420 AM safety-net
4 20 AM forever.
The mind-blowing sound deriving from a series of lost firecrackers in the distance, a honking claxon from the other side of the highway, I try to cover my ears with my pillow, putting vague thoughts of wondering whether it’s even allowed to light fireworks after 4PM, in the back of my head and trying my hardest to get back to sleep.
The light buzzing of the engine, a slightly trickling sound created by the windows to my right is it raining?, the sound of a stifled sob coming from the bunk on my left.
He’s dreaming again.
I try to shake the thought of it; close my eyes and get back to sleep, but it’s a lost cause now that I’ve heard it, so I rub my eyes and throw my legs over the railing of my bunk cautiously in an attempt to not wake anyone else.
In the dark of the pathetic shitplace we pretentiously call our ‘livingroom’; I can see his huddled form sitting on the couch. And he knows I’m here.
This is one more night added to a string of countless and then some more nights. Where the world would stop and the make-believe snoring coming from his bunk sounded more like pleas for help. Catch me, please, please. He never sleeps.
It’s useless to even ask what’s up. It took me forever to get used to the situation; before I could stop pretending we could still fix this.
Cut to the chase. This is rock and roll baby, so don’t hesitate; stick your hand all the way up the wound if you even wanna try to fix it.
He knows all this too; he starts talking right away and I feel elated to hear the sound of his voice because every time I let myself fall down on the miserable bundle of sheets in my bunk; it strikes me that I might never hear his voice again. You must wake up on time, Frankie.
I wish I had an alarmclock for this kind of things; but technology doesn’t bat for emotions.
‘The apologetic looks on your faces when you have champagne at midnight. Everybody knows, Frank. Everybody does. And they’re so good with it.’ he’s struggling for breath now and it makes it hard to breath for me, too.
‘You’re good with it too, Gerard, I promise. You’re handling it so well’ please believe me, Angel. I reach my hand out to touch his cheeks, a messy war struck in a puddle of two day-old eyeliner and the salty wet version of pain relief.
He looks up with me with big eyes filled with.. something. I don’t know. And it scares me.
‘Hey, I’m proud of you’, my finger curls up under his chin. Bones.
He smiles exanimatedly at me, Gerard fucking Way, another dry sob racking his fragile body, I know what’s going to come, but I don’t even want to hear what he’s got to say. I don’t want to know how much he’s hurting, I can’t take it. Selfish selfish.
‘You know, today..’ voice trailing off, oh please Angel, stop crying. I’m breathing like a puppy left by its owners, squeaky shaking breaths, full of hope and despair and just completely fucking useless.
He turns his head slightly, loosening contact with my finger that was still tucked under his chin, making my hand wander aimlessly, without a purpose, disposed. Please don’t ever leave me, Sugar. He clears his throat and looks straight at me.
‘..after the show, this kid asked me to sign the old DVD, Frank.’ a laugh that sounds more like haunted shiver through his nose, a lemon-induced grin widely spread on his face and his eyes filled to the rims with tears ‘I-I haven’t seen it in a while, F-frank. You know how we have it on this fucking bus? On this f-fucking bus and I haven’t seen it, Frank. I-I know Mikey’s been hiding it in his suitcase, Frank, I know because h-he knows.. A-and I tried to look at it once, but I can’t. I can’t. I hate myself so much Frank. I’m failure and I can’t even f-face..’ breaking out in terrifying sobs, his beautiful beautiful face sculptured into a painfully haunted mask deeply buried into my chest, I can feel the sharp edges of his jawlines cutting into my heart, shredding it. I know baby, I know. I wanna tell him how he used to make mistakes, how proud I am of him for fixing it, how everyone makes mistakes, it’s only human, baby.
But I’m crying. I’m fucking crying and he looks nothing like the boy on the DVD with greasy strands of hair, wanting to look sick sick sick with make-up, hooking himself up every night with that beautiful white powder, a chemical so powerful it managed to finally weigh him down from all the highs, taking the credit lines for Gerard Way’s attempted fucking suicide.
He looks nothing like him, my baby in my arms right now with freshly washed hair and clean of toxic in his system, starting over and wanting to make something out of life, some call him a hero and sometimes I worry he is going to trip on his ambition because he carries it so much with him; he can’t even see where he’s walking, and he’s beautiful and he’s breaking breaking in my arms and even though they look nothing alike; his eyes are the same of the boy on the DVD. "Hey, you wanna get fucked up later?"
I’m crying, holding on for dear life as he is calming down and I hope to God he won’t calm down completely. Did you get what you deserve?
