Status: Completed
Maybe it's just jealousy?
Drown my sorrow
Mike didn’t go to Tre’s. He wandered the streets, his hands balled into fists in his pockets and his head kept low. He ignored all the pedestrians around him and prowled straight towards his regular off licence. Here he purchased two full bottles of whiskey (although he wasn’t twenty one he wasn’t even asked for proof of his identification) and he left the store aiming to stroll down to the beach.
He sat below the peer in the shadows of the walk board. One brown bag was wedged in the sand while the other was grasped in his shaking hand. He couldn’t tell if he was hurt or angry; or which emotion was stronger. All he could see was the image of his best friend sprawled, bleeding and pathetic, in the bath tub and his words were ringing in the bassist’s ears. It was typical of Billie Joe to be so jealous; it was typical of him to make a scene and grasp for Mike’s attention. But never like this. He had never hurt himself to get it and further more he had never neglected to share his feelings with him.
Mike took a swing of the bitter liquid and winced as it hit the back of his throat.
Since when was it so wrong to have another friend? Since when had he belonged to Billie Joe and only Billie Joe? He clenched the neck of the bottle and drank again. He wanted to forget the ache in his chest and only feel the anger.
By the end of the bottle he wanted desperately to hit someone or something. He watched the people roaming the sand from the shade of the walk board and cursed every last one of them. The second bottle was in his hand before he could even think to stop himself and the burn of the whiskey barely registered with him.
***********************************************
Billie Joe was awake again that night. He couldn’t face the emptiness of the bedroom so he lay along the couch with his duvet pulled up to his chin. The TV was the only source of light in the grungy living area and the hum of the fridge was the only sound. The ice cream sat on the coffee table, now completely thawed and forgotten.
He was completely numb now; to emotion, to the pain in his own swollen fists and to the fact that his best friend had walked out the door. Would he ever come back? Billie didn’t know. He had angered the bassist so much and accused him of such stupid things out of his own jealousy.
Yet he was still angry at the man. He was angry that he had ditched him for the drummer, spent days talking to Tre instead of his best friend and even brought him to their home and let him drink their fucking beer. All the while he had ignored the singer.
The telephone rang and jolted the man out of his musings. He jumped to attention and took hold of the receiver; he was hoping, by some miracle, that it was Mike.
“Billie Joe?”
It was Tre. Billie Joe cursed silently and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Yup.” He snapped.
“Dude you needa get down to the hospital now man.” His voice was trembling and in the background Billie Joe could hear the distant sounds of a busy waiting room.
His heart fell.
“W-whats happened?”
“It’s Mike. I’ll explain when you get your ass down here!”
The phone went dead. Billie scrambled for the closet in the corner, climbed into a pair of pants and threw on one of Mike’s flannel shirts. The laces of his converse were quickly tucked into their sides. Even the locking of the apartment door seemed to take too much effort. He did all of this without feeling as much as a pinch from his hands; his panic had overtaken his senses.
The hospital wasn’t far from the apartment and, not having a car, Billie Joe jogged through the pounding rain. He tripped when his converse came lose, his knee cracked off the sidewalk, his elbows stopped him falling further and he narrowly missed breaking his nose. But the shock of the impact on his forearms sent a blinding shutter right through to his hands and up along his biceps. He cried out in pain and gently tried to push himself back to his feet. There he knelt, whimpering, as he properly tied his shoes.
He marched the rest of the way with his hands tucked under each arm.
***********************
Tre sat in the family room with his head buried in his hands. The solitary atmosphere of the room was enough , to make anyone nervous, however they had went to the trouble of decorating it with paintings of beaches and vases of fake flowers as if trying to cover its initial purpose. Distorted voices rang through the corridors, followed by the rushing of feet and the urgent shouts of the nurses. Yet, it all seemed so far away inside that room; even the tick tick tick of the clock was in another world.
The drummer sighed and lent back into the cold leather of the chair. He had no idea what the hell had possessed Mike to do such a thing, to not only drink so much that he need medical attention but also to wind up breaking three of his ribs. How he had broken them still was unknown to both him and the medical staff.
Mike had knocked on his door at four that morning, hunched over and gasping for air. When he was invited inside to sit down, he proceeded to violently vomit into the sink and collapse to the floor. No explanation.
