torture
Bert/Gerard
First person (Bert)
Standalone
R (swearing, themes)
written February 2006
Notes: Bitter, angsty, sarcastic.
I'm a sadistic bastard. I'm sitting here, fucking enjoying the pain I'm going through right now, and I shouldn't be. I fucking shouldn't. I know it's not normal to dwell on this shit, to replay it over and over again until the hurt gets unbearable, but I can't fucking help it. I love it. This is how I deal, Gerard, and it's your fault.
Please don't picture me leaning over the bathroom sink, dragging a goddamn razor blade across my skin -- it's not that kind of pain, dumbass. For an intelligent guy, a guy who talks and writes in fucking metaphors, you can be so damn literal, you know that? This isn't "oh-fuck-I'm-bleeding" pain, sorry to say. I think you'd like me to bleed for you; you could write a song about it or something. With meaningless bullshit lyrics like -- shit, I don't know ...
Crimson splashes of life on your walls
Think of my love as your darkness falls
Heh, not a bad effort, considering I'm bullshitting. Can you imagine it? Shock horror -- Gerard Way writes a song about blood? About death? Ouch, my jaw just hit the floor! Every fucking song you've ever written is about that, in some form, you repetitive little bastard. Sure, they weren't about me, but maybe you could put some variety into your subject matter. It's only a suggestion, you know ... not that I know anything about it. Ha! I wrote one whole album about drugs and motherfucking Utah, and then another album about losing Kate. Okay, so maybe I'm not in any position to judge. I guess your next album's gonna be all about the fucking demon drink, right? I knew it.
See, that's the difference between you and me; I deal in real things, literal things. Life, death, sex, drugs, religion, love. But you -- all your stuff is bullshit, man. Vampires and zombies and serial killers and shit. It's your fucked up imagination, 'cause you've never really had a life, have you? Hiding away down in mommy's basement, pretending the other kids didn't make fun of you, painting pictures, playing stupid-ass Dungeons and fucking Dragons -- which is the biggest piece of crap in the universe, by the way. Oh, and another thing; I didn't get your stupid game, but that doesn't make me stupid, you patronising piece of shit.
Let me tell you something, Gee. You're predictable. Boring. Pretentious. But I can't stop thinking about you.
It's my torture. I sit here, on the sofa in my living room, downing shots of Jack Daniels and watching your lameass music videos. I'm using our shot glasses -- you remember those? Of course you do, you bought the fucking things ... and I leave yours on the table next to the bottle, empty, while I fill mine up again and again and pour the sweet numbness down my throat. But I never find total numbness. I always feel something, and that's why I keep drinking. I know one day I'll get there -- one day I'll get to the point where nothing and no-one matters, not even myself. I'm looking forward to that day.
I play a drinking game while I watch the videos. I play the "Incredible Shrinking Evolving Gerard" game, which always leaves me shitfaced. I usually start with the Vampires video, and laugh my ass off at the stupid faces you pull, and how fucking retarded Matt looks, and how fat Frank was -- I forgot, you know? Then I take a drink for every change I notice in the rest of them. So we get through to I'm Not Okay (the second one), and I drink for your stupid prep-school uniform, I drink for your long hair, I drink for your eye makeup, and I laugh at your dumbass facial expressions again. And don't get me started on your dancing. You remind me of the Riverdance guy ... only without any sort of rhythm.
Then there's Helena -- well, to start with, I laugh at Mikey and the incense, and I laugh at you again when you do the whole exaggerated grief-thing and the pulling down your eyelid-thing. I drink for the weight you've lost, I drink for the way you stare into the camera, I drink twice for the little smug twist in the corner of your mouth at the end, 'cause you know a million and one brainless fangirls are gonna be shrieking and begging for your babies after this.
I'm usually pretty wasted by the time I get to Ghost of You. I drink a few times, but I normally end up fucking pissed off when Mikey dies. Not that I really care that much about Mikey -- it's the way you scream for him that fucks me off. Because I know you'd never scream like that if I died. You'd frown, I think, and then you'd cry, and maybe your lip would tremble a bit, but you wouldn't scream. You'd grieve, but you wouldn't lose it. If I dropped dead tomorrow, you'd get over it, and I fucking hate that. You'd get over it, because I'm the past. I'm ancient history. You'd scream for Mikey because he's your brother, your flesh and blood, he's part of your life. And I stopped being part of your life a long time ago.
