Vintage Misery

I'm sorry for not being better than I am. I don't know how to change myself. If I knew how to, I would; I'm dying to be anything you wanted me to be, tell you anything you want to hear.

I am writing her a letter that she probably won't read. I slam my pen down on the paper, crumple it. I feel my stomach vibrate with a text; this close to going onstage I should not have my phone; I should hide it away somewhere. Give it to Patrick so he can monitor it, like my pills that are also his burden now. It kills me that such a simple little device can have so much control over me, and it is the physical representation of the tumor in my mind that is my insecurity and anxiety. I dig into my hoodie pocket to strike this match.

Because I like unraveling myself; I send a text, I already know the answer. I bite my lip, waiting for her to respond so I can tear her to pieces. I can just think of her now; her blue eyes shining with tears as she begs for me back, tells me how she fucked up. She's sorry. She loves me. He didn't mean anything. I know how this goes, because it is an endless cycle, this sad game we play.

She'll be in my shoes in a few hours. I'm the kind of kid who can't let anything go.


I can never get used to this feeling. I don't think I ever could.

I'm terrified, I'm a wreck. I'm about to go onstage and expose myself to the masses, but I'm afraid. The mask will slip, they will sense something is wrong, the kids will see behind the curtain.

I already caved and swallowed down the pills. Like tiny blue oppressors they will police the tunnels of my bloodstream and keep me safe.

I want to forget that the conflicting sides of my brain have been feasting on each other like cannibals, morals smeared across their teeth like blood. I laugh because that is great material. I could write it down later, if I remembered it, and forget it until many days later. Patrick would stare at the words on the paper and nod his head, acting like he understands, but he doesn't.

He never will, but he tries. When I try explaining, as we sit in the front of the van, the only ones still awake after the long night, him squinting because he had long removed his glasses, me with my head in my arms barely peeking at him. He nods and yawns, patiently waiting for the words to stop flowing off my tongue and I can sleep, and then he will let himself sleep.

[Or he can sleep, and I can stay awake staring at the backs of my eyelids.]

Because he's a good friend, he's not selfish. He's not like me.

I blink in the bright lights on the stage, coming back to myself as I approach the mikestand. I have to concentrate on talking right now, make sure I'm the one in command of my brain, telling it which strings to pull to make all the right muscles move to communicate with someone that is not myself. I stand at the command panel, watching the workers push buttons and talk into headsets.

"All hands on deck, close the hatches, make sure they're locked up good and tight!"

"We came here to play you some songs tonight,

"Seal off the Insanity, The Daydreams, The Perverted Wants."

"We're Fall Out Boy!"

"The Benzedrine capacitor is functioning at full levels tonight, Captain, there will be no rogue neural impulses tonight.

I retreat gloomily to my corner as we prepared to launch into our newest song. I meander closer to Patrick, and as if the mouse had heard the cat, I see him look reproachfully over his shoulder for me.

"Pete," I watch his lips form my name and slip it out of the corner of his mouth.

So I let him think I've given up; pretending to see someone out in the crowd, I turn back to the kids going crazy in front of us. But I'm not connected to their insanity; I'm looking into their eyes and wondering who's in those bodies, and if they can see into mine. If they could they would all scream in terror because they're looking at a dead man. A living ghost. And they have no idea.

By this point, I try to shake the thoughts from my head, but I'm horrible at that so I remember my little game. Patrick is sweating profusely, belting the twisted words that come from my demented little head into existence.

He is unalert.

Easy prey.

I catch Joe's eye; I quirk my brow at him and get a running start before Patrick can realize what is about to befall him, and I'm right next to him, and I see his eyes go wide with terror.

It's too late; I have pressed my lips to his cheek and danced away again, practically shriveling under the withering look Patrick gives me, and I know I'm going to get an earful later.

I laugh to myself, feeling a tiny puncture in this throbbing drama-filled boil that is my depression. It relieves a tiny bit of the pressure, and I can breathe again for an instant.

Then I look back over the crowd, and my heart nearly explodes; I am staring into wide-eyed browns.

Her eyes.