Whittle Myself Into Something

I stood by the stage, practically shaking as my jittery fingers reached into the back pocket of my jeans to retrieve my Camels, running dangerously low as the last one slid out into my fingers. My lighter was old and needed more fuel, but I could never throw away the bright neon yellow that had been my savior since that summer. The summer where everything changed.

I hated being a smoker. But I couldn't shake the habit. I was too stressed and was horrible about letting go. Besides, I was going to die young anyway from the “drugs” and the booze, so why not just advance my own death a few years? Morose, perhaps, but that was how I saw the rest of my life playing out.

The green grass that surrounded the stage was cool beneath my bare feet, my neon blue Vans abandoned by the empty Jack Daniels bottle. I wasn't drunk, though I definitely wasn't sober either. It was a weird in-between, one that I lived in almost constantly.

I kick a dandelion, not really paying attention to where my feet are landing until I hit something hard, and the something grunts. Without even looking up, I put my hands to my mouth, and began apologizing incessantly. “Oh my God! I am so sorry, I just wasn't look-”

It was Garrett, and he made that annoying half smirk. “You're fine, sweetheart.” I groan, dropping my cigarettes and he crushes it into the grass, his face falling slightly. “I didn't know you smoked,” He murmurs, and I snort, annoying at his existence in my slightly buzzed and maybe a little high world.

“You don't know anything about me, Garrett. I haven't seen you in like, ever, so I hardly expect you know anything about me.” I turn, making my way back to the stairs where I had been hanging out since the crack of dawn this morning. Garrett, of course, follows, and shoves his hands in his pockets, not meeting my eyes.

“I know that you joined your band shortly after our summer together-” I hated the term 'ours'. We were nothing. We never were. I ran and I would continue to run from him until the day I died. He needed to just give up already. I was done with him, the past was in the past. “I know that you write most of the songs for the band, and I know which one's about me.” He smirked, and I snorted again, rolling my eyes.

“What makes you think any of my songs are about you, asshole?” I say, and grab my guitar from beside me, something to do with my hands. I began strumming the beginning to the song that, yes, was about Garrett. It was one of the first songs I ever wrote that didn't completely suck, and it took almost a year to tweak until perfect. We played it at our first show, and had since rarely played it on a tour.

It was called, “All Again For You”, and was probably one of the sadder songs I had ever written in terms of lyrical content, but we had revamped it to be happy and upbeat, like looking back on these memories fondly when really, I hated every memory I had with Garrett. He hurt me, and yeah, maybe I hurt him but I wrote this song with tears dancing over my eyes and my heart breaking in my ears.

My fingers changed the strumming from Garrett's song to one of the finer and angrier songs I had ever written, this time collaborated with Erin, called “My Drunken Rampage”. I, without realizing it, began to sing, and for a moment, I forget that Garrett, who was becoming less and less annoying as my hangover and high was fading, was even there.

“Bottles breaking beneath my feet, my face smacks against concrete, and these are the words I held back as your back was all I could see, cause you walked away when all I needed was you, and this, is my drunken rampage.” I stopped playing the song to see Garrett smiling, and my annoyance grew. I stood swiftly, holding my guitar by the neck and raising my brows, waiting for something.

“I never knew you were that good,” He said, and then winked, which made my blood boil. I didn't even let him finish his thought.

“No, fucking hell no. I'm not doing this with you, I'm not doing this with you! I hate you! YOU HURT ME. YOU DON'T GET TO JUST COME BACK!” I scream, causing many stares as tears began to fall down my cheeks, which made me even angrier. “FUCK!” I screeched, storming away with my guitar dragging behind me, my other hand wiping away at my tears.

I encountered Erin along the way, talking to Sally, who she had introduced me to a few days ago. She stepped out in front of me. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. What's wrong?”

“Fucking everything!” I yelled, and didn't look back until the door to the bus was slammed shut, and I slumped against it, burying my face in between my knees and cried and cried.

I couldn't do this for a whole summer.