21st Century Breakdown

Once I've gathered myself again, I stand, peeking out the blinds to the street. Two ambulances rush by with a police escort... I draw the blinds tighter.

I am completely alone, but the silence is broken by the low hum of the air conditioner rigged to the backside of his house, which preserved all his possessions in an icy cold atmosphere.

"Ok..." I murmur to myself, anxiously looking around, but I don't see what I'm looking for, instead, my eyes land on the dark dusty outline of a small frame on the shelf by the door, above it a mirror.

I step towards it, curiously, though I'd seen the picture more than enough on my visits here, and had asked Christian to take it down, once. It was familiar to me, and I carefully scooped up the bronze frame in my hands and look down at it in the murky light.

A boy, with short spiked black hair, a smile the size of California, wearing that old leather jacket and black skinny jeans, with the same old casual graphic t-shirt he always wore, his left arm draped over the shoulders of a girl, three inches shorter than him, but her high ponytail made up the difference. She wore similar clothes, a black t-shirt, black jacket draped over her arm and black jeans. She smiles, has wide eyes, bright green, framed in a ring of eyeliner and mascara.

Christian and Gloria.

Me and him.

Him and her...

Not us. Not now.

I set the frame down carefully back into place, and look up at the similar girl in the mirror. Her hair is lower, falling out of place with a lack of redo. Her shirt is light gray, splattered with the blood of a random citizen of the town known as Suburbia, but is actually Berkeley.
Her makeup is smeared, and she looks tired. There is nothing fantastic or beautiful about her, maybe I think this because she is the reflection of myself, the self I refuse to accept. I've never been entirely confident of my appearance. But I grew familiar with it when I met one boy who didn't point out each of the flaws.

I smile down at the frame, then frown. Things have changed so much then, over a matter of six months, whatever friendship we'd had dissolved and now he doesn't want to see me, that is why I shouldn't be here. In this crypt of memories. It was stupid of me to have come here seeking some kind of safe haven, even if I'd done it involuntarily.

The day I met him though, before he became polluted with the need to join gangs, smoke, drink and burn everything to the ground, he was actually a decent kid. Like the 'take him home to meet your parents' quality of kid. Too bad he's a lost cause now. It made me sick to my stomach to think.

The day I met Christian, I was at a pretty low point, I didn't really know what I wanted, but I knew how to stay out of trouble. I avoided the riots and gangs, I stayed inside but still held out on my anti-political ways. My strong dislike towards the government.
That was one of the things I shared with Christian.

Christian was your average geeky boy, who just happened to look good while doing it. His wardrobe of graphic and band tees, skinny jeans and converse, the way he talked about politics caught me in fascination, and all I could do was simply listen.

Christian, essentially, hailed from a Christian family. His mom and dad, two sisters and an older brother in college. Christian played in a garage band called The Class of 13 and was a master at playing drums, bass and rhythm guitar, sometimes he sang.

Christian lived in a suburb house on the west side of town, in a small house, with the perfect lawn, a tire swing out front and a neat little picket fence and flower garden. Christian's room was always a mess, clothes, books and assorted music equipment all over the floor. Then... When he started to change, after he turned eighteen, he moved out to this place, this ratty apartment. Joined a gang, quit his band and gave up on everything he had planned except his anti-government propaganda that he riots with.

I sigh and turn away from the picture and mirror, facing his living room, just standing here, I could tell who lived here. From the loads of concert posters on the walls, advertisements for his favorite bands playing clubs, and the posters he had for Nirvana, Green Day and Blink-182.

It was sad, and I could feel it. His absent presence here more than anywhere. More than his old empty room in his parents' house, more than mine. His darkness moving throughout the room like a living, breathing creature. Brooding, and waiting for the chance to tell me to get the fuck out again, to tell me it didn't love me anymore, and I quote "I have better, more important things to be doing than screwing around with some chick."

That was the lowest blow. I felt sick after he said it, and could hardly find the self restraint to keep from slugging him across the jaw. Lord knows he'd have it coming.

I couldn't take anymore, then. I peeked outside the blinds one last time before abandoning his home. I would have run from the house, but first, I had some unfinished business to do. I stopped long enough to wrench open the hood of his car, which he had left on the curb weeks ago when he'd hitched a ride with Tunny to the next town that day... It didn't take me long to find the spot under his hood, the one stupid part that united us because I could fix it. I took out my switchblade and snipped the wires again, grabbing the wrench from the ground, pounding away at his engine, undoing what I'd fixed for him.

I flipped off his home and walked away with some dignity down the street, where after every block, my heart fell more and more, and the more realistic the scenario had become. We were not one, we were two. Two very separate people, who according to him, are and could never be, the same.

My breathing became heavy with panic, exhaustion and sadness, I proceeded to place one conversed foot in front of the other as I continued to walk away.

And that's what inspired me most to stop being like him. To stop doing what he does, leading his army of clueless minions into the heart of the city to wreck havoc.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's be realistic here, once apon a time, Christian wasn't such a bad guy. Actually, he was the greatest guy, the greatest thing in my life, and soon he became the only thing in my life and then nothing but a memory.