Finding Gerard

Gerard's point of view

*One week later*

I glared at the plain white ceiling, part of me hoping it would crash down on me and put me out of my misery.

Withdrawal was a bitch.

I pushed my sweaty hair from my face with my trembling hands and sighed, looking around the cell. All I had was this bed with its wafer fucking thin mattress and itchy sheets, a toilet and a sink.

The jail in California had been a million times better. But now I'd been shipped back to New Jersey, and I was rotting in some holding cell until they decided which facility I would serve my time in.

My 2 years.

I got off lucky.

The judge said that because of my spotless record and clear mental anguish, I didn't deserve any more than that.

With good behaviour, I could be out in as little as ten months, he told me.

Ten months wasn't little.

Ten months was a long fucking time.

My newly clean system was able to finally make sense of things again. I knew what I wanted, I could see it clearly.

I wanted my Frankie.

I wanted Mikey.

I wanted my family, I wanted Ray, and Bob, and everyone. I wanted everything to be as it was.

I wanted the band. I wanted to be on the road again, playing a show in a new town every night, thousands of people screaming our names, the thrill, the exhilaration, without having to snort anything or drink anything to get it.

Frank would never take me back. Never ever. He'd never trust me again.

I couldn't blame him.

I doubt Mikey would ever speak to me again.

He didn't speak to me in California, he could hardly even look at me. I can hardly even look at me.

I strongly doubted the words 'I'm sorry' would mean anything to either of them.

I didn't even want them to waste their time waiting for me to get out. They needed to move on. They needed to live their lives.

A tapping on the door of my cell dragged me from my thoughts.

The dinner hatch opened and a tray was shoved through.

I didn't move.

"You can either take this tray, or I'm going to drop it on the ground," said the guard through the door.

I didn't move.

"You got until three."

"One."

I didn't move. I didn't deserve to eat. The way I had treated the people closest to me was despicable.

"Two. I'm serious Way, you can eat it off the ground," snarled the guard. Jeez, what bit him on the ass?

"Three."

The plastic tray clattered to the ground, food went everywhere.

My eyes traced the outline of the plastic tray.

I bet I could break it.

I heaved myself out of the hideously uncomfortable bed and snatched up the tray.

It was relatively thick plastic, with not much flex to it. I tried to snap it in my hands but failed miserably.

I leaned it up against the wall and raised my foot, stamping on it, splintering the now seemingly flimsy plastic into several pieces.

I picked up a particularly sharp looking piece and ran my finger along the edge of it.

It was perfect.

I turned my left arm over and inspected the pale skin carefully, tracing the faint, blue-ish line of a vein with my eyes.

My breathing quickened. I could paint these walls in beautiful red.

I pressed the sharpest point of the shard of tray to my arm, closing my eyes as I pushed harder and harder until it felt it break the skin.

I slowly dragged the sharp piece of plastic up my arm, cutting into my pale flesh.

I peeked my eyes open.

There really wasn't enough blood for my liking. I'd never paint this room red unless I really started to bleed for it.

I cut again. And again. And again. Until I was really bleeding. An odd feeling of calm washed over me, it felt good.

I ripped off my shirt and wrapped it around my arm, when it was good and soaked in blood I took it away.

Maybe they would understand.

Maybe I could make them understand.

Using my arm and the blood soaked shirt, I smeared my message on the white wall, slumping back into my bed when I was done.

I glanced down at my arm, panting slightly, it was bleeding pretty bad.

I looked back up at my message on the wall. There was no way they could ignore this.

Two short words.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, reading them to myself aloud.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry."

"I'M SORRY!" I screamed, snatching up the piece of tray again and going for my other arm.

I could feel my pulse in my head, the room was spinning.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled as the room turned sideways.

"I'm sorry."

My face pressed against the blood splattered concrete floor, my tears mixing with my blood on the ground.

"I'm so sorry."