All Around Me

I arrived backstage again, shaking with anger. Viv and Chad were still in the dressing room, talking excitedly about the night's show. They looked up with smiles on their faces as they saw me coming in.
"Frank! You were awesome tonight. And the new song went down great, I think." Viv said happily.
"Yeah, well.." I muttered dismissively.
I picked up an almost full bottle of whiskey on the dressing table, frowning. "Whose is this?" I said to the two remaining band mates.
"That's mine." Chad said, pulling a face. "It's gross."
I didn't reply, just took a twenty out of my pocket and threw it at him.
"I'll see you guys later." I said, pulling up my hood and walking out of the room with the bottle of Jack.
"Frank! I didn't say I didn't want it!" Chad yelled after me. I ignored him. I needed it more than he did.

I hated the walk back to my flat. It wasn't very far from where we had just played, but I hated it nonetheless. I hated walking anywhere in Jersey, especially after dark. But it was to be expected, I guess, after..
I stopped my thoughts, shaking my head and taking a swig from the bottle of whiskey I still held in my hand. I pulled a face and wiped my mouth. Fuck, it burned. But hey, a drink's a drink. Although if it wasn't for that idiot girl I could be enjoying something nicer at the bar.
God Damn, what was her problem?
It wasn't the first time it had happened, however. Since our band was getting bigger, we were getting all sorts of crazy fans who seemed determined to know absolutely everything about us. Several sympathetic fans had come up to me in the past and said they were sorry about Gerard, but.. I was sure I hadn't told anyone about how Gerard had written that song for me. How had she known? Had she really..was she..telling the truth?
I shook my head again. Dammit Frank, get a grip. There's no such thing as damn ghosts. He's gone. He's dead. He's not coming back. Why can't you accept that?
I took another long drink from the bottle I had taken from Chad, feeling the rain hitting my face, and found myself wishing that I still had my driving license. So I had a few drinks before driving, so what? I didn't hurt anyone, my driving was fine.
But two years with a banned license, that sucked.
I finally arrived at the door to the block of flats where I was staying. The elevator was broken again, which meant I had to climb four blocks of stairs. By the time I got to my own door, I was out of breath and cursing the world.
I let myself into my apartment, slamming the door behind me, and went straight to the kitchen, which was about the size of a closet. I hated it. I hated this flat, I hated everything.
I pulled the bag of pills I had bought earlier out of my pocket and sat down at the kitchen table, studying it. That bastard, he had given me less than I had paid for.
I sighed, throwing the packet down on the table again. I knew I couldn't go back and make him give me more, he'd just deny everything and say that I must have taken some.
Then he'd get mad, and when Phoenix got mad, it was dangerous.
I subconsciously felt the scar on my shoulder from the last time I had pissed Phoenix off. What an asshole, I thought bitterly.

I looked at the bottle of Jack by my side. It was almost empty already, and I was barely buzzed. At least I had those pills to keep me going for the night, though.
I stood up again, finishing the bottle of whiskey in one more long swig, and dropped it into the bin. I opened the drawer near the sink and pulled out a piece of paper that had gone dog eared from years of reading and re reading it. I don't know why I still insisted on reading it. I knew it off by heart. Picturing it in my mind I could see Gerard's messy handwriting, the blotches of ink where he had pressed the pen too hard, the tear in the page from the one night I had come close to ripping the piece of paper up, but couldn't bring myself to do it.

It had taken me such a long time to suggest to the band that we write music to go along with the lyrics, and even now they didn't know the story behind it. They knew I didn't write it myself, but that was all they knew about the story. Although, the way I acted when we practised it, even tonight at the show, they knew it was an intensely personal song.
We had the demo recorded on a CD, but I hated listening to it.
Looking at the lyrics scribbled on the page in front of me, I thought about Mikey for the first time in a while. I remembered when he gave the piece of paper to me at Gerard's funeral, and I wondered briefly how he was doing, or if that girl had gone to him, too, babbling her nonsense about Gerard.
My face suddenly contorted in anger. I was thinking about him too much. I promised myself I would forget about him. Why couldn't I do it?
I shouted out in anger, punching the cupboard door so hard it cracked. "Fuck!" I screamed out.
The neighbours didn't say a word. They had banged on the walls for the first few months I was living here, but they had gotten used to my outbursts every so often. In a way, that made it worse. This was how people knew me now- that short, crazy guy with a psycho temper.
I hated myself.