Status: ACTIVE (Updates come every Saturday)
Can I Hold Your Heart?
Hello
Well, this just sucks.
It’s the first day of summer. Sadly, for me, I have no summer. Why? Because Alena Harper has decided to put me on a babysitting job for some 19 year-old who practically doesn’t care if she dies all because she wants to save her voice. I mean, to do stupid things for the fun of it is one thing. I, for one, is a master of that. But for such a trivial thing as to die just because you don’t want to have your vocal chords removed is just completely pathetic. Doesn’t she have a brain? I mean, geezus. Even if she does get to keep her voice, she dies in the end. So what’s the point? She won’t be able to do anything with it anyway. It’s a double loss.
Some people. Sigh.
Alena keeps on bugging me every five minutes on my cellphone to check-up on me and my invisible signs of progress. I’m not a baby. I know what to do. (Unlike her deranged cousin, har har.) However, clearly, this is not my thing. A one shot deal. I never promised to create a miracle for any of them, not even for myself. I just said that I’d do what I can. I’m no man of power. Just an ordinary dude who sings for an awesome band. Outside the stage, there are no girls screaming out my name. I am not even that famous. Even if I were to go streaking right at this very moment, nobody would have guessed that I am a frontman of P!ATD. They’d just think I’m some idiot with no future.
I park my car in front of this beautiful mansion. #15 Timberland Ave. So this is the place. I try to brush off the wrinkles and Oreo crumbs from my clothes. Everyone knows how important first impressions are. Awesome shirt. Check. Cargo shorts. Check. Killer shoes. Checkaroonie. Everything seems to be in place. I pat my hair down to make it look like I just combed. Check the back of my Blackberry. Perfect. I ring the doorbell with much conviction and prepare for the worst.
“Hello? Anyone home?” I play with my feet for awhile and start moving their WELCOME HOME mat to places. Time to dirty it up. Move it here. Move it there. Spit on it. “Yellow?” Still no answer.
I hear the door knob twitch. Gasp.
“Oh, hi,” I mumbled. Dun. Dun. Dun. “Umm,” Get something outta your brain, Brendon, I mean self! “Is this where Georgina lives?”
“Hello,” “Mr. Urie, I presume? Ms. Harper has told me of your arrival. I’m Schneider, the household butler of the Campbell family.” Yeah, yeah, yeah. She told me to go there. Control freaks. He moves to the side and opens the door wider for me to go inside.
“Uhhh, yeah.” I step inside. “Where’s Georgina?”
“Hello?” I call out loud by accident. My voice echoes from everywhere in the room. That’s how empty this place is. The huge white walls are so overwhelming. I feel almost sad by just being here. I mean, the only thing in this huge room is a sofa, a TV and well, a vase with a plant that’s struggling to be alive. What a creepy place. I can’t even insert humor in anything. “Ms. Georgina?” I look around and see her by the gazebo. At first, I thought she looked like a mannequin. So pale. So stick thin. Almost unproportional. I get scared, and begin to feel sorry for her.
“Who are you?” She looks at me in a way that I feel she can almost see under my clothes. Her voice sounds very icy. And she looks completely cold despite the fact that it’s summer and incredibly hot.
“I’m Brendon Urie,” I introduce myself with as much composure as I can get. I’m near stuttering, but I stop myself. “I’m going to help you.” I say directly. I feel so, I don’t know, sad for her. That if I only knew her, I could give her a hug right at this very moment. The deep and dark creases below her eyes are saddening.
“How?” she slightly chuckles but looks away at their garden. Their garden is filled with a variety of flowers. It’s in deep contrast from what’s inside the house. There’s a newly painted swing at the center and grass almost everywhere. “You’re not a doctor.” Georgina looks back at me. Oh God, I just noticed that my mouth was open. Lose the cool points.
“I know,” I say. “But, you see, I’m a singer of sorts. I’m just going to help you...” I trail off a bit. Well, more like a couple of minutes or so, but that doesn’t really matter. Right? “Well, to cope and stuff.”
“I don’t feel well.” she covers herself with this colorful thick indian cloth. She’s wearing her pajamas... at 1:30 in the afternoon. Her hair is straight from the top and messy at the bottom, almost as if it was styled.
“I’ll wait until you’re okay.” I firmly decide. For some reason, it’s the only thing that sounds right at this very moment. If there’s anything I encourage, it’s life. It’s so precious. I can’t even begin to say it, well, pretty much because it’s going to be cheesy. Being dead would just be sad. I see her. This girl with throat cancer, and I feel the need to hold my neck just to make sure it’s okay. That it’s still there. To remind myself that I’m not the sick one. It’s her.
“I don’t want you to wait.” she replies almost immediately without even thinking, her voice sounding a bit scratchy at the end. In my head, I understand that she must have rehearsed this again and again. Maybe, I wasn’t so special after all. There must have been more people who tried to help her, but just like me eventually, all have failed. Miserably.
“Why?” her eyes pierce back at me once I finish. Long eyelashes and almond eyes. I want to touch them. I remind myself of marbles.
“I don’t need you.”
“Trust me.” I say. “Okay?”
She didn’t say anything. But I knew from the look of her eyes that she even though it’s a trial, she thought she was going to be okay.