You threw me away like the empty liquor bottles in your tour bus, Gerard, and I shouldn't torture myself like this, but I do, because I'm a fucked-up loser and no matter how much you change, how much weight you lose, how many times I bitch you out in public, how "mature" you claim to be, how sober you are, there's a part of me that still fucking loves you.
I've got half a shot glass of Jack left, and it reminds me of the time I asked you about the whole half-empty, half-full thing. You remember that night; it was the first time we -- Fuck, I'm not thinking about that. Anyway, I had half a glass of something, and I asked you whether it was half-empty or half-full.
"It's half-full. Still got booze in it," you said, running your finger along the rim of my glass, then wrapping your lips around it. I think you were trying to flirt with me, you sloppy fucking drunk.
I laughed and shook my head. "Nope, half-empty. Needs filling up."
So I grabbed the bottle to fill my glass, and you stopped me. "Empty it first," you said. "You need to taste the dregs."
I was too drunk to actually explain it, but you wouldn't have understood anyway. My whole fucking life has been dregs, Gerard; my whole worthless motherfucking life. You think you've had it bad, and sure, you haven't had it easy, but no-one does. Everyone goes through shit, and you just deal. Look at me; I'm dealing with the fact that I'm still in love with you, even though you don't wanna know me any more. Sure, I'm not dealing well, but I'm dealing. Surviving. Torturing myself, so you don't have to.
Sometimes I wonder if you torture yourself the way I do. Have you kept your set of shot glasses? Have you forgotten about everything, or just pretended to forget? They say, if you pretend for long enough, it becomes real. But that's bullshit, because I've pretended you've been here with me for the past six months, and it hasn't happened. I've pretended you still love me, and it hasn't become real. I've pretended I could be what you wanted, but I'm full of shit. So I face it, I face the absolute truth of it -- and it hurts like fuck, but that's my torture.
Because life's not perfect, and nothing is less perfect than this pain. You wanted me to taste the dregs, and now I'm fucking drowning in them.
When I want to feel better, I picture you staring at a bottle of vodka. The unattainable -- something you love but cannot touch. Something you physically crave, but can never have. And I picture you wondering how something so beautiful can hurt you so much.
I ask myself the same question every time I look at you.
First person (Bert)
Standalone
R (swearing, themes)
written February 2006
Notes: Bitter, angsty, sarcastic.
I'm a sadistic bastard. I'm sitting here, fucking enjoying the pain I'm going through right now, and I shouldn't be. I fucking shouldn't. I know it's not normal to dwell on this shit, to replay it over and over again until the hurt gets unbearable, but I can't fucking help it. I love it. This is how I deal, Gerard, and it's your fault.
Please don't picture me leaning over the bathroom sink, dragging a goddamn razor blade across my skin -- it's not that kind of pain, dumbass. For an intelligent guy, a guy who talks and writes in fucking metaphors, you can be so damn literal, you know that? This isn't "oh-fuck-I'm-bleeding" pain, sorry to say. I think you'd like me to bleed for you; you could write a song about it or something. With meaningless bullshit lyrics like -- shit, I don't know ...
Crimson splashes of life on your walls
Think of my love as your darkness falls
Heh, not a bad effort, considering I'm bullshitting. Can you imagine it? Shock horror -- Gerard Way writes a song about blood? About death? Ouch, my jaw just hit the floor! Every fucking song you've ever written is about that, in some form, you repetitive little bastard. Sure, they weren't about me, but maybe you could put some variety into your subject matter. It's only a suggestion, you know ... not that I know anything about it. Ha! I wrote one whole album about drugs and motherfucking Utah, and then another album about losing Kate. Okay, so maybe I'm not in any position to judge. I guess your next album's gonna be all about the fucking demon drink, right? I knew it.
See, that's the difference between you and me; I deal in real things, literal things. Life, death, sex, drugs, religion, love. But you -- all your stuff is bullshit, man. Vampires and zombies and serial killers and shit. It's your fucked up imagination, 'cause you've never really had a life, have you? Hiding away down in mommy's basement, pretending the other kids didn't make fun of you, painting pictures, playing stupid-ass Dungeons and fucking Dragons -- which is the biggest piece of crap in the universe, by the way. Oh, and another thing; I didn't get your stupid game, but that doesn't make me stupid, you patronising piece of shit.
Let me tell you something, Gee. You're predictable. Boring. Pretentious. But I can't stop thinking about you.