Needless to say, Tre rang for an ambulance as soon as Mike hit the floor and sat with him in the back while the paramedics worked their magic.
Now he was here with no clue if his friend was alive or dead; no one had come near him in almost an hour. He felt helpless and invisible; how could he not have seen this coming?
He sat below the peer in the shadows of the walk board. One brown bag was wedged in the sand while the other was grasped in his shaking hand. He couldn’t tell if he was hurt or angry; or which emotion was stronger. All he could see was the image of his best friend sprawled, bleeding and pathetic, in the bath tub and his words were ringing in the bassist’s ears. It was typical of Billie Joe to be so jealous; it was typical of him to make a scene and grasp for Mike’s attention. But never like this. He had never hurt himself to get it and further more he had never neglected to share his feelings with him.
Mike took a swing of the bitter liquid and winced as it hit the back of his throat.
Since when was it so wrong to have another friend? Since when had he belonged to Billie Joe and only Billie Joe? He clenched the neck of the bottle and drank again. He wanted to forget the ache in his chest and only feel the anger.
By the end of the bottle he wanted desperately to hit someone or something. He watched the people roaming the sand from the shade of the walk board and cursed every last one of them. The second bottle was in his hand before he could even think to stop himself and the burn of the whiskey barely registered with him.
***********************************************
Billie Joe was awake again that night. He couldn’t face the emptiness of the bedroom so he lay along the couch with his duvet pulled up to his chin. The TV was the only source of light in the grungy living area and the hum of the fridge was the only sound. The ice cream sat on the coffee table, now completely thawed and forgotten.
He was completely numb now; to emotion, to the pain in his own swollen fists and to the fact that his best friend had walked out the door. Would he ever come back? Billie didn’t know. He had angered the bassist so much and accused him of such stupid things out of his own jealousy.
Yet he was still angry at the man. He was angry that he had ditched him for the drummer, spent days talking to Tre instead of his best friend and even brought him to their home and let him drink their fucking beer. All the while he had ignored the singer.
The telephone rang and jolted the man out of his musings. He jumped to attention and took hold of the receiver; he was hoping, by some miracle, that it was Mike.
“Billie Joe?”
It was Tre. Billie Joe cursed silently and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Yup.” He snapped.
“Dude you needa get down to the hospital now man.” His voice was trembling and in the background Billie Joe could hear the distant sounds of a busy waiting room.
His heart fell.
“W-whats happened?”
“It’s Mike. I’ll explain when you get your ass down here!”
The phone went dead. Billie scrambled for the closet in the corner, climbed into a pair of pants and threw on one of Mike’s flannel shirts. The laces of his converse were quickly tucked into their sides. Even the locking of the apartment door seemed to take too much effort. He did all of this without feeling as much as a pinch from his hands; his panic had overtaken his senses.
The hospital wasn’t far from the apartment and, not having a car, Billie Joe jogged through the pounding rain. He tripped when his converse came lose, his knee cracked off the sidewalk, his elbows stopped him falling further and he narrowly missed breaking his nose. But the shock of the impact on his forearms sent a blinding shutter right through to his hands and up along his biceps. He cried out in pain and gently tried to push himself back to his feet. There he knelt, whimpering, as he properly tied his shoes.
He marched the rest of the way with his hands tucked under each arm.
***********************
Tre sat in the family room with his head buried in his hands. The solitary atmosphere of the room was enough , to make anyone nervous, however they had went to the trouble of decorating it with paintings of beaches and vases of fake flowers as if trying to cover its initial purpose. Distorted voices rang through the corridors, followed by the rushing of feet and the urgent shouts of the nurses. Yet, it all seemed so far away inside that room; even the tick tick tick of the clock was in another world.
The drummer sighed and lent back into the cold leather of the chair. He had no idea what the hell had possessed Mike to do such a thing, to not only drink so much that he need medical attention but also to wind up breaking three of his ribs. How he had broken them still was unknown to both him and the medical staff.
Mike had knocked on his door at four that morning, hunched over and gasping for air. When he was invited inside to sit down, he proceeded to violently vomit into the sink and collapse to the floor. No explanation.
Needless to say, Tre rang for an ambulance as soon as Mike hit the floor and sat with him in the back while the paramedics worked their magic.
Now he was here with no clue if his friend was alive or dead; no one had come near him in almost an hour. He felt helpless and invisible; how could he not have seen this coming?