Those Sparkling Eyes.

Sucking off Daddy’s money. I wince, and it rings through my ears like a church bell, repeating, echoing, taunting me, almost. Getting drugs with daddy’s cash. My hands fly to my temple and I rub at it, groaning, pleading to make it stop.

Failure. Stop stop stop. Trembling fingers reach for the spoon and lighter, then grab for the powder, measuring out the perfect amount. I stick the syringe in my arm three minutes letter, the needle forming a perfect track mark after I take it out. I lean back on the couch and close my eyes, letting the syringe clatter to the floor lightly.

Within ten minutes I feel my head start to register the drug, and I giggle. It’s not some happy-joy giggle, it’s manic, crazed, and anyone who heard it would be locking their children in a room separate from me. Maybe even send them to another country.

The world’s a beautiful place when it’s spinning so fast. I try to stand up and fall face-first to the floor. I give up after ten minutes, deciding instead that this will be my bed for the night, before my surroundings go black.

…Sunlight is streaming through the white blinds. The TV sounds in the background. I groan, and go to sit up. It doesn’t work, and I grow dizzy almost immediately. The back of my throat burns as I feel bile rise up from my stomach. I throw myself forward, and puke onto the hardwood floor, coughing, and whimpering.

It’s the aftermath that I hate the most, left shivering and sick. And my brain screams once again, The press would love this. Oh, how right they are. Gerard Way, daddy’s son, richer than hell; a heroin addict. It’s just like in the movies. Except I don’t think I’ll have a happy ending.

I’m left alone, after everyone’s gone home, thoughts invading my mind, and this is what I have. Powder, lighter, spoon, and syringe. And this is where it gets me, the next morning. No better than the junkie in the streets, love. Not one bit.

I’m just as broken and shattered, just as bruised and bleeding. Just as fucked up, as they are. Only I have camera’s searching out for me in every single fucking direction, and it’s worse if they discover. It’s screaming in the headlines – I can see it already – ‘Gerard Way, Daddy’s boy, multi-millionaire, heroin junkie, track marks to prove it.’ Some people thrive off rumors and rag mags. Only this time – they’d be telling the truth.

I finish vomiting, and crawl over to the wall, leaning my head against it, bringing my knees up to my chest. The smell of my sick almost immediately floats into the air, and I groan again as my stomach gurgles uncontrollably.

“P-Please,” I stutter out to no one. “S-stop.” It’s like pleading for someone standing above you with a gun not to shoot, even though you both know he will. It won’t stop.

My mouth is dry, tasting of acid, I’m shivering like mad, and shaking like a puppy who’s left outside in the cold – just not that cute. My cell phone rings somewhere, and I groan, slapping my hand to my face. Where the fuck is it? I’m searching desperately with my eyes, until I find it lying right underneath the edge of the couch. It’s about five feet away from me. It lets another shrill, obnoxious ring out into the air. I moan.

There’s no way you can get to it. And there isn’t. I’m simply stuck in this aftermath, with no chance of getting over it anytime soon. Once more, and the phone goes silent, as if it’s received my mental scolding to shut up.

I close my eyes again and take deep breaths. My stomach gurgles again, and I stand up, running to the bathroom – this time reaching the toilet before I puke it all up. I hear someone come through the door, and I lean my head against the bath as they come in.

“Pathetic, Gerard,” They mumble, coming over, and picking me up. I smile, because I know who it is. It’s the same person who saves me every time.

Only, I don’t let it be known that I like him saving me.

He tosses me onto the bed and strips my clothes off, throwing blankets over me. “When will it end?” He pleads, searching my eyes with his olive sparkling ones. They’re sparkling from sadness, is the sad part.

“Never,” I mumble childishly. “Once pathetic, always pathetic.”

He sighs, and shuts the blinds, coming over. “Never pathetic,” He smiles weakly.

“You said so.”

“I say things spur of the moment, you know that.”

“Best to spit out the truth on accident than keep it locked away forever,” I mutter, rolling over to face the wall, and closing my eyes. I can feel his stare, burning holes through me as I try to fall asleep again.

“What will you do when your dad finds out?” He asks me.

A simple shrug. He climbs into the bed and turns me over to face him forcibly. “Gerard, look at me,” He demands sharply. I refuse. “Gerard, come on.” I groan, waving a hand. “Gerard, knock it off and look at me.” He reaches a tone even I’ve never heard before – one that scares me – so I snap my eyes open and looking at him. His eyes are shining with worry and frustration.

“You. Have. To. Stop.” He tells me, shaking me with every syllable. All the sudden my eyes fill with tears and I let out the smallest of sobs, sinking into the mattress again.

“I’m trying, Frankie. I’m trying so hard.”

But I think he was just as sick of hearing ‘I’m trying,’ as I was. And I wondered when he would stop believing me and give up.

…He’s been my best friend since as long as I can remember. He was just…always there, picking up my messes. I was the spoilt little brat, and he was the down-to-earth kid who beat the sense into me now and then.

He understood me, he got that I wasn’t trying to suck off someone’s money or fame. He knew that I wasn’t really that way, and that it killed me when people claimed I was. He knew that I was there, I was normal; somewhere inside.

He was Frank Iero, the handsome kid in Private School – there on scholarship – who knew when enough was enough, and I was Gerard Way, the kid who thrived off paparazzi, and attention. He didn’t take my shit, and that was what I liked about him.

He hated me at first. Claimed that I was really quite stupid, for wanting to be in the spotlight. Told me that I thought fame was everything – when in reality, it isn’t. He was the bright one, the smart one. I was the one just there because my father could sue their asses for almost nothing at all.

“Gerard, snap out of it!” He orders me, setting a plate of food on the table in front of me. It’s a simple salad with olive oil as dressing.

“Sorry,” I mumble. It’s another thing about him. He’s always been one to take control. Something that I hated doing.

He smiles gently, and sighs. “Eat, will you? You’re getting to be nothing but skin and bones. People will start to wonder.”

“People are already wondering,” I say through a mouthful of lettuce and tomato. “They always are.”

“Gerard…” He sat down. “What made you try drugs? Because I sure as hell never influenced it. You dad never would have. Or Mikey. Or Mrs. Way.”

I set the fork down. “I don’t want to talk about it, Frankie.”

“You never do, Ger,” He retorts. I pick at the food on my plate for a few moments, and sigh.

“It’s more complicated than you can understand,” I finally say.

“What? Someone gives you drugs, you take them and that’s that?” He asks me. I grit my teeth.

“That’s not the point,” I mumble.

“Ger, I’ve put up with your shit for almost a year, now,” He growls. “Fucking tell me what triggered all this, or I’m going to your dad.” His eyes now sparkle with anger.

His eyes have always sparkled, mesmerizing me, making me get lost in them. He was so impossible to read, so hard to understand, sometimes. But one look in his eyes could tell me whatever emotion he felt, for some reason.

And when I don’t say a thing, he stands up, kicking at the table, before walking out the penthouse; angrily slamming the door behind him.

I close my eyes and rock back and forth, trying to prevent tears.

Daddy’s boy never was a very good boy.