Sequel: Requiem of Revenge ›
When Three Becomes Two
Message
Billie’s PoV
Mike and I were incredibly nervous that night. We both slept in my bedroom that night, with Mike laying on the floor covered with blankets. Every creak of wood, every stray note of chatter from the hallway, every minute noise would make us both jump. But the ghost (if that’s what it was) didn’t make another appearance that night. It was the second night that week that we didn’t get any sleep at all.
After the hours that stretched for years, the sun finally rose and Mike woke me up—not that he needed to. We changed and went into the cramped kitchen, where Mike made us coffee. I sat at the table, staring at the wood, thinking about the events of the night before.
Could this really be a ghost? Or a spirit, or whatever they were called? Could this be the ghost of Tre Cool, doomed to wander the earth forever?
When it was put in that context, with the words ‘ghost’ and ‘Tre’ and doomed’ all in one sentence, it sounded stupid. I let out a harsh bark of laughter. Mike looked up at me, concerned, but I resumed my dull expression and shrugged it off.
Should I even be thinking those things? What had happened last night could have been another figment of my imagination, and Mike’s, too. It could happen.
Mike wandered over to where I was sitting, with two steaming mugs of coffee in his hands. He handed one to me and sat down.
“Billie…” Mike began. “If Tre is still—still here, right now…why do you think he is? I mean, aren’t ghosts supposed to be here to settle their affairs or get revenge or whatever?”
“Yeah, but I can’t think of anything that Tre had a score to settle with. He didn't leave things hanging if he could help it. No, there's another reason, if any. We should probably stay here until we have to leave for the funeral. Maybe by then we’ll have figured things out.”
Around noon, Mike left the hotel room to go buy groceries—we stayed in the hotel too much with nothing to do, so we ate and drank a lot more than usual. We were more than happy to temporarily drain our worries in the bottom of a beer can.
I sat on the sofa in the living room, staring absentmindedly at the TV, when I realized something I hadn’t done in ages. What better way to sort out the emotions I felt that playing my guitar and singing the songs I had created and loved? Especially since I probably would never play those songs again at a concert, never feel the fan’s exhilaration as they screamed the lyrics back at me, never hear the roar of sound that my friends and I created together…
I grimly pushed the thoughts to the back of my head and pulled my guitar case from my bedroom and into the living room. Losing myself in a stream of lyrics and beats was more than welcome.
As I had done hundreds of times before, I undid the lock holding the case closed—the case Mike had threatened to break into nearly a lifetime ago…
But something was different this time. As I pulled the guitar out, a note fell and fluttered to the floor. I picked it up, and as I read it, the guitar crashed to the floor. But I didn’t care. I couldn’t believe what I was reading.
To Billie and Mike—
I know you won’t get this letter for a while, and for all I know it may be too late when you do. I wrote this letter just as I left for the store, knowing full well I would never reach it.
I did not commit suicide. Nor was my death an accident. The man that murdered me had communicated with me several weeks before you read these words. He’s been stalking us, as Green Day, for years. He told me that I had to make a choice. Either I would come out and let him kill me, or I would have to stand by and watch him kill the two of you. Naturally, you know the choice I made.
I’m afraid that my death may not be enough for this guy—he may come and try and take your lives despite what he told me. But I have to try.
I’m sorry you have to go through this, but I cannot stand there and watch the two of you die—after all, you’re my surrogate brothers, closer to me than any real family. If there is a God, I thank him a hundred times every day for bringing you to me. You are both more important to me than you know. Don’t forget that I will always be around somewhere near you—I promise you that I won’t let death take me far. I'm not going to go to the pearly gates of heaven or the firey pits of deepest hell until I see you safe, safe in the way I could not be, and I swear I will do my damndest to keep the both of you from sharing my fate, even though it cost me my life.
Tre
Mike and I were incredibly nervous that night. We both slept in my bedroom that night, with Mike laying on the floor covered with blankets. Every creak of wood, every stray note of chatter from the hallway, every minute noise would make us both jump. But the ghost (if that’s what it was) didn’t make another appearance that night. It was the second night that week that we didn’t get any sleep at all.
After the hours that stretched for years, the sun finally rose and Mike woke me up—not that he needed to. We changed and went into the cramped kitchen, where Mike made us coffee. I sat at the table, staring at the wood, thinking about the events of the night before.
Could this really be a ghost? Or a spirit, or whatever they were called? Could this be the ghost of Tre Cool, doomed to wander the earth forever?
When it was put in that context, with the words ‘ghost’ and ‘Tre’ and doomed’ all in one sentence, it sounded stupid. I let out a harsh bark of laughter. Mike looked up at me, concerned, but I resumed my dull expression and shrugged it off.
Should I even be thinking those things? What had happened last night could have been another figment of my imagination, and Mike’s, too. It could happen.
Mike wandered over to where I was sitting, with two steaming mugs of coffee in his hands. He handed one to me and sat down.
“Billie…” Mike began. “If Tre is still—still here, right now…why do you think he is? I mean, aren’t ghosts supposed to be here to settle their affairs or get revenge or whatever?”
“Yeah, but I can’t think of anything that Tre had a score to settle with. He didn't leave things hanging if he could help it. No, there's another reason, if any. We should probably stay here until we have to leave for the funeral. Maybe by then we’ll have figured things out.”
Around noon, Mike left the hotel room to go buy groceries—we stayed in the hotel too much with nothing to do, so we ate and drank a lot more than usual. We were more than happy to temporarily drain our worries in the bottom of a beer can.
I sat on the sofa in the living room, staring absentmindedly at the TV, when I realized something I hadn’t done in ages. What better way to sort out the emotions I felt that playing my guitar and singing the songs I had created and loved? Especially since I probably would never play those songs again at a concert, never feel the fan’s exhilaration as they screamed the lyrics back at me, never hear the roar of sound that my friends and I created together…
I grimly pushed the thoughts to the back of my head and pulled my guitar case from my bedroom and into the living room. Losing myself in a stream of lyrics and beats was more than welcome.
As I had done hundreds of times before, I undid the lock holding the case closed—the case Mike had threatened to break into nearly a lifetime ago…
But something was different this time. As I pulled the guitar out, a note fell and fluttered to the floor. I picked it up, and as I read it, the guitar crashed to the floor. But I didn’t care. I couldn’t believe what I was reading.
To Billie and Mike—
I know you won’t get this letter for a while, and for all I know it may be too late when you do. I wrote this letter just as I left for the store, knowing full well I would never reach it.
I did not commit suicide. Nor was my death an accident. The man that murdered me had communicated with me several weeks before you read these words. He’s been stalking us, as Green Day, for years. He told me that I had to make a choice. Either I would come out and let him kill me, or I would have to stand by and watch him kill the two of you. Naturally, you know the choice I made.
I’m afraid that my death may not be enough for this guy—he may come and try and take your lives despite what he told me. But I have to try.
I’m sorry you have to go through this, but I cannot stand there and watch the two of you die—after all, you’re my surrogate brothers, closer to me than any real family. If there is a God, I thank him a hundred times every day for bringing you to me. You are both more important to me than you know. Don’t forget that I will always be around somewhere near you—I promise you that I won’t let death take me far. I'm not going to go to the pearly gates of heaven or the firey pits of deepest hell until I see you safe, safe in the way I could not be, and I swear I will do my damndest to keep the both of you from sharing my fate, even though it cost me my life.
Tre