7 Deadly Sins

The days I would wake up at midday were long gone. My alarm clock never ceased to remind me that I had to be yet again the maid of famous Fall out Boy. It was okay when they weren’t so full of themselves, but it was almost unbearable now, being compelled to watch their own masquerade and lifeless self-aggrandisement when somebody was in the same room. And there was always somebody.

I had my breakfast slowly, as if this procrastination would save me from a day bursting with hypocrisy. No such luck. It looked like each cheerio screamed that I was late, and I ended up eating a sole innocent apple.

I put on my designer clothes, because oh well, Fall out Boy spectators want to lay their eyes on extravagance. The ride to their residence consisted of the sound of Patrick’s unshaped voice filling every corner of the car, and I couldn’t help but think that the band’s old songs were only played in my car, and everybody had forgotten young Fall out Boy and the songs which actually made sense.

**

“You’re late again,” Pete snapped before I even stepped in the dressing room.

“Really?” was all I said, and he stared at me for about a second, before he looked back at his reflection in the mirror, as the hairdresser sprayed a vast amount of hairspray on his coal black hair. Pete cared too much about his appearance. He didn’t want a flying hair, a button missing or blemish showing. He was a freak for perfection, when a couple of years ago he ran around the streets with a t-shirt that revealed his belly, extremely short hair and low-waist jeans. But that was just the cherry on top of the cake.

The thing was, that all of his fans’ accusations, about his so-called change, were true. The alien exercise of doing things which did not suit him had forced him to change, moving him further and further outside familiar habits which now, however, he would find himself asking for whom or what he did them. His points of reference had grown dim and his signposts muddied.

“We don’t even need her coming so early, Pete,” Patrick justified, but the correct sentence would have been: “We don’t even need her, Pete.” A truth that pierced my heart every time it was resuscitated, making me want to run away from everyone and everything. And I would, until the relief of escape from reality drained me, and I would vainly wait for some sense of selfhood to return.

“If we come early she has to come too,” he said, trying to sound humorous, but I knew he meant it. Because he considered me their property, and I probably was too.

“I’m not part of the band,” I blurted, and it didn’t sound the way I intended. They all turned their heads to look at me, but said nothing. They would have, if we were alone, surely something about our many years of friendship, but it was all empty words now. Shallow like the shoreline during low tide.

But they would insist that we were friends. And as their friend, it was my duty to act like a friend, and be there for them like they always were for me.

Oh, the fine craft of making me feel guilty. They were such experts. In the name of friendship they could totally manipulate ne, play with my feelings as if they were poker cards, shuffling them, dealing them, stacking them. And they would always cheat, they would always be unfair and ignore my protests that became less and less as I realised that this is who they are now.

All I wanted was to let this all out; I didn’t care if there were other people in the room, I didn’t care about their stupid façade. I just needed to free myself from this anger and indignation. Sensations and ideas about doing so would constantly arrive but then get lost, circulating around the junctions of my mind, unable to find a connection. And I would give up.

Just like they had given up long ago.

In their heart of hearts, they knew how much I hated them for that; they had turned me claustrophobic and introverted. I sometimes could feel their own resignation, their own self-loathing because they had become puppets of the whole fabricated industry, despite their efforts for originality.

But authenticity is more than intricate quotes and lyrics. They used to be authentic when they laughed about everything impulsive and funny, when they jotted down scattered words that came to mind and formed new songs, axioms and gods, when they didn’t think that smiling means vulnerability and ordinariness.

When they were FALL OUT BOY in plain bold letters and not Fall out Boy in fancy fonts.

And as I swam in my own deep sea of thoughts, they were all dressy for another interview, another silted exchange of transparent words and feign laughter.

And I knew I was drowning.
But they knew they were wrong.