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Shadow Creeks Mental Asylum
Gerard's Story
I’m Gerard Way, seventeen years old, and I suffer from depression.
Most teens suffer from depression, or some form of it, if I’m correct, yet my parents thought
it’d be okay to just send me here. I can’t blame them, really. I needed help.
It was the end of sophomore year, going into my junior year, when I was hit with a hard blow.
My younger brother Mikey had been walking home from school one day, and ended up in the
cross fire of two rival gangs. He was put on life support, but sadly, the doctors told us he would never wake up again. My parents pulled the plug less than an hour after hearing that, and I watched as my baby brother drifted into the afterlife.
I began going downhill. I’d stop eating for days straight, I’d sleep most of the time, and if I wasn’t sleeping, I was bawling my eyes out in Mikey’s room, hugging his pillow close to my chest.
At that point, I dropped out of school. My grades had slipped so far down that there was no real point in continuing at school. No one would really notice I was gone anyway.
My parents would check on me every day before they left for work, and when they came
home. In between the hours of eight in the morning, and six at night, I was home alone.
Completely alone, unless you count the dog, which I didn’t. Fido didn’t exactly offer any comfort to me throughout the day.
I’d mindlessly lie in bed all day, tears leaking out of my eyes and mucus dripping out of my nose. I didn’t shower, shaved, or even cleaned up since Mikey died. He was my reason to get out of bed every morning, always bright and cheery.
Soon, my tears dried up, and it became impossible to cry. I’d want to, but simply couldn’t produce the tears. So, I resorted to something I swore I never would. I began cutting. One slice, two slices, three, four, five, they added up quickly.
I wore my baggiest hoodies over the ones on my arms. My arms ran out of space quickly, so
I moved to my stomach, cutting Mikey’s initials into the pale skin. The pain was a rush that I craved every time I felt upset. It was almost like it brought me back to life.
One day, I cut a bit too deep. Blood raced out of the wound, and I wasn’t able to stop it completely. I was forced to call 911.
From there, I was raced to the hospital. While staying at the hospital, they recommended this place to my parents, and well, here I am, eight months later, stuck with an alcoholic as my roommate. His name is Danny, and he’s more fucked up than anyone else in here. Plus, he has a bit of an English accent that drives me insane when he’s trying to communicate with his friend Ben, who lives on the other side of our hall.
Unlike most teens here, I wasn’t allowed to leave my room alone. I always had to have someone escort me everywhere, to the bathroom, dining hall, counselor’s appointments, everywhere. I wasn’t trusted on my own quite yet. Fortunately, I had one friend in here, who suffered from prescription pill abuse. His name is Frank Iero.
Most teens suffer from depression, or some form of it, if I’m correct, yet my parents thought
it’d be okay to just send me here. I can’t blame them, really. I needed help.
It was the end of sophomore year, going into my junior year, when I was hit with a hard blow.
My younger brother Mikey had been walking home from school one day, and ended up in the
cross fire of two rival gangs. He was put on life support, but sadly, the doctors told us he would never wake up again. My parents pulled the plug less than an hour after hearing that, and I watched as my baby brother drifted into the afterlife.
I began going downhill. I’d stop eating for days straight, I’d sleep most of the time, and if I wasn’t sleeping, I was bawling my eyes out in Mikey’s room, hugging his pillow close to my chest.
At that point, I dropped out of school. My grades had slipped so far down that there was no real point in continuing at school. No one would really notice I was gone anyway.
My parents would check on me every day before they left for work, and when they came
home. In between the hours of eight in the morning, and six at night, I was home alone.
Completely alone, unless you count the dog, which I didn’t. Fido didn’t exactly offer any comfort to me throughout the day.
I’d mindlessly lie in bed all day, tears leaking out of my eyes and mucus dripping out of my nose. I didn’t shower, shaved, or even cleaned up since Mikey died. He was my reason to get out of bed every morning, always bright and cheery.
Soon, my tears dried up, and it became impossible to cry. I’d want to, but simply couldn’t produce the tears. So, I resorted to something I swore I never would. I began cutting. One slice, two slices, three, four, five, they added up quickly.
I wore my baggiest hoodies over the ones on my arms. My arms ran out of space quickly, so
I moved to my stomach, cutting Mikey’s initials into the pale skin. The pain was a rush that I craved every time I felt upset. It was almost like it brought me back to life.
One day, I cut a bit too deep. Blood raced out of the wound, and I wasn’t able to stop it completely. I was forced to call 911.
From there, I was raced to the hospital. While staying at the hospital, they recommended this place to my parents, and well, here I am, eight months later, stuck with an alcoholic as my roommate. His name is Danny, and he’s more fucked up than anyone else in here. Plus, he has a bit of an English accent that drives me insane when he’s trying to communicate with his friend Ben, who lives on the other side of our hall.
Unlike most teens here, I wasn’t allowed to leave my room alone. I always had to have someone escort me everywhere, to the bathroom, dining hall, counselor’s appointments, everywhere. I wasn’t trusted on my own quite yet. Fortunately, I had one friend in here, who suffered from prescription pill abuse. His name is Frank Iero.
♠ ♠ ♠
Can anyone guess who's next?