It's my torture. I sit here, on the sofa in my living room, downing shots of Jack Daniels and watching your lameass music videos. I'm using our shot glasses -- you remember those? Of course you do, you bought the fucking things ... and I leave yours on the table next to the bottle, empty, while I fill mine up again and again and pour the sweet numbness down my throat. But I never find total numbness. I always feel something, and that's why I keep drinking. I know one day I'll get there -- one day I'll get to the point where nothing and no-one matters, not even myself. I'm looking forward to that day.
I play a drinking game while I watch the videos. I play the "Incredible Shrinking Evolving Gerard" game, which always leaves me shitfaced. I usually start with the Vampires video, and laugh my ass off at the stupid faces you pull, and how fucking retarded Matt looks, and how fat Frank was -- I forgot, you know? Then I take a drink for every change I notice in the rest of them. So we get through to I'm Not Okay (the second one), and I drink for your stupid prep-school uniform, I drink for your long hair, I drink for your eye makeup, and I laugh at your dumbass facial expressions again. And don't get me started on your dancing. You remind me of the Riverdance guy ... only without any sort of rhythm.
Then there's Helena -- well, to start with, I laugh at Mikey and the incense, and I laugh at you again when you do the whole exaggerated grief-thing and the pulling down your eyelid-thing. I drink for the weight you've lost, I drink for the way you stare into the camera, I drink twice for the little smug twist in the corner of your mouth at the end, 'cause you know a million and one brainless fangirls are gonna be shrieking and begging for your babies after this.
I'm usually pretty wasted by the time I get to Ghost of You. I drink a few times, but I normally end up fucking pissed off when Mikey dies. Not that I really care that much about Mikey -- it's the way you scream for him that fucks me off. Because I know you'd never scream like that if I died. You'd frown, I think, and then you'd cry, and maybe your lip would tremble a bit, but you wouldn't scream. You'd grieve, but you wouldn't lose it. If I dropped dead tomorrow, you'd get over it, and I fucking hate that. You'd get over it, because I'm the past. I'm ancient history. You'd scream for Mikey because he's your brother, your flesh and blood, he's part of your life. And I stopped being part of your life a long time ago.
You threw me away like the empty liquor bottles in your tour bus, Gerard, and I shouldn't torture myself like this, but I do, because I'm a fucked-up loser and no matter how much you change, how much weight you lose, how many times I bitch you out in public, how "mature" you claim to be, how sober you are, there's a part of me that still fucking loves you.
I've got half a shot glass of Jack left, and it reminds me of the time I asked you about the whole half-empty, half-full thing. You remember that night; it was the first time we -- Fuck, I'm not thinking about that. Anyway, I had half a glass of something, and I asked you whether it was half-empty or half-full.
"It's half-full. Still got booze in it," you said, running your finger along the rim of my glass, then wrapping your lips around it. I think you were trying to flirt with me, you sloppy fucking drunk.
I laughed and shook my head. "Nope, half-empty. Needs filling up."
So I grabbed the bottle to fill my glass, and you stopped me. "Empty it first," you said. "You need to taste the dregs."
I was too drunk to actually explain it, but you wouldn't have understood anyway. My whole fucking life has been dregs, Gerard; my whole worthless motherfucking life. You think you've had it bad, and sure, you haven't had it easy, but no-one does. Everyone goes through shit, and you just deal. Look at me; I'm dealing with the fact that I'm still in love with you, even though you don't wanna know me any more. Sure, I'm not dealing well, but I'm dealing. Surviving. Torturing myself, so you don't have to.
Sometimes I wonder if you torture yourself the way I do. Have you kept your set of shot glasses? Have you forgotten about everything, or just pretended to forget? They say, if you pretend for long enough, it becomes real. But that's bullshit, because I've pretended you've been here with me for the past six months, and it hasn't happened. I've pretended you still love me, and it hasn't become real. I've pretended I could be what you wanted, but I'm full of shit. So I face it, I face the absolute truth of it -- and it hurts like fuck, but that's my torture.
Because life's not perfect, and nothing is less perfect than this pain. You wanted me to taste the dregs, and now I'm fucking drowning in them.
When I want to feel better, I picture you staring at a bottle of vodka. The unattainable -- something you love but cannot touch. Something you physically crave, but can never have. And I picture you wondering how something so beautiful can hurt you so much.
I ask myself the same question every time I look at you.