The Letter

He stood there, behind the table, his hands sore from the autographs. He was tired; they all were. He just needed sleep, a break, time to gather his thoughts. They had been so busy the past couple days that he couldn’t even form a sentence anymore. He missed his wife, his little girl. He wanted his family, his house, his own bed.

He heard his brother sigh beside him as the end of the line came in sight. Forced smiles were passed through the line, and he felt guilty for not putting his whole remaining energy into meeting the fans. He always loved talking to the kids, but tonight he just needed to be alone.

He looked up from the four hundredth poster shoved under his nose, watching the happy girl run and rejoin her friends, and they erupted into chatter. He hugged someone, posed for three more pictures, then closed his eyes. He leaned against the wall, preparing for the home stretch.

When he opened his eyes, he blinked a few times, making sure the last person standing in front of him existed. She was pretty; young, but she carried a particular graceful maturity. She was probably around eighteen, if he had to guess. What struck him was that her hair matched his identically. Longer, certainly, but the shade was as florescent as he battled his to be. She looked shyly up from behind her long lashes, her blue eyes piercing his own with a breathtaking intensity.

“I, uhm...” She stuck out her hand, clearly unable to say anything. She avoided eye contact with any of them, and he looked down, seeing a white envelope residing against her fingertips. The word ‘Gerard’ was scrawled across the top, and he looked up at her again before reaching out his own hand to take it. “Thank you,” she murmured, then she looked up at Ray quickly. “Can I...hug you?” she asked him apprehensively, and Ray looked taken aback but pleased as he embraced her briefly. She said nothing, simply sent the four men a nervous smile before turning and walking quickly out of the door, leaving them, finally, to themselves.

“That was...weird,” Frank said, an amused smile playing at his lips. He punched Ray’s arm. “She liked you, huh, Toro?” They laughed to themselves.

“At least she didn’t cry,” Mikey said, stretching his arms above his head. He looked curiously at the letter in his brother’s hand. Gerard was glancing at it himself, looking over the sharp edges of the neatly folded crease. He mentally traced his name on the front over and over again. He was trying to remember the last time he had been actually handed a letter. He had gotten art, signs, cds, and posters of his face shoved at him. But never had he been given something like this. The other three guys chatted aimlessly as he wandered away, turning the thin paper over in his hands. Once he was far enough for his subconscious, he poked his finger into the corner, pulling it across and releasing the flap. He pulled out a neat trifold, shaking it open gently to see similar spidery writing fanning across the lines. It wasn’t neat, but it was perfect in its own way. His eyes found the first line with no trouble.

Dear Gerard,

Friday, November fifth, two thousand and ten.

There is officially one month until I see you in concert, and my roommate is starting to get on my nerves. I suppose technically she’s my suitemate, but I digress. She’s coming to your show with me. I don’t even think she’s a real My Chem fan, but she knows ‘Na Na Na (Na Na Na Na what the fuck ever)’ like it’s her job. But she doesn’t know ‘Helena’.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but that doesn’t seem entirely genuine to me.

He found a small smile brewing on his lips, and he read on, leaning his left shoulder lightly against a wall.

She keeps going on about how excited for this concert she is, how much it’ll mean to her, how she can’t wait to get down in the pit with me. I just...I don’t know. I don’t feel like she knows what she’s up for. I know I kind of sound like a stuck up punk, but honestly, I’m not going to let her ruin this for me.

“Gerard, you comin’?” Mikey called to his brother across the room, and the addressed waved his hand vaguely, indicating that he would follow soon.

As I’m reading this over, I’m realizing that it’s more about me than I had originally intended. I felt like it was going to feel liberating to vent, but it just makes me feel self conscious and stupid. I know you probably won’t be reading this, but to think if you were, you’d probably see me as a selfish teenager.

He found himself disagreeing entirely, but he continued despite this.

Maybe I am selfish. What does that mean, exactly? To be concerned primarily with oneself. To be characterized by or manifesting concern for only my being. Would you say I am selfish? Perhaps I am, but only sometimes. I’m selfish in different aspects of life. I’m selfish in music. I’m selfish by thinking I can make others happy. I’m selfish for my own happiness sometimes, but is that really so bad? I’m so consumed with thinking that happiness doesn’t exist for my future.

Or is that just obsession?

To be an image of obsession is to dominate someone’s thoughts or feelings. That doesn’t sound so horrible in that context. So is love an obsession? Is love being selfish? I think yes, for both. But I wouldn’t know; I’ve never been in love legitimately enough to tell you.

He barely heard the second calling to leave. He was so enveloped in her strange stream of consciousness. This was unlike anything he had ever received; it wasn’t about him, so to say, but he found himself relating to every word that was scrawled across the paper. His eyes searched the words until he eagerly picked up his place.

