This Is Where I Scream From
That One Stings A Little
Gerard sits next to me on the couch. We're in the middle of a tour and we're on our way to a new city for a concert tomorrow. He's concentrating on drawing something. I can't see what it is so I lean in, careful not to touch him. I can smell him. He smells delicious and he's the only warm thing on this freezing bus (the heat is malfunctioning today). It almost hurts to be this close to him and not touch him.
"Frank, fuck off. I'm trying to draw and I can't concentrate with you always breathing down my neck."
He's agitated. He has been this entire week. I'm tempted to ask what's up, but I know this wouldn't be the time. Instead, I ask what he's drawing.
"Never mind, Frank, just stop bothering me."
That one stings a little. I know he doesn't mean for it to do so, but when you're so emotionally attached to someone that they're the center of your world, telling you to leave them alone is like them jabbing you with a needle. Not hard enough to scar or cause a lot of damage, but enough to hurt.
"Gerard, I..."
"Frank, I said FUCK OFF!" he yells while he's shoving me away from him. I don't say anything. I just walk into the bathroom, claiming I need to take a piss, and lock the door behind me. Inside, I'm free to let the tears flow. I'm sick of him acting like this. He used to be the one who would cling to me. He would be the one to sing me to sleep on those long nights when tours was just too much.
Now he's distant and cold.
I open the drawer under the sink and pull out a razor that I've hidden away. I know I shouldn't, but I haven't done it in a while, and I have so much pent-up energy that needs to be released. It's an addiction, one that needs to be fueled.
I bring it up to my arm and press down. I drag it across quickly. It's quick enough that there's a small moment of stillness before the crimson comes seeping through, and with it, my relief. I bite my lip. It does hurt, but the pain is something I've grown accustomed to. Something I've grown to like.
I take two deep breaths and do it again. And again. Then a few more times for good measure, until all the emotions I used to have are gone, lying in a puddle of red on the bathroom floor.
"Frank, fuck off. I'm trying to draw and I can't concentrate with you always breathing down my neck."
He's agitated. He has been this entire week. I'm tempted to ask what's up, but I know this wouldn't be the time. Instead, I ask what he's drawing.
"Never mind, Frank, just stop bothering me."
That one stings a little. I know he doesn't mean for it to do so, but when you're so emotionally attached to someone that they're the center of your world, telling you to leave them alone is like them jabbing you with a needle. Not hard enough to scar or cause a lot of damage, but enough to hurt.
"Gerard, I..."
"Frank, I said FUCK OFF!" he yells while he's shoving me away from him. I don't say anything. I just walk into the bathroom, claiming I need to take a piss, and lock the door behind me. Inside, I'm free to let the tears flow. I'm sick of him acting like this. He used to be the one who would cling to me. He would be the one to sing me to sleep on those long nights when tours was just too much.
Now he's distant and cold.
I open the drawer under the sink and pull out a razor that I've hidden away. I know I shouldn't, but I haven't done it in a while, and I have so much pent-up energy that needs to be released. It's an addiction, one that needs to be fueled.
I bring it up to my arm and press down. I drag it across quickly. It's quick enough that there's a small moment of stillness before the crimson comes seeping through, and with it, my relief. I bite my lip. It does hurt, but the pain is something I've grown accustomed to. Something I've grown to like.
I take two deep breaths and do it again. And again. Then a few more times for good measure, until all the emotions I used to have are gone, lying in a puddle of red on the bathroom floor.
♠ ♠ ♠
This is a story about self-loathing and self-harm, so there will be a lot of it in here. Comments would make my day. Constructive criticism is always welcome because it helps me to become a better writer. =]