I’m losing myself; distancing myself to an extent of millions of feet away as I hear my own voice cut through the room, clear and callously, my clammy hands placed on either side of his drowning cheeks.
‘Do I matter to you, Gerard?’ Desperate little tramp, pathetic clingy little bitch, where’d you get the nerve, Frank? Where’d you find the arrogance?
I’m silently shuddering, witnessing his face crumble even further, his angelic features fading as another wave of helplessness crashes over him.
Fantastic going, Frankie. Do you even matter to yourself at all?
I sit, trying to still my shoulders as I watch his eyes widen with fear, his face contorting with disbelief. How can you say that, Frankie? You know you mean the world to me.
‘Y-you. I- well of course! You m-mean so much to me Frank, s-so much.’
Fists clenching my old t-shirt tightly, attempting to make a point out of what he’s saying, forcing me upon believing it. I know Angel, I know.
He’s definitely crying again and I, I have no idea what to say.
I hold him close, wondering if it’s ever going to make a difference at all, hoping, wanting, wishing for something to take it away from him.
He’s still got that glimpse of sunshine in his eyes, but Lord, is it pouring down inside of him.
We’re laying for what seems hours and shaky breaths dissolve into more easier ones and the flood of tears stops and it makes me want to cry because I know it’s only going to be a matter of time.
You’ve been so good baby, so strong.
I loosen my hand from his shoulder and bring it up to his hair, twirling little strands around my fingers and I know he’s smiling, I know you from the inside out.
A few minutes later, he’s yawning and I lift my head, extending my neck to look over the backside of the couch.
The microwave display reads 4 20 PM and it makes me smile because for some reason the colons aren’t lit up and I remember it used to drive Mikey mad, but when our tour-manager ordered a new one, Mikey didn’t even wanna hear about it.
‘What’s funny?’ he sounds so tired, exhausted even; but more like his normal self again.
My hand searches for his and holds it tightly.
‘Nothing. It’s worth it. Right?’
It stays silent for a while and I can tell he’s really thinking of what to answer.
‘I guess. It must be.’ voice husky from all the crying, I squeeze his hand a little and he squeezes mine back as he lets out a sigh of what seems to be contentment to me.
We lay and my mind is drifting off again, eyelids shutting down, so tired, so tired, but almost deliriously happy to be woken up again.
‘Hey Frank?’
‘Mmhyeah babe?’
‘Happy New year.’
The light buzzing of the engine, a slightly trickling sound created by the windows to my right is it raining?, the sound of a stifled sob coming from the bunk on my left.
He’s dreaming again.
I try to shake the thought of it; close my eyes and get back to sleep, but it’s a lost cause now that I’ve heard it, so I rub my eyes and throw my legs over the railing of my bunk cautiously in an attempt to not wake anyone else.
In the dark of the pathetic shitplace we pretentiously call our ‘livingroom’; I can see his huddled form sitting on the couch. And he knows I’m here.
This is one more night added to a string of countless and then some more nights. Where the world would stop and the make-believe snoring coming from his bunk sounded more like pleas for help. Catch me, please, please. He never sleeps.
It’s useless to even ask what’s up. It took me forever to get used to the situation; before I could stop pretending we could still fix this.
Cut to the chase. This is rock and roll baby, so don’t hesitate; stick your hand all the way up the wound if you even wanna try to fix it.
He knows all this too; he starts talking right away and I feel elated to hear the sound of his voice because every time I let myself fall down on the miserable bundle of sheets in my bunk; it strikes me that I might never hear his voice again. You must wake up on time, Frankie.
I wish I had an alarmclock for this kind of things; but technology doesn’t bat for emotions.
‘The apologetic looks on your faces when you have champagne at midnight. Everybody knows, Frank. Everybody does. And they’re so good with it.’ he’s struggling for breath now and it makes it hard to breath for me, too.
‘You’re good with it too, Gerard, I promise. You’re handling it so well’ please believe me, Angel. I reach my hand out to touch his cheeks, a messy war struck in a puddle of two day-old eyeliner and the salty wet version of pain relief.
He looks up with me with big eyes filled with.. something. I don’t know. And it scares me.
‘Hey, I’m proud of you’, my finger curls up under his chin. Bones.
He smiles exanimatedly at me, Gerard fucking Way, another dry sob racking his fragile body, I know what’s going to come, but I don’t even want to hear what he’s got to say. I don’t want to know how much he’s hurting, I can’t take it. Selfish selfish.