I was listening to a Pencey Prep song the other day, and I kept going back and replaying this one stanza over and over, because it really struck me in the name of unrequited love.

“I have this reoccurring dream

Where you admit that you're not happy

I know that you will never leave

You're here just to torment me”

He almost smiled; he would have to tell Frank that he still had a lingering Pencey fan. That should make his day.

I would lie if I said it didn’t remind me of someone. But what are my thoughts to love, really? They’re like mud puddles. Puddles to just splash around in, puddles so murky and impenetrable that it’s impossible to predict its contents. So goes my life and my visions for my future.

He found himself wondering who she was thinking of now. He wondered if she was still thinking about them, about the day, about their encounter. He shook his head, reading on.

Sometimes, I find myself idolizing people as their own special image. I can only understand who I’ve pictured them as. Other sides, several faces - they do not exist in my idealizations. They are two dimensional, capable only of what exists in my mental limits. I realized that this, as much as I want it to exist, cannot.

I was watching an interview earlier with the four of you; your hair is red now, like mine. Dare I call it matching? Though I’m sure our heads were colored for different reasons. Mine was simply for a change; I was going to do it anyways, in March, but what is time but an inclination? I’m sure you dyed it for what; your image? Is it all part of the face of the Killjoys? You’re their Messiah, after all; their idol. What would My Chemical Romance be without their beloved leader? Feel free to sense a hint of sarcasm, because in retrospect, the worshipping is kind of sickening.

He turned the page over, his hands shaking a bit. He couldn’t identify why he was affected in this way, but he knew that all he could do was continue reading.

I sound hypocritical, but I don’t think it’s the same as how I see you. I don’t bother calling you God sent, or lifesaving, because that’s not who you are to me. To me, you’ve shaped my life and my art, my personality and everything I know. What would that be?

Inspirational?

People throw that word around entirely too easily. To be inspired is to be filled with an exalting influence.

Look at me, I’m a fucking dictionary.

He chuckled, despite his dried throat.

I see it more as a connection. Like, something deeper than a simple motivation to go out and do something, like plant a tree. To be truly inspired by someone incorporates everything about a person. My inspiration from John Mayer, say, is different from your influence in my mind. John Mayer inspires me with his music, but as a person, he’s arrogant, degrading. He’s things I’m not, things I don’t want to be. You? You’re everything. You’ve got incredible talent. You’re a man, an artist, a best friend, a brother, a passion. You’re selfless, deep, thoughtful, incredible. Insightful?

But how am I to know who you really are? What if, after three years of idolization, I realize that you aren’t anything that I thought you were? Would that destroy my music? My art?

Would it destroy me?

He swallowed uncomfortably, his heart rate accelerating for reasons he could not identify.

I wonder if you’re ever afraid to meet your fans. Do you put on a front? Do you pretend to be nice to everybody, to act like you care? You probably don’t; I can’t see how every individual could possibly make a mark on your heart. I wonder sometimes if I have any power. If you met me, would you remember me? It probably all sounds the same, all the monotonous string of bullshit that spills out of our mouths as default because we think it’s what you want to hear. It probably all just runs together. I just want to influence you like you’ve influenced me, however impossible and ridiculous that may sound. I don’t see it as returning a favor, exactly. I just...I want to know that I can have an impact on people, especially those that I look up to so much.

He felt his throat tighten. He was never one to get overly emotional about small things, but for some reason, this was just striking that one untouchable nerve.

As I’m writing this, I’m wondering what you would say if you actually read it. I’d like to think that you wouldn’t be unsettled by it. In retrospect, it does seem sort of creepy, me talking to you like you’re always there to listen to the mindless shit pouring from my thoughts. You aren’t, but you are. Indirectly so. It makes me sound like I’m contacting spirits or some weird shit like that.

He smiled, just enough to ease the racing of his heart.

Do you realize how influential you are? Do you realize how many people’s lives depend on what you do? That must be a lot of pressure. When people tell you that you saved them, are you grateful? Or are you worried that your next action could undo that very admonition? Have you seen the people that carve your band’s name into their skin? It contradicts everything you stand for. You’ve said yourself that self harm isn’t worth it. You’ve told us to talk to people if we’re having problems.

Would you be there to listen if someone came to you?

And that was it. He flipped it over multiple times, searching for more. He needed more. He needed to know that that wasn’t where it ended, but he simply found previous reading repeating itself to his eyes. There wasn’t even a signature; no name, not a sense of finality.

It just stopped.

He had just about given up, folded the letter back to return it to the envelop, when a small strip of paper fluttered to the ground. He paused, bending down to pinch it between his fingers. One tiny world was scrawled beautifully across it, and he felt himself actually smile as he pocketed it. He knew he would carry it with him always, despite whatever happened between now and again.

He would always follow her word. He would always work for her word.

He would never forget her.

Inspire.