the room. I hear the guys in the back gasp as they hold their breath.
And now for bringing it home.
“I’m sorry, but my time here is up. If you have any questions about the party or their morality, I’d ask the band yourself. Most of the members can be found along the back wall, otherwise my people can help you get in touch. Thank you,” and I quickly spin around, making my way off stage.
The shouts of reporters and aggressive clicks of the camera fill my ears as I hear Ray struggling for words to all their questions.
I smile cynically, passing Genie and Jay who donned a look of disbelief. Holly shakes her head slightly at me.
“You’re a horrible person,” she states seriously, as she walks in step with me down the hall.
“Quite true,” I respond back, “but you have to admit, I did a good job at screwing them over.”
Holly simply shakes her head, muttering something about Jade under her breath before sighing as she followed me back into my hospital room, and flopping herself into the chair next to my bed.
“It was fun while it lasted,” she finally speaks up after a minute or so of silence.
“What?” I take my attention off trying to scratch my head through the gauze that was wrapped tightly around it.
“Oh, you know…the tour, seeing those bands, you know, not having A.F.I. and My Chemical Romance completely hate us,” she shoots me a look at the last part, but I sense a small smile beneath her composure.
“First of all, they hate me, not you.”
“Fine, then they hate me by association,” she rolls her eyes and crosses her arms across her chest.
I laugh, “second of all, it is far from over sweetheart.”
“Great,” she sighs, leaning back in her chair, as I smirk spreads across my lips.
It gets even wider as the door is thrown open to my room, the sound of footsteps cuts Holly off from saying anything more.
Nine men stand at the end of my bed, the majority staring at me with apparent hatred.
I stare up expectantly at them, smiling sweetly.
“What the flying fuck is your problem?” Frank finally shouts. Gerard nods his head in a agreement and Ray shoots him a small glare.
I laugh, leaning back in my bed, finding the whole situation absolutely perfect.
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to keep your voice down,” an elderly nurse speaks timidly from my bedside, pausing in her actions of checking my fluid bag, trying to reason with my boss. Key word being trying.
“No, I flew from goddamn New York to fucking Baltimore to find her in a goddamn hospital bed!”
“Brian, shut the fuck up,” I sigh, letting my head sink into the stiff white pillow.
“Kate! Look what this is doing to our company! How the hell are we going to get ourselves out of this one?” he bellows, pacing up and down the aisles of empty beds.
“We’ll find a loop hole,” I sigh, shutting my eyes tightly.
He scoffs, mutters random curses under his breath. I open my eyes and offer a strained smile to the nurse before directing my attention to my anxious boss. I rub my temples, my fingers gliding over the rough material of the gauze, before closing my eyes again.
Suddenly, the clicks of his obnoxious shoes stop and I hear the quick snap of his fingers. He walks up briskly to my bedside, pulling a chair along with him and positioning himself to the right of my face.
I sigh, turning my head slowly so my eyes meet with his. A small smirk was etched into his face and the florescent lights shined above us danced in his eyes, revealing a small glint in the green orbs.
“Here’s what we do,” he leans in and I roll my eyes slightly, bring my head closer to hear the plan.
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I’ve always hated press conferences; the flashing bulbs, the smart ass reporters, attempting to make me fumble over every answer so they can scribble it down quickly on their little notepads.
I’d rather be on Oprah sitting next to a woman whose son was killed by alcohol poisoning than endure a ten minute press conferences.
But this time is different; they aren’t criticizing me. Instead of stories of mockery, I hear sympathy stories running through the reporter’s minds. The flashes of the camera seem a little less invasive. The microphone doesn’t seem to squeal with as much feedback, the lights don’t cause my cheeks to burn as hard red as they sometimes tend to do.
I stand tall in front of a blue background; the name of the hospital printed boldly in white letters adorns the paper countless times. For once my hair looks like utter shit, and I don’t have about a pound of foundation caked on my face, in an attempt to make me look “flawless.”
No, in fact, Brian wants the opposite. Milk my bruises for all they're worth.
He would have ripped the bandage from the back of my head to have the affect of blood dripping on the stage if the woman hadn’t come into my room, telling me it was time to go out there.
I clear my throat automatically and lean slightly forward into the black microphone. The room silences immediately, pencils poised, ready to capture every word that leaks from my mouth.
“Two weeks ago, I was abducted from a parking lot outside a bar that was holding an after party for the concert held earlier than night by My Chemical Romance and A.F.I.,” I glance into the crowd, and catch the said bands along the back wall. A small look is passed through each of them.
They know where I’m going with this. I contemplate going through with the plan immediately, but hold off, getting the rest of my information out there.
“A cloth soaked with chloroform was placed over my mouth and I became unconscious. When I woke up, I was in a bath tub of a Hilton hotel room with my arms tied behind my back. I was then attacked from behind and quickly blindfolded. To my knowledge there were only two attackers in the bathroom with me. The back of my head was badly damaged and bleeding, as were several other places along my body. A woman came up to me, while I was blindfolded and injected something into my arm, while a man poured a liquid, reportedly alcohol, into the bathtub. He then pushed me down in the liquid and as a result of shock and panic, I became unconscious again. The police can fill you in on any other details, including how I was found. I’m sorry, but seeing as I was unconscious, I don’t think I’d be a great source,” cue the strained laughter.
I smile slightly. Clicks and flashes fill my senses, and I tilt my head to the side, letting my hair fall, revealing a large bruise near my hair line.
