Demolition Lovers

My mother was, and has always, been an abusive drunk. And it’s almost difficult to remember a time when she was the smiling, happy woman from my childhood.

Most of my high school life consisted of taking care of my mother. I was always welcomed home to a crying 34 year old woman with a bottle of alcohol and the usual cigarette hanging from her bony fingers. And on the days she wasn't drunk, she was hung-over or in her fantasy land. She could never seem to handle reality; and therefore most of her burdens became my burdens at only sixteen.

I don't remember my father much, except for the fact that he was a lying, cheating bastard. He was never home, and the few memories I do have of him consist of drunken fights and screaming matches loud enough for noise complaints to be called in.

My mother used to work as a nurse, taking the night shifts at the hospital to get away from my father, I didn't blame her though. But that then gave my father the perfect opportunity to cheat; it was all too easy really.

It wasn't long until my mother couldn't handle the constant lies and my father was sick of putting up with her that they finally split in my last year of high school. I was seventeen at the time. And I haven’t seen my father since. It was the day before my finals, and I remember waking up to my mother coming home from her shift at 3am to find my father in bed with another woman.

It shouldn't have been that much of a deal as it had happened more than once, but I figured by that point it had been the last straw for her. I had been awoken by the sound of screaming, objects shattering violently against the walls, and a chorus of slamming doors.

The next morning I had woken up to complete, and utter silence. I would have normally been relieved if it weren’t for the events that had happened the previous night.

There was smoke heavy in the air from carelessly tossed cigarettes and broken glass littered the stained carpet. There was also an array of red and white roses scattered around the living room, along with a smashed vase which had been thrown at the wall.

He had gotten her the flowers only days before, which was my fathers ‘romantic’ way of trying to get sex out of her. But she had simply smiled and placed them in one of our only vases.

It was a rare occurrence, seeing my mother smile.

Things were much simpler when I was younger, before the drinking, the one night stands, and the fights. We all used to live with my grandparents, my dad was in a band, my mother worked the day shifts at the hospital instead, and honestly; life was great. I can almost remember how happy they were at the time, and for the life of me I couldn't seem to pin point the exact moment it all spiralled downwards.
My father had always wanted me to follow after him and play the drums, but honestly, I always felt more comfortable with a guitar in my hands.

I remember the light that shone behind my mother’s eyes when she saw me play on stage, it was my first time live. I had practiced for weeks and weeks. I had no tattoos at the time, which was a rare sight to be honest. And I can recall quite clearly when I first came home with the scorpion on neck, when she had seen it my mother had absolutely freaked, and still didn't approve even after I had explained my intentions behind it.

For as long as I can remember all I had ever wanted to do was make music, make a difference, and the reason behind getting the tattoo in such plain view was so that it would be near impossible for me to achieve an actual job, not to say that making music wasn't a real a job, it was a career. I had always dreamed just to be on stage, entertaining people, changing one life after another through music.

At the time, I had never known anything than the small confines of Jersey, the only place I had ever grown up in. but now, I’m making music and finally getting to see the world, and really, it’s amazing, more than I could have ever dreamed of. But nothing could possibly beat that feeling of home. And home was where Gerard was. Gerard with his small teeth, his greasy black hair, and the way he danced whenever he would sing. Gerard was an amazing singer, and I had spent years trying to convince him he could make a living out of his voice alone.

But Gerard was as self-conscious and stubborn as always and could never accept a single compliment given to him.

Gerard was one of the people that I trusted most in this fucked up world. He was so innocent, in his own way, and I never wanted that to be taken away from him. Because without that spark, I don't think we would have ever became friends, or more.

Throughout the years and everything that had happened to Gerard that innocence, so pure and fragile, had been stripped away bit by bit. And it wasn't until the time that Gerard had come over on a Saturday night and told me of the time he was held at gunpoint when he was 15 that I truly feared of the spark being lost.

"I was held up with a .357 Magnum, had a gun pointed to my head and put on the floor, execution-style." He had said while acting out the positions and using his hand as a makeshift gun. I had smiled the entire time I was watching, it was pretty adorable; the way he acted out the scene so much like a child would.

"No matter how ugly the world gets or how stupid it shows me it is, I always have faith." He said with a sad grin. But as he had said it something had seemed off, the light in his eyes, it was dimmed, and somehow I knew that he never truly recovered from that; almost dying, and fearing for the people around him dying.

He had stayed over that night, giving some bullshit excuse about having too many drinks to drive, and I had let him; accepting that maybe he just didn't want to be alone. I had given him the bed that night, feeling bad about making him sleep on the floor, but Gerard, being as selfless as ever had insisted that we simply shared, and that it was no big deal. But I remember waking up with our noses touching and arms wrapped around each other; and honestly, somehow, it had seemed almost right.