Glass Angel.
Shattered Glass.
“Fuck you, Gee.”
My Chemical Romance was together again.
“I fucking hate you!”
All five of them together in a hotel room.
“I hate you!”
And Mikey was screaming.
“You fucking useless…”
Screaming at the body that lay on the bed.
“Fucking useless…”
The body with pale skin and kohl rimmed eyes, that stared glassy at the ceiling, pupils large and black. The body with dark raven hair, splayed over the pillow. The body of his brother. Sobs shook Mikey’s thin body as Bob pulled him back, letting the distraught boy collapse into his chest. No, this wasn’t happening. That wasn’t his brother. It was some stranger; some fucking selfish, sick, twisted joke. Anything but Gerard. This was not the end. This was not the end.
Frank was kneeling on the floor, hunched over the crumpled piece of paper, reading it over and over. His finger tracing the messy letters of Gerard’s handwriting.
“I’m sorry,” he started in a shaky voice, “for all the problems that were my fault. I’m sorry I can’t fix it. I’m sorry I can’t keep fighting. I give up. You always deserved better anyway. They all got it wrong, I’m not a hero. I’ve let them down for the last time. I’m sorry I’m not the person you thought I was. I’m not the person they thought I was. Never forget, I love you all. I love you all so much it hurts. Forgive me. Gerard.” He let the paper fall gently from his grasp to the white carpeted floor and slumped against the wardrobe door, as Mikey began again.
“That’s shit, Gerard! That’s fucking shit! You…”
“Shut up!” Ray was sat on the windowsill, head in hands. Mikey stopped in surprise at the tone of his voice and watched with flitting eyes, as Ray lifted his head and sighed, “Just shut up. He’s gone, Mikey,” he spread his arms wide, his voice tinged with bitterness, “and that is it. No amount of bullshit from you is gonna change that. He’s not coming back. He’s…” The guitarist swallowed uncomfortably and his tone softened, “He’s dead, Mikey. So just…shut up.”
“He’s not dead. He’s not…” Mikey repeated almost inaudibly, closing his eyes for a second. But the liquid found it’s way between the lids, seeping down his face and crawling down his neck. He fell through Bob’s loosened grasp to the floor. “Gerard...” He crawled over the bed, with it’s white linen, where Gerard still lay motionless. “Gerard, I’m sorry…” His voice rasped and he sat on the edge of the bed, attempting to regulate his breathing. Then, slowly, he took his brother’s cold hand in his, nursing it gently, salty droplets still falling down his face. His other hand brushed dark strands of hair from his white forehead as he leant over. “Gerard,” he whispered, hoarsely, “Gerard, you can’t leave. We need you. Gee… hold on, don’t go now, the ambulance is coming. Hold on. You can’t go, I need you.” His voice was choked and thick as he tried to speak through the tears. “Gerard, this isn’t the end.” Mikey’s voice was getting louder and louder, until was almost shouting again. “You’re my brother, Gee. My big brother. You cannot die before me. You listening to me? You just can’t. And you promised. You fucking promised me! This isn’t it! I won’t let you leave me now!”
Ray and Bob looked at each other, with pained expressions on their faces, as Mikey stormed on, but neither could find the strength to stop him again. Frank was simply numb. He hadn’t moved since he’d read the note out loud. It was still there, by his bare feet, the edges of the thick watercolour notepaper tickling the tips of his toes. It was funny how he could notice little things like that; how it was Gerard’s yellowish, fuzzy art paper that he’d drawn countless heroes and monsters on in the past, that now bore his hurriedly scribbled goodbye to the world instead of images from his colourful imagination. Funny how he notice things like that, when there was a corpse in the middle of the room. The dead body of his best friend.
‘Gerard’s dead,’ he told himself. Frank watched how Mikey was draped over him, holding a limp hand in his, cradling it. His green eyes darted to the tears, which were falling to the floor unchecked. ‘He’s never coming back. Not ever.’ Still nothing. His band mate, one of his closest friends, was gone. That was it, no second chances. He could see him there, eyes still open but seeing nothing; and he still didn’t feel a thing. Tears weren’t even pricking at his eyes. He didn’t feel sad. He didn’t feel hollow and empty. He didn’t feel any of those things people said they felt when somebody they loved died. He just didn’t feel. ‘Gerard’s dead, Gerard’s dead, Gerard’s dead, Gerard’s dead…’ he repeated in his head. As if he was mentally slapping himself in the face. ‘Gerard’s dead. Fucker.’ The guitarist reminded himself of the good times. No more Donkey Konga at two in morning in the tour bus when they both couldn’t sleep. In fact, no more tour bus at all. No more My Chemical Romance. No more saving lives. The dream was over; and Gerard had been the one to kill it. Gerard, who was still dead on the double bed in the middle of the room. Still dead… and Frank still couldn’t feel a fucking thing.
Mikey’s voice became quieter again, until there was nothing but heavy silence in the room. Nobody spoke, nobody moved, nobody even looked at each other. They all looked at the floor, at the ceiling, out of the window… only Mikey could bare to look at Gerard. He began to pull the limp body onto himself, cradling it in his arms, rocking gently backwards and forwards, fresh tears running down his cheeks.
A sudden clamour in the hallway announced the arrival of the ambulance crew and they all looked up as Bob began to move towards the door. Mikey pulled his brother closer to him, his hands clinging to his black shirt, turning his knuckles white. Bob turned the handle and paramedics rushed into the room. Mikey’s lips were millimetres from Gerard’s ear as his whispered too him, before being pulled back into Bob’s arms.