“Other than that, I can take any other questions,” I smile sickly, hoping someone will play into our plan.
“It’s rumored that you were in a coma for two weeks as a result of severe alcohol poisoning,” I nod my head, my smile falters a little. I know what question she’s asking, the little bitch.
“And previous comments suggest that you don’t believe alcohol can be that harmful to a person’s body. So have your views changed at all as a result of this incident?” She leans back in her chair, lips threatening to break into a small smile.
“Absolutely not,” I reply simply, as we trade facial expressions, as her lips fall into a thin, straight line and I smirk, continuing, “I was in a coma because the lack of air my brain received from being forced under the liquid. It could have been apple juice, and it would've ended in the same results probably.”
“What about the reports that they injected alcohol into your blood stream? You don’t think that was harmful to your body?” A young man stands up in the front, shouting his question before I raise my hand to signal him to talk.
“First of all, they have no proof that it was alcohol in the tube, ask my doctor and he’ll say the same thing,” I inwardly remind myself that it’s simply because his name is now written a large check that’s signed from NASI, “Besides, a lot of worse things have been injected into people, and you don’t see them dropping down left and right.”
A look of skepticism passes over his face and he sits down slowly, digesting my answer.
“Anyone else,” I look around hopefully, spotting a large man in the back raising his hand slightly.
“You said you were at a party, and you obviously left alone, seeing as there are no witnesses. So what occurred that caused you to be in a parking lot, late at night, when a party was occurring inside?”
Perfect. He played right into my opener, asking a question I could only hope for. My eyes glance to the back, meeting with Gerard’s for a brief second.
I smirk and he shuts his eyes slowly.
“Well, to give some background, I was doing an expose on the college tour they were giving across America. Proceeds from ticket sales would be given to Students Against Drunk Driving, an anti-alcohol organization commonly known as SADD. It was one of their first concerts, so an after party was held at a local bar. When I arrived I was given a very strong drink of what I assume was a type of straight up vodka,”
“At the band’s after party?” a reporter shouts out from the side.
“Correct,” I pause, waiting for her to ask the next part. See, the thing about my job is, even though I absolutely hate the press conferences, I know how to play into the reporters. You can’t just come out and say what you want, or else you're deemed a snitching bitch by whoever you're talking about.
No, you have to leave holes in your stories and loose ends, so the reporter will think they’re jumping on your case, you’re dying for them to ask those questions to you can answer it, giving them that little piece of information that can absolutely destroy a person.
And currently that person, was the good names of nine men, making up the two bands that stood along the back row.
“And there was alcohol present at this party?” the report continues, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from breaking out in a smile, as I casually respond with another correct.
“And you said they were giving proceeds to a organization that’s against alcohol?” the report asks, a hint of disbelief in her question.
“Correct,” a small smile breaks out across my face. I notice Davey Havok’s eyes widen considerably as he realizes where I’m going with the press conference. I see Frank open his mouth to protest, only to be nudged by their body guard, who was shaking his head at Frank’s attempted actions. Ray rolls his eyes slightly. Mikey glares at me, but it’s not like that’s straying from the norm.
“But, as I was saying, I became considerably uncomfortable with the situation,” I continue, my eyes drifting to Gerard’s form as he scoffs and walks out of the room quickly.
“What situation?” someone speaks up from the back.
“The fact that so many people had driven to that bar and were throwing back shots. I mean, I may not think that drunk driving is harmful, but I sure know how to stand up for what I believe in, and I didn’t feel like it was appropriate for the bands and those on the tour, including myself, to go against the main purpose to the tour.”
I pause. Silence washes over the room. I hear the guys in the back gasp as they hold their breath.
And now for bringing it home.
“I’m sorry, but my time here is up. If you have any questions about the party or their morality, I’d ask the band yourself. Most of the members can be found along the back wall, otherwise my people can help you get in touch. Thank you,” and I quickly spin around, making my way off stage.
The shouts of reporters and aggressive clicks of the camera fill my ears as I hear Ray struggling for words to all their questions.
I smile cynically, passing Genie and Jay who donned a look of disbelief. Holly shakes her head slightly at me.
“You’re a horrible person,” she states seriously, as she walks in step with me down the hall.
“Quite true,” I respond back, “but you have to admit, I did a good job at screwing them over.”
Holly simply shakes her head, muttering something about Jade under her breath before sighing as she followed me back into my hospital room, and flopping herself into the chair next to my bed.
“It was fun while it lasted,” she finally speaks up after a minute or so of silence.
“What?” I take my attention off trying to scratch my head through the gauze that was wrapped tightly around it.
“Oh, you know…the tour, seeing those bands, you know, not having A.F.I. and My Chemical Romance completely hate us,” she shoots me a look at the last part, but I sense a small smile beneath her composure.
“First of all, they hate me, not you.”
“Fine, then they hate me by association,” she rolls her eyes and crosses her arms across her chest.
I laugh, “second of all, it is far from over sweetheart.”
“Great,” she sighs, leaning back in her chair, as I smirk spreads across my lips.
It gets even wider as the door is thrown open to my room, the sound of footsteps cuts Holly off from saying anything more.
Nine men stand at the end of my bed, the majority staring at me with apparent hatred.
I stare up expectantly at them, smiling sweetly.
“What the flying fuck is your problem?” Frank finally shouts. Gerard nods his head in a agreement and Ray shoots him a small glare.
I laugh, leaning back in my bed, finding the whole situation absolutely perfect.