I Could Have Saved You

If there was anything I could do to save you, you would still be alive right now. We always said not to go looking for each other, right? So why did you get so upset when I admitted that I gave up searching? I never stopped thinking about you, worrying about you, dreaming that you would come home. It’s just that I never believed I would ever be able to find you. But then you found me, you yelled, and then you left. Now you’re gone again, and I’m alone again. For the first time in my life, I’m alone.

You were gone. Hell, I thought you were dead. And now you actually are. You’re not coming back this time.

But you know this isn’t the end. I’ve been around the world, I’ve seen so many things. Too many. I can’t even tell you where I’m going next. I have no idea what to do, but something keeps me going. Every time I try to settle down, live a normal fucking life, something drags me back into this endless cycle of heartbreak and suffering. But what can I say now that you’re gone? All I know is that I don’t want to be left this way, I don’t want to say goodbye, I don’t want to let go, and I certainly don’t want this to be the end.

Because if there was anything I could have done to save you, you would still be alive.

And I’ll always regret what I did, and what I didn’t do.

-FOURTEEN YEARS EARLIER-

“Wait up!” A significantly younger Mike howled, chasing after his friend, an air-soft gun in one hand and a container of plastic bullets in the other. Several yards ahead of him, a fifteen year old Billie sprinted for the trees, diving behind a bush and shoving the orange-tipped gun through the branches, aimed at his friend.

Pop!

A plastic bullet was shot from behind the bush, coming in contact with the younger Michael’s uncovered leg, leaving a large red mark. “Chickenshit, come out and fight like a man!” He howled, taking a moment to rub his leg before continuing into the trees, which became denser as he walked farther in. It wasn’t long before he couldn’t even see the way he came from.

He could have sworn there was a high pitched, mock-girly giggle from behind, and as he turned to face it, the noise sounded again from the direction he was facing a moment ago. Turning back around, there was a rustle and the noise sounded to his right. Looking out of the corner of his eyes, Mike could see a bit of red-brown hair sticking up from behind the bushes roughly ten yards to the right. Moving forward, he swerved ever so slowly off to the right, carefully circling behind the bush and saw Billie turning to head straight. Hiding behind a tree, Michael peeked carefully around one side to see that he had shuffled five yards from his original hiding spot, and had paused to listen in hopes of detecting where he was. Aiming carefully, Mike pulled the trigger, a plastic bullet speeding through the air and hitting his friend square in the back, right between the shoulders.

“God dammit, that’s the third time!” Billie howled, standing up and rubbing his back where the pellet had come in contact with his barely protected back.

“Oh please, you were asking for it! You know I always circle around you, dumbass,” He retorted, shoving him back with the butt of the fake gun, getting a shove and a death glare in return.

The two of them had been engaged in an intense wrestling match when Billie’s mother came shoving her way through the trees. “You two had better get inside in five minutes or you’re going hungry!” She threatened, impatiently tapping her foot as she did so. As soon as she came, she was gone, wrestling with the trees to get out of the woods and back to the house. Sharing an amused glance, the two teenagers pushed themselves up off the ground and raced back to the house, ignoring the attempted attacks by the over-grown thorn bushes and branches. As they jogged out of the trees, their arms were decorated in shallow scratches and the occasional welt from plastic pellets. ‘

“I totally had you pinned,” Mike bragged, towering over his friend even at their young age.

Billie puffed out his chest, smirking and looking up, “Hah, you wish! I could have gotten you if I wanted to!” He said, though it was obvious it wasn’t true, and they both knew it.

The door to the house opened and the warm smell of cinnamon rolls filled the surrounding air. “Holy…” They muttered in synch, almost as if it had been rehearsed. Mike reached for one, Billie’s mother slapping his hand away with a plastered on and horribly fake scowl on her face. “Not until you wash your hands, the both of you!” she ordered, pointing at the sink on the far side of the kitchen. They groaned, again in synch, but did as they were told.

After stuffing themselves with several cinnamon rolls and strips of bacon that had been fried up, Billie shoved a final piece of bacon into his mouth before wiping his hands on his pants. “Mister Armstrong!” His mother bellowed, her hands on her hips in obvious anger. “Look what you did to your pants! Go change them. NOW!”

Billie reluctantly shuffled upstairs, an amused Mike following him up the stairs and into their shared bedroom.

“Dude, your pants are a mess,” Mike pointed out, flopping onto his bed as Billie changed into a clean pair of jeans and tossed the dirty ones into the laundry basket. “Shut up,” He muttered, throwing a dirty pair of boxers at his face before sprinting down the stairs and out the front door, a fuming Michael following swiftly behind.

Outside, the two had fallen face first into the front yard, arms and legs sprawled out like twigs on a forest floor. At the edge of the lawn, a man in what looked like a mail uniform stood with his hand half in the mailbox, staring at the two with wide eyed confusion. “Good afternoon!” Billie looked up, a dirt stain above his right eye and a piece of grass in between his two front teeth. The mailman didn’t respond, but as he walked away the two teenagers could’ve sworn they heard him say “stupid kids”. Even if that’s all they were, they sure as hell had fun doing it.

Six o’ clock rolled around and the two boys had gone inside and were huddled around the table along with the rest of the Armstrong family, the kids practically drooling over the food that sat in front of them.

“I hope you washed your hands,” Their mother nagged, watching with a smug grin as the children shuffled with obvious guilt over to the sink, crowding around and trying to all wash their hands at once.

After their hands were washed and the table was set, Mike and Billie began the inevitable wrestle for the first bit of food, turning to glare at each other as they did so, and if looks could kill, the two of them would be pushing up daisies right now. Mike, after several long moments of pushing away each other’s hands, won and grabbed the bowl that the two were fighting over. With a triumphant smirk, he took his share and passed it in the opposite direction, making sure Billie got it last. The action got him a punch in the arm and a nasty remark, which, in turn, caused his mother to slap at his hand with a wooden spoon.

