Written Tragedies.

“Brendon, I’m not dead.”

And suddenly, Brendon wasn’t lost in memories anymore, he was sitting on a folding chair in Brent’s basement with wide eyes, and Spencer was staring at him and Brent was talking to thin air, and thin air was talking to Brendon. And the beer bottle that had been clenched so tightly in Brendon’s grip was shaking harder than ever.

“Brendon, Brendon, it’s not thin air, Brendon. It’s me.”

The bottle broke, shards flying everywhere. Brent issued a strangled yelp and Spencer was on his feet. Brendon’s hand was bleeding and stinging, soaked with alcohol and dripping red. Brendon paled, but not because of pain.

“What the fuck! Oh my God, Brendon! Brendon! Are you okay?!”

“Oh Brendon, you’re fine, you’re gonna be just fine,” Ryan crooned in his ear.

Spencer was breathing hard as he stumbled around the basement searching for band-aids or a towel or he didn’t even know what right now. Brent stayed slumped in the chair, too shocked to make a move. Both of them were more than a little drunk at this point.

Spencer was back by Brendon’s side, armed with tweezers, and he was practically whimpering. “Shit, Brendon, oh shit, what did you do? Oh my God, God, I can’t, God, you need an ambulance, shit, oh my shit…”

“Shut up,” Brendon growled, his voice sharp and not his own. He stood abruptly from the chair, blood rushing out of his head and causing him to sway.

“No, Brendon, sit down, just sit, and, oh my God, I’m going to call an ambulance…”

“Brendon is not going to a fucking hospital!” Ryan’s voice shrieks, and Brendon is shocked to find that his own mouth is forming the words. Ryan’s words… oh God, Ryan’s words…

“Brendon, you need one,” Brent utters from the chair. He looks dazed and his pupils are dilated. “Fuck.”

“No, my Brendon doesn’t need an ugly, dirty hospital bed, he needs me.”

Brendon gritted his teeth this time so Ryan’s words wouldn’t escape, and he hissed, “Did you hear that?” My Brendon, he said, my Brendon…

“N–No, Bren, what are you talking about?”

“SHUT UP!” Brendon roared, because now he could hear the whispers, a constant string of muttering, all in Ryan’s voice, and he wanted to listen, he had to listen…

But it was so indistinct, so quiet, that Brendon couldn’t pick it out, and this angered him; he pressed both palms to his temples, the bloody one with glass embedded and the whole one alike. Pressing, pressing, willing himself to hear, making himself hear.

“Ryan is gone, but his words can stay, his words are here!” Brendon mumbled, and he felt something warm drip down his cheek. It was not what he was listening for, but he heard Spencer shouting, heard Brent shouting along with him, and his hands were torn away from his face, and he screamed, screamed, screamed, and he was sobbing now, sobbing…

All the while the words grew louder, but Brendon still couldn’t hear them, and he’d failed, failed Ryan and failed to listen. And the words were shouting at him now, but they were still a mumble, still unintelligible, and Brendon couldn’t hear Spencer anymore, he couldn’t hear Brent, he couldn’t hear his own sobs and screams and couldn’t feel his hands scratching and flailing. The words overpowered everything, and soon all Brendon could see was the white and black, washing over his eyes, his ears, his mouth, his fingers. He smelled the scent of alcohol, so strong, and then he was gone.