It’s the first day of summer. Sadly, for me, I have no summer. Why? Because Alena Harper has decided to put me on a babysitting job for some 19 year-old who practically doesn’t care if she dies all because she wants to save her voice. I mean, to do stupid things for the fun of it is one thing. I, for one, is a master of that. But for such a trivial thing as to die just because you don’t want to have your vocal chords removed is just completely pathetic. Doesn’t she have a brain? I mean, geezus. Even if she does get to keep her voice, she dies in the end. So what’s the point? She won’t be able to do anything with it anyway. It’s a double loss.
Some people. Sigh.
Alena keeps on bugging me every five minutes on my cellphone to check-up on me and my invisible signs of progress. I’m not a baby. I know what to do. (Unlike her deranged cousin, har har.) However, clearly, this is not my thing. A one shot deal. I never promised to create a miracle for any of them, not even for myself. I just said that I’d do what I can. I’m no man of power. Just an ordinary dude who sings for an awesome band. Outside the stage, there are no girls screaming out my name. I am not even that famous. Even if I were to go streaking right at this very moment, nobody would have guessed that I am a frontman of P!ATD. They’d just think I’m some idiot with no future.
I park my car in front of this beautiful mansion. #15 Timberland Ave. So this is the place. I try to brush off the wrinkles and Oreo crumbs from my clothes. Everyone knows how important first impressions are. Awesome shirt. Check. Cargo shorts. Check. Killer shoes. Checkaroonie. Everything seems to be in place. I pat my hair down to make it look like I just combed. Check the back of my Blackberry. Perfect. I ring the doorbell with much conviction and prepare for the worst.
“Hello? Anyone home?” I play with my feet for awhile and start moving their WELCOME HOME mat to places. Time to dirty it up. Move it here. Move it there. Spit on it. “Yellow?” Still no answer.
I hear the door knob twitch. Gasp.
“Oh, hi,” I mumbled. Dun. Dun. Dun. “Umm,” Get something outta your brain, Brendon, I mean self! “Is this where Georgina lives?”
“Hello,” “Mr. Urie, I presume? Ms. Harper has told me of your arrival. I’m Schneider, the household butler of the Campbell family.” Yeah, yeah, yeah. She told me to go there. Control freaks. He moves to the side and opens the door wider for me to go inside.
“Uhhh, yeah.” I step inside. “Where’s Georgina?”
“Hello?” I call out loud by accident. My voice echoes from everywhere in the room. That’s how empty this place is. The huge white walls are so overwhelming. I feel almost sad by just being here. I mean, the only thing in this huge room is a sofa, a TV and well, a vase with a plant that’s struggling to be alive. What a creepy place. I can’t even insert humor in anything. “Ms. Georgina?” I look around and see her by the gazebo. At first, I thought she looked like a mannequin. So pale. So stick thin. Almost unproportional. I get scared, and begin to feel sorry for her.
“Who are you?” She looks at me in a way that I feel she can almost see under my clothes. Her voice sounds very icy. And she looks completely cold despite the fact that it’s summer and incredibly hot.
“I’m Brendon Urie,” I introduce myself with as much composure as I can get. I’m near stuttering, but I stop myself. “I’m going to help you.” I say directly. I feel so, I don’t know, sad for her. That if I only knew her, I could give her a hug right at this very moment. The deep and dark creases below her eyes are saddening.
“How?” she slightly chuckles but looks away at their garden. Their garden is filled with a variety of flowers. It’s in deep contrast from what’s inside the house. There’s a newly painted swing at the center and grass almost everywhere. “You’re not a doctor.” Georgina looks back at me. Oh God, I just noticed that my mouth was open. Lose the cool points.
“I know,” I say. “But, you see, I’m a singer of sorts. I’m just going to help you...” I trail off a bit. Well, more like a couple of minutes or so, but that doesn’t really matter. Right? “Well, to cope and stuff.”
“I don’t feel well.” she covers herself with this colorful thick indian cloth. She’s wearing her pajamas... at 1:30 in the afternoon. Her hair is straight from the top and messy at the bottom, almost as if it was styled.
“I’ll wait until you’re okay.” I firmly decide. For some reason, it’s the only thing that sounds right at this very moment. If there’s anything I encourage, it’s life. It’s so precious. I can’t even begin to say it, well, pretty much because it’s going to be cheesy. Being dead would just be sad. I see her. This girl with throat cancer, and I feel the need to hold my neck just to make sure it’s okay. That it’s still there. To remind myself that I’m not the sick one. It’s her.
“I don’t want you to wait.” she replies almost immediately without even thinking, her voice sounding a bit scratchy at the end. In my head, I understand that she must have rehearsed this again and again. Maybe, I wasn’t so special after all. There must have been more people who tried to help her, but just like me eventually, all have failed. Miserably.
“Why?” her eyes pierce back at me once I finish. Long eyelashes and almond eyes. I want to touch them. I remind myself of marbles.
“I don’t need you.”
“Trust me.” I say. “Okay?”
She didn’t say anything. But I knew from the look of her eyes that she even though it’s a trial, she thought she was going to be okay.
♠ ♠ ♠
:)