‹ Prequel: Lithium Kisses
Alkaline Eyes
For Every Light That Burns Out
A/N: Hey guys! I'm so fucking excited to post the sequel to Lithium Kisses! I've been working on it all week. I've been thinking about posting a link to Lithium Kisses on Billie Joe's instagram. Do you guys think he'll like it. Stay (Arm)strong. Over and out.
Death is more than the absence of life. Death is more than a feeling. It is all of your mistakes and accomplishments loaded up into one single package and delivered for your soul to look over. When you die, your mind doesn't flicker out forever, it's lightbulb is taken in for repairs or simply thrown away. They sent mine downward to be evaluated for further placement. It was strange being dead, I still looked the same and I felt the same as when I died, without the gaping head wound of course. I had found myself in a large building filled with people waiting in line. Everyone looked scared, nervous or even bored, but none of them looked happy at all. When I got in line, everyone instantly moved away from me and looked at me disgust. I sneered back. They were probably jealous because they hadn't gotten to be prez in their lifetime.
And then an idea hit me. I could be prez of the afterlife! And maybe Billie Joe could be my vice prez of the afterlife! It was a perfect plan. I searched for someone to tell my idea too. I shoved everyone out of the way and eventually got to the front of the line. There was man wearing a black button up coat and fedora who looking over a list of names and other random things. He didn't look too happy to see me. I smiled as brightly as I could. "You guys look a bit understaffed, maybe I could be president of the afterlife?" I asked sweetly. The man looked at me for a second and then burst out laughing. Everyone else behind me started laughing too. Ungrateful assholes. "You must be Heather Heartless. Yes, yes, we've been expecting you. Did you know that your life's accomplishments have been ranked worse than Hitlers? We have a special place for you..." The man chuckled and sent me through a crimson door.
There was nothing really special behind door, just what looked like a lobby with a long hallway connected to it. As soon as I stepped into the room, I was grabbed my shirt and an ornate, silver sword was pressed up against my neck. I looked at my would-be attacker, it was Pandora. I gasped in shock. She didn't look happy at all to see me, in fact she looked as is he wanted to stab me ten fold. She slammed hard up against the wall. "Figures I'd have to see your detestable face right after I get promoted to Department Manager of Hell..." She muttered under her breath. Hell? I was in Hell?? After all of the nice things I've done for humanity and they have the guts to stick me in hell.
"Why the fuck am I in Hell?! I've done more for the US than Jesus and John Lennon have!" I snarled. Pandora merely smirked. She pressed the blade deep in my skin, drawing blood. I winced.
"You don't know? I didn't realize you were that ignorant, but then again, most former and current politicians are." Pandora withdrew the blade from my neck and motioned to the ragged looking door at the very end of the hallway. "I've had to deal with far too many familiar imbeciles today, so I'll make this brief. You will be staying in the room at the end of the hallway. Now go."
"And what if I don't want to? I was the prez, so I deserve special privileges. They only made YOU manager of Hell because you're a fucking slut." I snapped. Pandora yanked me by the throat and brought me close to her so that I could feel her breath ghosting over my face. I shivered tingly.
"Listen to me, you may have won the hearts of an apathetic nation, but down here, this is my domain. Do you understand me?" She hissed. I glared back for a few seconds before nodding. She pulled me by my hair and dragged me to my room.
I still had one final question for her.
"So when do I get tortured?" I asked wearily. Pandora thought for second. I thought I could see an evil glint glimmering in her dark gray eyes.
"I think you'll find that there are far worse things than dealing with physical pain." She promised and opened the door for me, kicking me inside. I heard the door slam shut behind me. I was shocked. It looked like an ordinary living room, minus the television and with more fancy 18th century furniture. There were no windows and there was an extra large, cushy looking furniture in the middle of the floor. There were three people sitting on the couch, I walked over to get a closer look. It was Mike, Tim, and Billie Joe. I squealed in delight at the sight of Billie Joe and jumped on him, hugging him tightly. He looked as if he had never seen me before. Mike groaned in exasperation. Tim began to scream, and asked for a room change.
"Billie Joe! Don't you remember me? We were best friends!" I said happily. Billie Joe gazed at me with his eyes glazed over. Then he scratched at his face.
"My face...it's melting. I can feel it... Does it look like vanilla ice cream?" He asked me sincerely. I stepped away from him. He flailed his arms all over. "I can't feel my socks...I need my rubber ducky to oxygen." He muttered wildly. I looked at Mike for an explanation. He sighed, as if it was the most terrible thing to ask.
"Billie Joe is in a state of constant alcohol, cocaine and narcotic withdrawal, that's why he's acting like Charlie Sheen on one of his bad days. Thanks for asking about me by the way, I see nothing has changed about you. I asked to be put here, because I feel guilty for not stopping you from setting off those nukes." Mike explained earnestly. I glared at him. If he wouldn't have tried to shoot me, I wouldn't have sent typed those extra codes. It's partially his fault. That plus he was useless part of Green Day.
Mike looked tired and worn out. He buried his face in his hands and began to cry. I told him he was a weak little bitch and that I should be the one crying, not him. Billie Joe looked at me for second and vomited all over my shoes. Tim clapped happily and resumed talking to his hand as if it was an actual person. But surprisingly so far, hell wasn't that bad so far. I could get used to this place if I tried. I looked around for a phone. I needed to call management and make sure all of the stanky cholos were sent to hell as well.
