Stop. Rewind.
o1.
I did truly believe that one day everything would be okay. Completely okay with no fine print and offers to complete for your free laptop. Everything would be okay and we’d live happily ever after like in some fucking Disney movie. There would never be a reason to cry again and we’d always smile. We’d be happy, like we were always supposed to be.
But life isn’t a Disney movie and I was a fucking idiot to believe it could ever end like one.
* * *
Instead there’s this little short in your brain where reason meets logic and you’re only thinking with your dick or the irrational part of your brain. Suddenly you’re standing in his house and it’s dark and there’s half a scream before—
BANG!
You’re sitting in the closet, rocking back and forth. You sucked the blood off your fingers and now it’s dried on your teeth. You’re talking to faces that aren’t there and there’s cool metal on your wrists. You get locked up and you somehow manage to suck the life out of yourself when no one is looking. Two dead bodies, both by your hands.
Stop. Rewind.
How did we get here again?
* * *
“You’re the one who said you didn’t want an exclusive relationship.” Brendon’s chewing at one of his fingernails and it makes some sort of disgusting sound and I look at the carpet. “So don’t get all mad at me now. Your call, not mine.”
It’s probably my fault anyway. I mean, I did tell him that. And then I went and fucked Alex and decided to start a different band and go all over the fucking country and sleep with as many guys as I could get my hands on. But he’d never done anything before when I’d been an ass like that. He just sat at home and waited for me to come back.
“If you want to start over, that’s fine.” His hand finally drops and he shrugs. “I’m gonna smoke. You want?”
Like it’s any other fucking day, any guy, any conversation. Like I’m not here and we aren’t discussing us and he didn’t go off and fuck some really pretty girl that happens to be a total bitch, just like me. I might as well be Shane telling him I just saw a really stupid movie.
“Yeah, sure.” We go into his room and pass his pipe back and forth. He kisses my neck and jerks me off. Then I leave and go back to my incredibly empty apartment.
* * *
Crazy boy, crazy boy, just a fucking crazy boy. Doesn’t love you. Talkin’ to yourself again. Talkin’ to yourself. Crazy, crazy, crazy. Little voice. Fucking voice in your empty head. Go spin circles now. Fucking dare you. Trip over your words, eat them like bugs. Like you’re a fucking animal eating bugs. Turn your teeth black. Crazy crazy crazy boy. Just a crazy boy.
And you run at the wall, start screaming, clawing, punching, ripping. Wallpaper comes down. Go to the bathroom, hit the mirror, shatter. Some blood on your hand. And you take a piece of glass and put it to your throat, press. You can feel just where your pulse is, just below the glass.
Stupid fucking crazy boy.
You wake up in the bathtub, crying, dried blood on your hands and cheek.
* * *
He’s got a hickey and his eyes are red from smoking. He takes my hand and presses a kiss to the palm, pulls me inside. “We gotta work this shit out, Ry.”
He pushes me against the wall and starts kissing my neck again, trying to unbutton my jeans. It’s too much. I’m spinning. I want to talk and he’s not letting me. He wants to talk, but he won’t let me. Why won’t he let me talk? Doesn’t he care what I have to say? Or is it all empty? My words used to be empty like that. I never cared what he said.
I never thought it hurt him so much.
Every thrust feels like a punch to the gut, but somehow I manage to come anyway. He lets me lean my head on his shoulder afterward and I feel his fingers in my hair, just for a minute. “Don’t come back over unless you’ve got something to offer, okay?” he whispers. “We can’t keep doing this. It’s too fucked up, Ry.”
And he walks off and I have to get dressed while I’m trying not to cry and go back out to my car. And I just stare at the wheel until I see dots in front of my eyes. When I put the key in the ignition they go away.
* * *
Wearing him like a fucking accessory. Like those stupid fucking gloves you used to wear. God, you looked like a fucking dancer from the Moulin Rouge. He won’t let you talk? Oh, fucking grow up. You never let anyone talk over you before. Hell, you never let anyone talk. You’re like a goddamn wind-up doll. Blah blah blah blah blah.
You look different than you used to, back when you were madly in love, back when he used to listen, when he didn’t get so indifferent when you fucked up. He accepted the fact that you could be a complete asshole because you were his.
Now you’re just . . .
That’s it. You’re just.
Just here. Existing. Barely.
* * *
“I told you.” Brendon says. And then he sighs, goes over to his dresser and opens the drawer, comes back with a business card. He hands it to me. “I think you should go see this doctor. You’re obviously fucked up. You have been for a long time, probably. And when you get that figured out then . . . you know, I’m sure this is all going to be a lot easier. For both of us. Because I can’t keep fucking doing this, Ryan. So figure it out. And then we’ll figure this out, okay?”
And he kisses my cheek and practically shoves me out the door.
* * *
Rip rip rip.
The number’s written everywhere. Across your mirror in marker and on the windows. On every page of the spiral notebook that was sitting on the table. The floor in the kitchen. And the stupid business card is ripped up and then you throw a match at it, laugh. It’s a loud laugh, maniacal, crazy.
He thinks you’re crazy. Crazy, crazy, crazy. He wants you to go see a doctor. Just like before. Shove you so full of pills that you can barely walk and you feel like a lead weight. Remember, Ryan? Remember? He won’t take you back unless, unless, unless. And probably not even then. Just wanted to get rid of you. Sick of you. Sick of your fucking face.
