Losing Control.
Bright Smile and Dark Hair.
It started as an excuse. An excuse to get out of the house, have a good time, do something you'd just fucking love to have your parents find out about. It was an excuse to find out more about that boy, the one with the bright smile and the dark hair. He was just perfect; you knew he was perfect. That's how it started.
It started as an excuse, than it turned into a reason. A reason, a need, a drive. It felt wrong without them. They were so...important, those parties. You were headed down fast, but that wasn't important. Nothings important.
It got worse once the excuse went away. Once the lips of his bright smile met yours, and your hands went through his dark hair; the excuse had left. No reason to hang around these parties, no reason to drink until you spent your nights with your arms wrapped around the toilet seat and shouting every curse word you know, no reason to smoke whatever the fuck it is you like to smoke to get him to notice you. I remember the night you screamed and cried because you were “on fire”. The next day, after you sobered, I told you what happened and you swore you'd stop. You would stop the parties, and the booze, and the fucked up shit. You said you'd stop caring about the boy with the bright smile and care about what's better for you. You fucking swore to me.
But it didn't matter when he told you that you were beautiful. “Fucking gorgeous.” I still have the stain of his slurred words in my ear. You blushed that rosy red color and smiled that naive smile you have.
Thanks.” You tried your best to sound seductive. Trying too hard. You always tried to hard for him. “You're not half bad yourself.” You were both drunk as fuck. It showed.
“Uh huh.” He was a lot better at being seductive. “So what's your name?” From my spot next to you and I could smell his drunken breath. He was so hammered.
“Patrick.” It came out in one smooth sentence. I was no longer your best friend, but automatically a third wheel.
I never did catch bright smile, dark haired boy's name. I try not to think about him, unless I think about you, too. I hate how I have to think of you with him. It kills me.
Well, the nameless boy and you got closer and closer. It was awful. I had to still come to all the parties and watch you two flirt. You wouldn't even give a shit when some drunken asshole tried to get me to fuck him like you used to. You would've beaten any guy to come within 20 feet of me. You were my protector, you were my friend. Now you were my nothing. You belong to a set of white teeth and smooth, soft, black, hair.
I remembered that night. It was the worst. I had to watch you kiss. It used to never bug me when you were with guys, you were my Patrick no matter if you were gay or not. But something about him... the eyes behind his dark hair told me not to trust him. And I had to watch you kiss. I had to watch him pull you into that bedroom. It was the third door on the right. It said “Jessica's Room” on a pretty little sign with flowers. I can't believe you'd do that. She was probably little, that Jessica. Sometimes I try to imagine what she looks like. Cherry red hair neatly tied into pigtails, a little skirt, maybe a pink t-shirt. A real cute kid. And you had sex in her room in her bed. God, how could you do that?
And I remember that one party... oh god. I remember every detail of that party. The house was big and white. The address was 42 Candlewood Drive. This party was bigger than any other we've ever been to. “The party of the year” as they said. And it was.
You and him got real fucked up. You were both plastered ten minutes into the place. You managed to stick it out until about 1 a.m. The party was in full swing and you wanted to leave. I did my best to ignore you; I was rather pissed off at what you've done. So I didn't pay attention to your pleas to leave.
He did.
He cared. He wanted to keep you happy. He was sure he'd take you to his house and give you aspirin and make you feel so much better. God, Patrick, I'm so sorry. I can't believe I did this to you.
The story he told was a deer jumped into the middle of the road. The real story was he was drunk as fuck and shouldn't have been able to drive. His story lost, thank God, and he was arrested.
They ask me if I ever visit him. He told the court we were “close friends”. I could never visit him. He ruined you. He stole you, and destroyed you, and killed you. I will always hate him and always love you.
Rest in Peace.
It started as an excuse, than it turned into a reason. A reason, a need, a drive. It felt wrong without them. They were so...important, those parties. You were headed down fast, but that wasn't important. Nothings important.
It got worse once the excuse went away. Once the lips of his bright smile met yours, and your hands went through his dark hair; the excuse had left. No reason to hang around these parties, no reason to drink until you spent your nights with your arms wrapped around the toilet seat and shouting every curse word you know, no reason to smoke whatever the fuck it is you like to smoke to get him to notice you. I remember the night you screamed and cried because you were “on fire”. The next day, after you sobered, I told you what happened and you swore you'd stop. You would stop the parties, and the booze, and the fucked up shit. You said you'd stop caring about the boy with the bright smile and care about what's better for you. You fucking swore to me.
But it didn't matter when he told you that you were beautiful. “Fucking gorgeous.” I still have the stain of his slurred words in my ear. You blushed that rosy red color and smiled that naive smile you have.
Thanks.” You tried your best to sound seductive. Trying too hard. You always tried to hard for him. “You're not half bad yourself.” You were both drunk as fuck. It showed.
“Uh huh.” He was a lot better at being seductive. “So what's your name?” From my spot next to you and I could smell his drunken breath. He was so hammered.
“Patrick.” It came out in one smooth sentence. I was no longer your best friend, but automatically a third wheel.
I never did catch bright smile, dark haired boy's name. I try not to think about him, unless I think about you, too. I hate how I have to think of you with him. It kills me.
Well, the nameless boy and you got closer and closer. It was awful. I had to still come to all the parties and watch you two flirt. You wouldn't even give a shit when some drunken asshole tried to get me to fuck him like you used to. You would've beaten any guy to come within 20 feet of me. You were my protector, you were my friend. Now you were my nothing. You belong to a set of white teeth and smooth, soft, black, hair.
I remembered that night. It was the worst. I had to watch you kiss. It used to never bug me when you were with guys, you were my Patrick no matter if you were gay or not. But something about him... the eyes behind his dark hair told me not to trust him. And I had to watch you kiss. I had to watch him pull you into that bedroom. It was the third door on the right. It said “Jessica's Room” on a pretty little sign with flowers. I can't believe you'd do that. She was probably little, that Jessica. Sometimes I try to imagine what she looks like. Cherry red hair neatly tied into pigtails, a little skirt, maybe a pink t-shirt. A real cute kid. And you had sex in her room in her bed. God, how could you do that?
And I remember that one party... oh god. I remember every detail of that party. The house was big and white. The address was 42 Candlewood Drive. This party was bigger than any other we've ever been to. “The party of the year” as they said. And it was.
You and him got real fucked up. You were both plastered ten minutes into the place. You managed to stick it out until about 1 a.m. The party was in full swing and you wanted to leave. I did my best to ignore you; I was rather pissed off at what you've done. So I didn't pay attention to your pleas to leave.
He did.
He cared. He wanted to keep you happy. He was sure he'd take you to his house and give you aspirin and make you feel so much better. God, Patrick, I'm so sorry. I can't believe I did this to you.
The story he told was a deer jumped into the middle of the road. The real story was he was drunk as fuck and shouldn't have been able to drive. His story lost, thank God, and he was arrested.
They ask me if I ever visit him. He told the court we were “close friends”. I could never visit him. He ruined you. He stole you, and destroyed you, and killed you. I will always hate him and always love you.
Rest in Peace.