No phone whatsoever.
Hell sucks.
Death is more than the absence of life. Death is more than a feeling. It is all of your mistakes and accomplishments loaded up into one single package and delivered for your soul to look over. When you die, your mind doesn't flicker out forever, it's lightbulb is taken in for repairs or simply thrown away. They sent mine downward to be evaluated for further placement. It was strange being dead, I still looked the same and I felt the same as when I died, without the gaping head wound of course. I had found myself in a large building filled with people waiting in line. Everyone looked scared, nervous or even bored, but none of them looked happy at all. When I got in line, everyone instantly moved away from me and looked at me disgust. I sneered back. They were probably jealous because they hadn't gotten to be prez in their lifetime.
And then an idea hit me. I could be prez of the afterlife! And maybe Billie Joe could be my vice prez of the afterlife! It was a perfect plan. I searched for someone to tell my idea too. I shoved everyone out of the way and eventually got to the front of the line. There was man wearing a black button up coat and fedora who looking over a list of names and other random things. He didn't look too happy to see me. I smiled as brightly as I could. "You guys look a bit understaffed, maybe I could be president of the afterlife?" I asked sweetly. The man looked at me for a second and then burst out laughing. Everyone else behind me started laughing too. Ungrateful assholes. "You must be Heather Heartless. Yes, yes, we've been expecting you. Did you know that your life's accomplishments have been ranked worse than Hitlers? We have a special place for you..." The man chuckled and sent me through a crimson door.
There was nothing really special behind door, just what looked like a lobby with a long hallway connected to it. As soon as I stepped into the room, I was grabbed my shirt and an ornate, silver sword was pressed up against my neck. I looked at my would-be attacker, it was Pandora. I gasped in shock. She didn't look happy at all to see me, in fact she looked as is he wanted to stab me ten fold. She slammed hard up against the wall. "Figures I'd have to see your detestable face right after I get promoted to Department Manager of Hell..." She muttered under her breath. Hell? I was in Hell?? After all of the nice things I've done for humanity and they have the guts to stick me in hell.
"Why the fuck am I in Hell?! I've done more for the US than Jesus and John Lennon have!" I snarled. Pandora merely smirked. She pressed the blade deep in my skin, drawing blood. I winced.
"You don't know? I didn't realize you were that ignorant, but then again, most former and current politicians are." Pandora withdrew the blade from my neck and motioned to the ragged looking door at the very end of the hallway. "I've had to deal with far too many familiar imbeciles today, so I'll make this brief. You will be staying in the room at the end of the hallway. Now go."
"And what if I don't want to? I was the prez, so I deserve special privileges. They only made YOU manager of Hell because you're a fucking slut." I snapped. Pandora yanked me by the throat and brought me close to her so that I could feel her breath ghosting over my face. I shivered tingly.
"Listen to me, you may have won the hearts of an apathetic nation, but down here, this is my domain. Do you understand me?" She hissed. I glared back for a few seconds before nodding. She pulled me by my hair and dragged me to my room.
I still had one final question for her.
"So when do I get tortured?" I asked wearily. Pandora thought for second. I thought I could see an evil glint glimmering in her dark gray eyes.
"I think you'll find that there are far worse things than dealing with physical pain." She promised and opened the door for me, kicking me inside. I heard the door slam shut behind me. I was shocked. It looked like an ordinary living room, minus the television and with more fancy 18th century furniture. There were no windows and there was an extra large, cushy looking furniture in the middle of the floor. There were three people sitting on the couch, I walked over to get a closer look. It was Mike, Tim, and Billie Joe. I squealed in delight at the sight of Billie Joe and jumped on him, hugging him tightly. He looked as if he had never seen me before. Mike groaned in exasperation. Tim began to scream, and asked for a room change.
"Billie Joe! Don't you remember me? We were best friends!" I said happily. Billie Joe gazed at me with his eyes glazed over. Then he scratched at his face.
"My face...it's melting. I can feel it... Does it look like vanilla ice cream?" He asked me sincerely. I stepped away from him. He flailed his arms all over. "I can't feel my socks...I need my rubber ducky to oxygen." He muttered wildly. I looked at Mike for an explanation. He sighed, as if it was the most terrible thing to ask.
"Billie Joe is in a state of constant alcohol, cocaine and narcotic withdrawal, that's why he's acting like Charlie Sheen on one of his bad days. Thanks for asking about me by the way, I see nothing has changed about you. I asked to be put here, because I feel guilty for not stopping you from setting off those nukes." Mike explained earnestly. I glared at him. If he wouldn't have tried to shoot me, I wouldn't have sent typed those extra codes. It's partially his fault. That plus he was useless part of Green Day.
Mike looked tired and worn out. He buried his face in his hands and began to cry. I told him he was a weak little bitch and that I should be the one crying, not him. Billie Joe looked at me for second and vomited all over my shoes. Tim clapped happily and resumed talking to his hand as if it was an actual person. But surprisingly so far, hell wasn't that bad so far. I could get used to this place if I tried. I looked around for a phone. I needed to call management and make sure all of the stanky cholos were sent to hell as well.
No phone whatsoever.
Hell sucks.