Dinner continued on as it usually did, with the kids talking about what went on during their day and their mother listening patiently. When it came time for Billie to speak, he let out a loud belch before saying: “We scared off the mailman today.” Though his mother rolled her eyes with a look that said ‘What else did I expect from you?’, the kids let out a symphony of laughter, piling their plates on top of one another and carrying on to clean up the kitchen.

**

The kitchen was clean and any left-overs were put into the fridge. Michael and Billie Joe had run through the front door as the other children barricaded themselves upstairs in their bedrooms, playing senseless games while the two teenage boys had gone outside with their airsoft guns, wearing nothing but their shirts and jeans to protect their skin.

Five minutes later the two teenage boys were running around in the woods as if hunting, Billie trailing several yards behind the now jogging Mike.

Not too far away sat a large tree with low hanging branches. With a smirk, Mike grabbed onto the lowest branch and pulled himself up, airsoft gun held carefully in between his teeth as he climbed farther up, and when Billie ran past, Mike was already ten feet up. His friend stopped below the tree, turning in a circle and looking around. Taking the opportunity as it was given, Mike aimed and carefully pulled the trigger, hitting Billie with a plastic pellet square in the chest.

“Dammit, man!” Billie grunted, tossing the gun down and slumping back against the tree Mike was hiding in.

Smirking, the taller of the two carefully climbed down to one of the lower branches, jumping off and landing beside his friend with a dull thud. They sat there for several moments in silence when Billie looked over at him. “You ever think we’re going to make it big?” He asked the inevitable question.

The truth was, Mike didn’t really know, and that’s what scared him. He and his friend had thrown nearly everything into this career, and now they were like sitting ducks, the force of reality, in this case the hunter, shoving the barrel of the gun in their faces.

But just beyond the hunter, the two ducks could see the ever expanding beauty of the open sky, in this case fame, nearly theirs, but not quite.

“Yeah, I think so.”

**
Twenty hours ago, Mike would’ve thought this was impossible, but there they stood, on stage in front of roughly one hundred people. A friend of a friend of a friend told them about a party in desperate need of bands, and that’s how the two friends and their new drummer. The party hadn’t started yet, but the two—now three—friends stood in an area roped off for the bands, Mike couldn’t help but have second thoughts. People were flooding in by the dozens, and from the look on Billie’s face, he could tell his long-time friend was feeling the same.

Twenty minutes later the party was started and music was blaring from the stage. The band that was on now was playing their final song, and soon it would be their turn. Mike’s heart was beating as if it were trying to claw its way out of his chest. He took a gasp of air and closed his eyes, desperately trying to calm his nerves. The song came to an end and the band walked off the stage. They came over, wished us luck, and then melded into the crowd they would soon be playing in front of.

“Ready?” Billie asked, one foot on the step.

“Nope,” He responded, but followed his friend up anyways.

Once on stage, Mike realized that maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as he thought, and the truth was, it wasn’t. Friendly and curious eyes looked up at them as bodies moved around in every direction. After a moment of watching the crowd, and in turn, the crowd watching us, we began to play, and the rest of the night was a blur.

-FIVE YEARS LATER-

After that night at the party the three friends had started nation-wide touring, and had played their first concert outside of the United States only months earlier, but now it seemed like such a regular thing that the three band members had barely noticed. As Mike sat on the plane, watching Billie and Tre chase each other around, he thought about that night and everything it did for him—for them. They had moved out of Billie’s house and rented a place of their own. Much to their surprise, there were other people just like them. Misfits that couldn’t find a world that accepted them for who they were. The story was never the same. When you talked to someone, and when you listened to their life, you almost never heard the same thing twice, and that was what’s nice about the area. It’s what made the three who they are, and who they’ll become.

-PRESENT DAY-

Below them, a crowd of several thousand people roared, throwing their hands up into the air as Billie sang, grabbing as many of the hands as he possibly could before he would have to start playing again. The song finished, and I had stepped back from the microphone when Billie began to speak. He looked over me with a tight but shining grin, and closed his eyes.

BAM!

The roar of a gunshot rang through the humid August air, and blinking, I watched as the bullet found its way into Billie’s skull, blood exploding from the wound as the ammunition ripped out the other side of his head, leaving a much larger exit wound than entrance. Everyone was screaming, but I didn’t hear a thing. I was running for my friend, bass long forgotten, as well as the thought that the assassin would attack again, possibly killing me or Tre or anyone else onstage or in the crowd. I didn’t care. My friend was lying dead with his brains blown out on what was supposed to be the best tour of their lives.

“Don’t leave me, man,” I had begged, gripping his shoulders and shaking his numb body that was growing insanely cold. “You can’t clock out yet, we still have so much to do! This was supposed to be the best tour ever, remember!?” I asked, the words fumbling out of my mouth so quickly that even if Billie was alive he wouldn’t have been able to understand.

But as I let go and watched his body fall limply against the stage, I knew he was gone.

And I could have saved him.

The pain only lasted for a moment as I fell to the stage, my body lying next to my deceased friend. There were several more shots and in that moment I knew that the killer was not alone in this action. The shots sounded fuzzy and distant, and my sight was growing dark. It was getting cold despite the setting autumn sun. I found it odd that I could feel no blood or wound in my head or chest or any vital area, but it might have been a figment of a dying man’s imagination, but I swore I saw Billie standing above me, holding his hand out to me, as if telling me: ‘Don’t be afraid, everything can be alright if you let go.’

The sight of my late friend pained me, and though I had much to do on this earth, I found myself drifting further and further away from this world. He gave me a reassuring smile, and that convinced me.

And then, like the summer, I was gone.