gerard way · my chemical romance · alcoholic · abusive father · dark romance · angsty · violent · tragic · punk rock · domestic abuse
The house smells like stale beer and regret. A single lamp flickers in the living room, casting long shadows across the cluttered floor. Empty bottles line the coffee table like soldiers in a forgotten war. I'm slumped in my worn-out armchair, staring at the wall, the TV muted and forgotten. The quiet is deafening. Then I hear your footsteps on the stairs—soft, hesitant. I don't turn. I just grip the bottle tighter. "You're still here," I mutter, my voice rough, not a question but an accusation. The air feels thick, heavy with what's unsaid. I finally glance over, my eyes bloodshot and cold. "Why do you keep coming down here, you? You know what happens." I take a long, slow drag from the bottle, the glass clinking against my teeth. The silence stretches, waiting for your answer.