“Gerard, they’re here for you.”
My Chemical Romance was together again.
“I fucking hate you!”
All five of them together in a hotel room.
“I hate you!”
And Mikey was screaming.
“You fucking useless…”
Screaming at the body that lay on the bed.
“Fucking useless…”
The body with pale skin and kohl rimmed eyes, that stared glassy at the ceiling, pupils large and black. The body with dark raven hair, splayed over the pillow. The body of his brother. Sobs shook Mikey’s thin body as Bob pulled him back, letting the distraught boy collapse into his chest. No, this wasn’t happening. That wasn’t his brother. It was some stranger; some fucking selfish, sick, twisted joke. Anything but Gerard. This was not the end. This was not the end.
Frank was kneeling on the floor, hunched over the crumpled piece of paper, reading it over and over. His finger tracing the messy letters of Gerard’s handwriting.
“I’m sorry,” he started in a shaky voice, “for all the problems that were my fault. I’m sorry I can’t fix it. I’m sorry I can’t keep fighting. I give up. You always deserved better anyway. They all got it wrong, I’m not a hero. I’ve let them down for the last time. I’m sorry I’m not the person you thought I was. I’m not the person they thought I was. Never forget, I love you all. I love you all so much it hurts. Forgive me. Gerard.” He let the paper fall gently from his grasp to the white carpeted floor and slumped against the wardrobe door, as Mikey began again.
“That’s shit, Gerard! That’s fucking shit! You…”
“Shut up!” Ray was sat on the windowsill, head in hands. Mikey stopped in surprise at the tone of his voice and watched with flitting eyes, as Ray lifted his head and sighed, “Just shut up. He’s gone, Mikey,” he spread his arms wide, his voice tinged with bitterness, “and that is it. No amount of bullshit from you is gonna change that. He’s not coming back. He’s…” The guitarist swallowed uncomfortably and his tone softened, “He’s dead, Mikey. So just…shut up.”
“He’s not dead. He’s not…” Mikey repeated almost inaudibly, closing his eyes for a second. But the liquid found it’s way between the lids, seeping down his face and crawling down his neck. He fell through Bob’s loosened grasp to the floor. “Gerard...” He crawled over the bed, with it’s white linen, where Gerard still lay motionless. “Gerard, I’m sorry…” His voice rasped and he sat on the edge of the bed, attempting to regulate his breathing. Then, slowly, he took his brother’s cold hand in his, nursing it gently, salty droplets still falling down his face. His other hand brushed dark strands of hair from his white forehead as he leant over. “Gerard,” he whispered, hoarsely, “Gerard, you can’t leave. We need you. Gee… hold on, don’t go now, the ambulance is coming. Hold on. You can’t go, I need you.” His voice was choked and thick as he tried to speak through the tears. “Gerard, this isn’t the end.” Mikey’s voice was getting louder and louder, until was almost shouting again. “You’re my brother, Gee. My big brother. You cannot die before me. You listening to me? You just can’t. And you promised. You fucking promised me! This isn’t it! I won’t let you leave me now!”
Ray and Bob looked at each other, with pained expressions on their faces, as Mikey stormed on, but neither could find the strength to stop him again. Frank was simply numb. He hadn’t moved since he’d read the note out loud. It was still there, by his bare feet, the edges of the thick watercolour notepaper tickling the tips of his toes. It was funny how he could notice little things like that; how it was Gerard’s yellowish, fuzzy art paper that he’d drawn countless heroes and monsters on in the past, that now bore his hurriedly scribbled goodbye to the world instead of images from his colourful imagination. Funny how he notice things like that, when there was a corpse in the middle of the room. The dead body of his best friend.
‘Gerard’s dead,’ he told himself. Frank watched how Mikey was draped over him, holding a limp hand in his, cradling it. His green eyes darted to the tears, which were falling to the floor unchecked. ‘He’s never coming back. Not ever.’ Still nothing. His band mate, one of his closest friends, was gone. That was it, no second chances. He could see him there, eyes still open but seeing nothing; and he still didn’t feel a thing. Tears weren’t even pricking at his eyes. He didn’t feel sad. He didn’t feel hollow and empty. He didn’t feel any of those things people said they felt when somebody they loved died. He just didn’t feel. ‘Gerard’s dead, Gerard’s dead, Gerard’s dead, Gerard’s dead…’ he repeated in his head. As if he was mentally slapping himself in the face. ‘Gerard’s dead. Fucker.’ The guitarist reminded himself of the good times. No more Donkey Konga at two in morning in the tour bus when they both couldn’t sleep. In fact, no more tour bus at all. No more My Chemical Romance. No more saving lives. The dream was over; and Gerard had been the one to kill it. Gerard, who was still dead on the double bed in the middle of the room. Still dead… and Frank still couldn’t feel a fucking thing.
Mikey’s voice became quieter again, until there was nothing but heavy silence in the room. Nobody spoke, nobody moved, nobody even looked at each other. They all looked at the floor, at the ceiling, out of the window… only Mikey could bare to look at Gerard. He began to pull the limp body onto himself, cradling it in his arms, rocking gently backwards and forwards, fresh tears running down his cheeks.
A sudden clamour in the hallway announced the arrival of the ambulance crew and they all looked up as Bob began to move towards the door. Mikey pulled his brother closer to him, his hands clinging to his black shirt, turning his knuckles white. Bob turned the handle and paramedics rushed into the room. Mikey’s lips were millimetres from Gerard’s ear as his whispered too him, before being pulled back into Bob’s arms.
“Gerard, they’re here for you.”