Disclaimer: This story is in no way true or associated with MCR. I don't know, own, or anything.

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It was barely noticeable, but the heavy ink she had used to write each letter had stained his fingers from holding the paper so tightly. After all, it was all he had left of that dream he had in that past live he used to lead.

The life that was spent speeding between nearby cities and all five boroughs. The life he had before he was required to jet set between NYC and LA and a million other acronym cities.

Gerard understood that his time was hopelessly divided between the road and the music and whatever he had left he used to sleep and drink and stay sane. After everything was said and done, there existed only love letters between cities, getting lost in the mail, and ending up in his hands weeks after the fact.

She was pregnant three weeks ago and told him that she needed guidance and help and she was scared.

By the time he received the letter and by the time he found more than three minutes to talk to her, she had already "taken care of the situation" and sent him another letter letting him know it was over between them.

Part of him was angry since she never called and relied on the unreliable mail to transfer that most important of messages. Part of him was tragically torn and hurt that he had lost something so great.

But mostly he was just numb and apathetic.

Nightly he snuck behind the dingy and stingy clubs to find some vice that would make that numb go away, because, that feeling was the worst of them all.

On the East coast he smoked crack with his body pressed against the brick walls of the buildings and his jacket zipped up tight to protect his skin from the wind.

In the Pacific Northwest a friend snuck him heroine, a substance he despised, but still used, so that he could feel more and less all at once. Some friend.

In the South girls lined up for him, he'd take them all and have his way, but really they were the only ones happy in the end. One more rock cock for their lovely collection.

Up North were it was cold and drugs were few and far between, he'd take his trusty razor blade and make beautiful red designs in his white skin.

After awhile his body became a road map of drugs and women and blood.

And pain.

He could forget about her easily with the drugs and women and blood, but her memory would come back with a vengeance in the morning when his head felt like an atom bomb, ready and triggered to go.

Even the campestral scenes out the window began to bore him to no end and he fell into a black hole of road signs and hotels and all his lovely vices.

Soon it wasn't long before he fell out of love with her and with himself and with life. And he was another lost soul to the sound of tires against pavement and his eyes no longer were amazed by any beauty.

He was no longer living, his body just seemed to float through sets and his eyes needed no adjustment when the spotlight faded seamlessly to the houselights. He was a zombie as the bus sped between acronym cities and he walked the dashed yellow line between life and death.

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