Kill All Your Friends.

Three weeks had passed since the terrible incident at the hospital. They'd discharged me from the psychiatric ward, making me promise to attend therapy regularly. I was yet to attend and the forthcoming date hung above my head like a black cloud in a blue sky. Not that my life was anything like a blue sky, it was far from it. My days considered of sitting in Mikey and Frank's flat, shivering and drinking coffee like an addict. I was sat there at this exact moment, my body shaking, sweat dripping down my pale face, droplets of my strong black coffee slipping out of the cup, scolding me slightly. Not another panic attack.
Get me out of this place, before I cause more damage.
My chest tightened and ached, my breathing becoming slower and more difficult. I recalled what the doctors told me, my fingers fumbling for a small, brown paper bag on the coffee table. Deep, slow breaths. The feeling died away and my chest loosened. I took a long, deep sip of coffee but it didn't satisfy me like usual, I needed something stronger. Mikey hadn't bothered to hide the alcohol from me, he had obviously assumed I was to weak to leave the sofa and enter the small, compact kitchen. I fumbled about until I found the strongest vodka I could lay my hands on. I poured a small glass of the stuff, chugging it quickly. I stumbled back to the sofa and lay there, waiting for the hazy calmness of the alcohol to kick in, falling softly to sleep.
My dreams were broken and disorientated. Bert was there, screaming a blood curdling scream, Mikey was pulling me back and Frank was glaring at me, burning a hole in my skin. I yelped in pain and fell to my knees. A circle of people were surrounding me, some looking amused, others shocked, Mikey was visibly disappointed. Words echoed in my head.
'You killed him.'
'Hahahaha,'
'It's your fault, ALL YOUR FAULT!'
And finally Bert spoke.
I' hate you. I hate you. I hate you.'
I sat up, taking a sharp intake of breath. I'd been having these dreams regularly and I was scared, these dreams were disturbing me. The depression sweeping over me was suffocating, I buried myself under the mass of unwashed blankets and pillows. Call me foolish,I feel hopeless The ones Mikey arranged on the sofa the day I was discharged. I just wanted the pain to stop, for everything to be over. I'd never experience anything like this. Most days I had no energy and everything hurt, some days I was surprised when I survived. I didn't want to survive anymore.
I regret not knowing when to put an end to all this madness.
I crept towards the bathroom.
Mikey's razor lay besides the bath.
I didn't hear a key turn in the lock.
I picked the razor up.
I didn't hear footsteps in the living room, or the soft mutter of 'Gerard?'
I slipped down the sleeve of my jumper.
I never heard a hand grasp the door handle.
I began to push the razor against my skin.
"Oh, Gerard. What are you doing?"
The razor dropped to the floor.

Running from lions, never felt like such a mistake
(Like a deer in the headlights)