Life, Love, and My Chemical Romance

I sat in an ugly beige chair next to an unconscious Gerard. Frank had called 911, we were in the hospital, and it was horrible. Gerard was still in his boxers. He had needles sticking out all over his beautiful body. I felt so awful knowing he was deathly afraid of them. Knowing he was deathly. No doctor had spoken to me yet, because I was only sixteen, but they had called his parents and they were on their way to the hospital. All I could do was look down at my feet and sob, miserably. I couldn’t look at Gerard, it was too difficult. Frank sat at the other side of the room, saying words of comfort to me. I didn’t listen.
Suddenly, out of the blue, I realized what I had been doing wrong. I had an epiphany. What I needed to do to fix Gerard and my fix life. Grandma had said something about a puzzle and a missing piece. Bob was the missing piece! I stopped sobbing and looked over at Frank.
“We need to call the band.”
“What, why?” he asked. He was surprised that I had finally said something, and that I had stopped crying. It was obvious.
“Just trust me on this.” I took out my phone and dialed Ray’s number. I had one bar of battery left. It rang four times before he picked up.
“Hello, who is this?” he asked.
“Ray, it’s Marilyn.”
“Hi.” He said strangely. I had never called him. We talked a lot during school but that was it.
“Can you come to Valley Hospital… now?” I asked.
“Uhh…”
“It’s important, Gerard needs your help,” my voice cracked, “He’ll die.” I croaked.
“Wow. I’ll be right there.” By then I was crying again. I hated the thought of Gerard’s death. It was too difficult to bear. A few months ago I had dreamed of a boyfriend like Gerard. Now that I have him, I’m losing him. He’s dyeing, I killed him. No wonder my parents would never let me get a dog. I’d have murdered it as well.
“Marilyn, why do you need Ray to come?” Frank asked me in a voice that could only be described as nice. I didn’t answer him, I didn’t know what to tell him. Without speaking I picked up my phone and dialed Bob Bryar’s phone number.
“Hello?”
“Bob Bryar?” I practically screamed.
“Who is this?” he asked suspiciously.
“Bob, this is Marilyn from that band.”
“Oh.”
“This is going to sound really strange, but could you please come down to the Valley Hospital, now?” I didn’t think that he would oblige.
“Why?”
“Because someone who I love very much is in danger of dyeing and you could save his life.” Yes, I was using guilt to persuade him to come. But desperate times call for desperate measures.
“Wha-“ he said in a shocked voice, “how? Who?”
“Gerard is dyeing and you can help to save him. Just believe me, and please, please come.” I said as tears poured down my face.
“I don’t think I can make it,” he said slowly, “I’m really sorry.” I was back to sobbing by then.
“But you have to!” I shouted.
“I- I’m so sorry.” And then the line went dead. My phone had run out of batteries, as had my hope.
“No one will love you like I do…”