Can't Finish What You Started

Of course, by now, however insane it sounded, I knew it had to be that story. That stupid, stupid story! Somehow what I wrote in that thing was coming to life using the real band members as its pawns.

I wrote parts of it cynically mocking Frerard by use of cruel parody and poor Gerard and Frank are left to believe that's how they really feel because I never bothered to give them opinions or let them in on the joke.

The bus broke down because I have taken the place of the girl in my story who I named after myself because I was too bored and too uninspired to care about giving her a real name. In said story, she befriends and shares her home with MCR when their bus dies.

Justin and Billie Joe are present because in the story they are Marrissa's best friends, but of course, I didn't bother to give them back stories of any kind. They don't understand why they are here all the time; they don't even know how they ended up in my life.

With some relief, but definitely some sadness, I finally managed to conclude, "But... it's a story... so when it ends... this will all be over." Then my own words came back to haunt me: "ever unfinished". "Oh no, I never finished the story. It doesn't have an ending. It just stops without closure. Does that mean they're stuck here?! Is that stopping point good enough?"

My worried thoughts were interrupted by Justin entering my room. "Billie Joe is leaving, I think. I mean, he goes out a lot, but I don't think he intends to return anytime soon this time around. He said he was tired of bothering you, and he told me to tell you 'it's been real and it's been fun' or something like that-" he stopped his informative rambling, "Oh, what's wrong?"

"It's-It's nothing," I answered.

"Does this have to do with whatever was going on the other night?" he asked.

"Sort of. Kind of. Yeah, pretty much...exactly. Only it keeps getting worse," I responded.

"I'm sorry. Do you," he started to ask, "...you know...can you talk about it now?"

I looked at him for a moment. He didn't seem controlled by the story, but then again it didn't really have much hold on him to begin with; it never made him act out of character... No, besides all that...He seemed to have fought what little hold it had on him. Could I tell him?

"Oh, man, I shouldn't have asked. I'm sorry. I'm a-" he began attacking himself verbally.

I stopped him, "No, you're not. You're fine. You're great actually." I looked down at my shoes. The last words were mumbled awkwardly, and weren't even supposed to be spoken aloud at all. I cleared my throat and looked up at him once more. A strange heat coursed through me. I had to tell him. At very least I had to try.

"Justin, it's a long story," I began with a slight laugh, "You're seriously not gonna believe this shit..."

"Do I really have a choice?" he retorted.

"Good point," I replied. Then I proceeded to tell him the whole story.

"I don't believe you. Don't speak to me," he said, obviously kidding.

"Justin, please be serious," I said, realizing what I had just requested and kind of resenting it.

Still he complied, "Honestly, I don't know what to think. I guess I'll believe anything at this point," He answered, looking down as he spoke. He had that habit of sometimes looking like he was miles away in his head, or maybe that was just me floating away from everything when I observed him.

I wanted to hug him so badly, but I decided it wasn't that thing to do at the moment so I resisted. Neither of us knew what to say or do at this point. We just kept looking at each other, then away, and then back, and so on and so forth, searching desperately for words on the air, on the floor, or in each other's eyes. The unspoken question on both our lips seemed to be: "What happens next?"

I panicked suddenly. "Oh God, is this the end of it, or rather the lack of ending?" I asked myself silently. I halfway expected Justin to disappear right before my eyes. A tear burned at the corner of each eye. I wasn't ready for this story to end.

I was overwhelmed and trying in vain to hide the emotions and anxiety attack that was spazzing out my breathing.

"Hey, are you alright?" he asked.

"Yeah...everything's fine," I wanted to lighten the moment and say "everything is alright",but I didn't want to be a hypocrite telling him to be serious and then making a joke. "I just had...a moment...I'm kind of freaking out actually."

"Why? What's going on?" he questioned

"I don't even know what's gonna happen to everything, to you, to... to us..." Did I really just say that? Well, apparently he didn't notice or wasn't bothered

"Don't freak out about the future," he said, then caught himself not being totally serious and appeared to mentally scold and correct himself before making further statements, "Uh, I think everything will be okay, so don't worry."

It really was hard to feel upset about anything when I watched him or got to be around him. "Really?" I asked, starting to smile.

"Uh...well, I want it to be," he replied awkwardly, "But you wrote the story in the first place so it isn't about what I want, is it?"

Then an idea struck me. "Dude, you know you're a genius, right?" I asked him rhetorically.

"What'd I do this time?" he responded, seemingly preparing for something bad.

"It's my story! That means the stupid pencil scratches on paper don't mean shit anymore! Don't you get it?! The story ends the way I want it to!" I declared jubilantly.

"Are you sure it works that way?" he asked cautiously.

"I want it to, and you said what I want matters in this situation," I answered, insanely hopeful at this point. "Okay," I started, in a slightly calmer tone, "We should gather the others. It's time to put this plan into action."