And you scream, pull at your hair, hit your fists against the wall until you’re sure the house is going to crumble down on the foundation.
This is how we got here.
Stop. Fast forward.
But life isn’t a Disney movie and I was a fucking idiot to believe it could ever end like one.
* * *
Instead there’s this little short in your brain where reason meets logic and you’re only thinking with your dick or the irrational part of your brain. Suddenly you’re standing in his house and it’s dark and there’s half a scream before—
BANG!
You’re sitting in the closet, rocking back and forth. You sucked the blood off your fingers and now it’s dried on your teeth. You’re talking to faces that aren’t there and there’s cool metal on your wrists. You get locked up and you somehow manage to suck the life out of yourself when no one is looking. Two dead bodies, both by your hands.
Stop. Rewind.
How did we get here again?
* * *
“You’re the one who said you didn’t want an exclusive relationship.” Brendon’s chewing at one of his fingernails and it makes some sort of disgusting sound and I look at the carpet. “So don’t get all mad at me now. Your call, not mine.”
It’s probably my fault anyway. I mean, I did tell him that. And then I went and fucked Alex and decided to start a different band and go all over the fucking country and sleep with as many guys as I could get my hands on. But he’d never done anything before when I’d been an ass like that. He just sat at home and waited for me to come back.
“If you want to start over, that’s fine.” His hand finally drops and he shrugs. “I’m gonna smoke. You want?”
Like it’s any other fucking day, any guy, any conversation. Like I’m not here and we aren’t discussing us and he didn’t go off and fuck some really pretty girl that happens to be a total bitch, just like me. I might as well be Shane telling him I just saw a really stupid movie.
“Yeah, sure.” We go into his room and pass his pipe back and forth. He kisses my neck and jerks me off. Then I leave and go back to my incredibly empty apartment.
* * *
Crazy boy, crazy boy, just a fucking crazy boy. Doesn’t love you. Talkin’ to yourself again. Talkin’ to yourself. Crazy, crazy, crazy. Little voice. Fucking voice in your empty head. Go spin circles now. Fucking dare you. Trip over your words, eat them like bugs. Like you’re a fucking animal eating bugs. Turn your teeth black. Crazy crazy crazy boy. Just a crazy boy.
And you run at the wall, start screaming, clawing, punching, ripping. Wallpaper comes down. Go to the bathroom, hit the mirror, shatter. Some blood on your hand. And you take a piece of glass and put it to your throat, press. You can feel just where your pulse is, just below the glass.
Stupid fucking crazy boy.
You wake up in the bathtub, crying, dried blood on your hands and cheek.
* * *
He’s got a hickey and his eyes are red from smoking. He takes my hand and presses a kiss to the palm, pulls me inside. “We gotta work this shit out, Ry.”
He pushes me against the wall and starts kissing my neck again, trying to unbutton my jeans. It’s too much. I’m spinning. I want to talk and he’s not letting me. He wants to talk, but he won’t let me. Why won’t he let me talk? Doesn’t he care what I have to say? Or is it all empty? My words used to be empty like that. I never cared what he said.
I never thought it hurt him so much.
Every thrust feels like a punch to the gut, but somehow I manage to come anyway. He lets me lean my head on his shoulder afterward and I feel his fingers in my hair, just for a minute. “Don’t come back over unless you’ve got something to offer, okay?” he whispers. “We can’t keep doing this. It’s too fucked up, Ry.”
And he walks off and I have to get dressed while I’m trying not to cry and go back out to my car. And I just stare at the wheel until I see dots in front of my eyes. When I put the key in the ignition they go away.
* * *
Wearing him like a fucking accessory. Like those stupid fucking gloves you used to wear. God, you looked like a fucking dancer from the Moulin Rouge. He won’t let you talk? Oh, fucking grow up. You never let anyone talk over you before. Hell, you never let anyone talk. You’re like a goddamn wind-up doll. Blah blah blah blah blah.
You look different than you used to, back when you were madly in love, back when he used to listen, when he didn’t get so indifferent when you fucked up. He accepted the fact that you could be a complete asshole because you were his.
Now you’re just . . .
That’s it. You’re just.
Just here. Existing. Barely.
* * *
“I told you.” Brendon says. And then he sighs, goes over to his dresser and opens the drawer, comes back with a business card. He hands it to me. “I think you should go see this doctor. You’re obviously fucked up. You have been for a long time, probably. And when you get that figured out then . . . you know, I’m sure this is all going to be a lot easier. For both of us. Because I can’t keep fucking doing this, Ryan. So figure it out. And then we’ll figure this out, okay?”
And he kisses my cheek and practically shoves me out the door.
* * *
Rip rip rip.
The number’s written everywhere. Across your mirror in marker and on the windows. On every page of the spiral notebook that was sitting on the table. The floor in the kitchen. And the stupid business card is ripped up and then you throw a match at it, laugh. It’s a loud laugh, maniacal, crazy.
He thinks you’re crazy. Crazy, crazy, crazy. He wants you to go see a doctor. Just like before. Shove you so full of pills that you can barely walk and you feel like a lead weight. Remember, Ryan? Remember? He won’t take you back unless, unless, unless. And probably not even then. Just wanted to get rid of you. Sick of you. Sick of your fucking face.
And you scream, pull at your hair, hit your fists against the wall until you’re sure the house is going to crumble down on the foundation.
This is how we got here.
Stop. Fast forward.