Status: Completed
How to Save a Life
Too Much
It happens on a Sunday.
The Ravens are playing in the city the tour is currently in, and the guys have a day off. Of course, they can’t miss the game. Everyone is going- except you. You’ve never been too into football, and you’d rather spend the day reading and catching up on your sleep. So, the band and every other crew member dons a Ravens jersey and heads off, leaving you alone on the bus.
First, you take a nap. Then, you read a new book. Then, when you have exhausted all other options, you pull out Alex’s laptop and log on to your Tumblr.
You haven’t been on in weeks. In fact the last time you posted something was when you had first joined the tour- an excited, fangirling post about your new summer plans, although nothing about the circumstances which brought them about.
The first thing you notice when log in is your inbox. The little red bubble next to it reads “734”.
Remembering what Alex said about fan mail, you smile as you click the icon. The messages come up, and you begin to read.
you fat ugly whore all time low is too good for you you dont deserve to be their merch girl
you stupid faggot nobody likes you not even all time low. why did they even hire you. go kill yourself and save them the trouble.
I saw the scars on your arms at the last atl show. Why don’t you go grab a razor and finish the job, bitch.
There are hundreds of messages like these. All anon, all people that hate you for what you have. And there’s one thing that comes up over and over and over:
Go kill yourself.
Tears leak out of your eyes as you continue to scroll.
how much do you make all time low pay to fuck you?
At some point, your vision becomes too blurry to read clearly, and you can no longer tell what you’re reading and what is a thought generated by your own mind.
you can’t do anything right. You can’t even sell merch right. You don’t deserve to live.
It’s too much. It’s all too much. You leap up, pull a knife out of a drawer. Sinking back down to the floor beside the laptop, you clutch the knife in a trembling hand and slowly pull it across the skin of your wrist.
Then again.
And again.
I deserve this.
More cuts. Blood is pooling on the carpet.
This is it.
Vision going black. Can’t see anything. Knife slips, falls to the floor.
Goodbye.
The Ravens are playing in the city the tour is currently in, and the guys have a day off. Of course, they can’t miss the game. Everyone is going- except you. You’ve never been too into football, and you’d rather spend the day reading and catching up on your sleep. So, the band and every other crew member dons a Ravens jersey and heads off, leaving you alone on the bus.
First, you take a nap. Then, you read a new book. Then, when you have exhausted all other options, you pull out Alex’s laptop and log on to your Tumblr.
You haven’t been on in weeks. In fact the last time you posted something was when you had first joined the tour- an excited, fangirling post about your new summer plans, although nothing about the circumstances which brought them about.
The first thing you notice when log in is your inbox. The little red bubble next to it reads “734”.
Remembering what Alex said about fan mail, you smile as you click the icon. The messages come up, and you begin to read.
you fat ugly whore all time low is too good for you you dont deserve to be their merch girl
you stupid faggot nobody likes you not even all time low. why did they even hire you. go kill yourself and save them the trouble.
I saw the scars on your arms at the last atl show. Why don’t you go grab a razor and finish the job, bitch.
There are hundreds of messages like these. All anon, all people that hate you for what you have. And there’s one thing that comes up over and over and over:
Go kill yourself.
Tears leak out of your eyes as you continue to scroll.
how much do you make all time low pay to fuck you?
At some point, your vision becomes too blurry to read clearly, and you can no longer tell what you’re reading and what is a thought generated by your own mind.
you can’t do anything right. You can’t even sell merch right. You don’t deserve to live.
It’s too much. It’s all too much. You leap up, pull a knife out of a drawer. Sinking back down to the floor beside the laptop, you clutch the knife in a trembling hand and slowly pull it across the skin of your wrist.
Then again.
And again.
I deserve this.
More cuts. Blood is pooling on the carpet.
This is it.
Vision going black. Can’t see anything. Knife slips, falls to the floor.
Goodbye.
♠ ♠ ♠
Title credit: all time low