‘You know, today..’ voice trailing off, oh please Angel, stop crying. I’m breathing like a puppy left by its owners, squeaky shaking breaths, full of hope and despair and just completely fucking useless.
He turns his head slightly, loosening contact with my finger that was still tucked under his chin, making my hand wander aimlessly, without a purpose, disposed. Please don’t ever leave me, Sugar. He clears his throat and looks straight at me.
‘..after the show, this kid asked me to sign the old DVD, Frank.’ a laugh that sounds more like haunted shiver through his nose, a lemon-induced grin widely spread on his face and his eyes filled to the rims with tears ‘I-I haven’t seen it in a while, F-frank. You know how we have it on this fucking bus? On this f-fucking bus and I haven’t seen it, Frank. I-I know Mikey’s been hiding it in his suitcase, Frank, I know because h-he knows.. A-and I tried to look at it once, but I can’t. I can’t. I hate myself so much Frank. I’m failure and I can’t even f-face..’ breaking out in terrifying sobs, his beautiful beautiful face sculptured into a painfully haunted mask deeply buried into my chest, I can feel the sharp edges of his jawlines cutting into my heart, shredding it. I know baby, I know. I wanna tell him how he used to make mistakes, how proud I am of him for fixing it, how everyone makes mistakes, it’s only human, baby.
But I’m crying. I’m fucking crying and he looks nothing like the boy on the DVD with greasy strands of hair, wanting to look sick sick sick with make-up, hooking himself up every night with that beautiful white powder, a chemical so powerful it managed to finally weigh him down from all the highs, taking the credit lines for Gerard Way’s attempted fucking suicide.
He looks nothing like him, my baby in my arms right now with freshly washed hair and clean of toxic in his system, starting over and wanting to make something out of life, some call him a hero and sometimes I worry he is going to trip on his ambition because he carries it so much with him; he can’t even see where he’s walking, and he’s beautiful and he’s breaking breaking in my arms and even though they look nothing alike; his eyes are the same of the boy on the DVD. "Hey, you wanna get fucked up later?"
I’m crying, holding on for dear life as he is calming down and I hope to God he won’t calm down completely. Did you get what you deserve?
I’m losing myself; distancing myself to an extent of millions of feet away as I hear my own voice cut through the room, clear and callously, my clammy hands placed on either side of his drowning cheeks.
‘Do I matter to you, Gerard?’ Desperate little tramp, pathetic clingy little bitch, where’d you get the nerve, Frank? Where’d you find the arrogance?
I’m silently shuddering, witnessing his face crumble even further, his angelic features fading as another wave of helplessness crashes over him.
Fantastic going, Frankie. Do you even matter to yourself at all?
I sit, trying to still my shoulders as I watch his eyes widen with fear, his face contorting with disbelief. How can you say that, Frankie? You know you mean the world to me.
‘Y-you. I- well of course! You m-mean so much to me Frank, s-so much.’
Fists clenching my old t-shirt tightly, attempting to make a point out of what he’s saying, forcing me upon believing it. I know Angel, I know.
He’s definitely crying again and I, I have no idea what to say.
I hold him close, wondering if it’s ever going to make a difference at all, hoping, wanting, wishing for something to take it away from him.
He’s still got that glimpse of sunshine in his eyes, but Lord, is it pouring down inside of him.
We’re laying for what seems hours and shaky breaths dissolve into more easier ones and the flood of tears stops and it makes me want to cry because I know it’s only going to be a matter of time.
You’ve been so good baby, so strong.
I loosen my hand from his shoulder and bring it up to his hair, twirling little strands around my fingers and I know he’s smiling, I know you from the inside out.
A few minutes later, he’s yawning and I lift my head, extending my neck to look over the backside of the couch.
The microwave display reads 4 20 PM and it makes me smile because for some reason the colons aren’t lit up and I remember it used to drive Mikey mad, but when our tour-manager ordered a new one, Mikey didn’t even wanna hear about it.
‘What’s funny?’ he sounds so tired, exhausted even; but more like his normal self again.
My hand searches for his and holds it tightly.
‘Nothing. It’s worth it. Right?’
It stays silent for a while and I can tell he’s really thinking of what to answer.
‘I guess. It must be.’ voice husky from all the crying, I squeeze his hand a little and he squeezes mine back as he lets out a sigh of what seems to be contentment to me.
We lay and my mind is drifting off again, eyelids shutting down, so tired, so tired, but almost deliriously happy to be woken up again.
‘Hey Frank?’
‘Mmhyeah babe?’
‘Happy New year.’
♠ ♠ ♠
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