Runaway Life With Rock Stars

Chapter Five

Charles had previously opened the door to ensure my temperature going back to normal and said in a cheery tone, “Just a few other spoons of remedy and your high-quality by means of tomorrow.” While he was in high spirits, they killed me because I didn't want to drink the liquids anymore and lay with ice bags and get attention I wasn't used to which made things feel awkward. He had left of a few minutes as I laid in the bunk to wait for nothing.
Buzz…Buzz…Buzz…
“Ugh, you stupid fly!” I shouted with useless swinging my arms trying to smack it away. “You’ll die if you don’t stop your harassment!” It landed on my forehead. Leisurely my hand made way in attempt to smack but the stupid fly flew off in time and I hit myself instead. For one thing it was good I harmed myself than kill the damn insect for the reason of not wanting a filthy creature splattered on my head—Ew! And second of all, it impaired me so I wouldn’t be flabbergasted if there was a red hand distinct on my appearance.
When Charles came back, he asked, “What happened to your face?” He indicated his forehead to reflect mine. "You got a hand-mark there.”
Yes Charles, please humiliate me a bit extra so I twist red and the mark dissolves into my flush. “Long story, if you actually want to know.”
“Yes, please share,” he waited, retrieving a towel from somewhere. I looked at him with my head to receptiveness to one plane a fragment and glared to him like it’s-not-really-your-business but he didn’t see me give it to him. I summarized curtly, “It was a fly’s fault.” It sounded amusing through gritted teeth. He laughed as he picked up some of the unclean clothes that were flung here and there by the guys like if it were a scavenger search where you had to try and find their sweaty clothes in the darkest corners of the room.
“Hey Charles, what’s that weird stick everyone’s been sticking into my mouth, anyway?” I asked.
In person he had the weirdest chuckle an old guy could possibly be physically born with; it was freepy seeing that it sounded like an insane aged man under a bridge rocking himself single-handedly as he talked to himself with whisky in one hand. However, this man named Charles was a healthy man with the awful amusement that would elevate the skin-hairs.
He answered, “It’s a thermometer. It estimates your body’s warmth.” Oh, so that’s how they been doing it! And I thought it was a magical stick that would see the health future of whoever had it in their mouth. I was mortified by my retarded wisdom, but at the slightest I was close!
I was much better with the temperature status and Charles let me walk around the bus. Yes, well, what I have to say now is that walking around in the bus is quite comfortable; it was very refreshing to flex out more than when wearing pants and. If only I could have done this all my life, but of course it’s not possible because the rest of the humans would think I’m a weirdo. “I can’t wait to see Gerard to tell him what you’ve told me! I’m not okay yet, but almost,” I told Charles half-heartedly.
He began to inform me with “Well, they’re almost coming so you might as well wait here and—”
Until I interrupted. “I’m hungry, Charles. What are we eating?” He raised an eyebrow. Oops!
“As I was saying, we’ll eat what we can think of when I come back with something, so don’t go anywhere. Understand? That means you cannot reply the door in the least of fans; security guards are exposed out there to secure the bus but if there are any devious ones, don’t respond to it. Is that comprehensible?”
Of course, this is the part where I nod my head and salut to him like a soldier would to his sergeant, and this is also the part where he shoots out the bus door. He really reminds me of the words the Samuels would say to me in reference of opening or leaving the doorway at all times since it was intolerable for my sake. Blah, I say because they didn’t want me to leave them and/or be taken away since...oh I don’t know…I was their secret minion/slave...
The first seven minutes where very boring; even acting out like a maniac in the bunkroom while loud music played from cars outside who passed around the bus. I sighed and was ready to take it to the extreme and see what people would do if they saw me in my underwear. Yes…yes! I shall see what its like! Muahahaha!
But first I had other things to do before I could go outside. Hmm…, I have no idea how to start first though.

After doing what I had considered, Charles happened to take an eternally at the store or wherever it was he went to get food. I dodged in and shut the door of the lavatory when he came back. While he was busy looking at a paper, I peed and washed up. Looking at the reflection of what the hanging mirror on the wall revealed, I was startled and jumped back. Who the freak was that? Oh...wait...it’s me. I looked so unusual than what I had looked like former times. My pale skin…had a shade—it had color! It was always ever so pale but now it was sort of rose-tinted at my cheeks , though it’s not much to cause a party for its change. No, it was probably because I wasn’t so dehydrated this time, and/or because of this “fever” I had. My lips were a bright natural red; my hair was soft to the fact that it was clean by the shower Mikey forced me to take. For one thing, really, I’ve always looked at myself before and saw an unhappy girl with sorrow in her eyes in any reflextion…but now my eyes glittered as if they had been polished, and made me look more alive. It was so strange though, only yesterday had that look existed in my appearance and now it was replaced by something unfamiliar. Ha! I was still ugly though. So there was nothing different to say about that.
“Jaddus?” Charles summoned, muffled by the blocked entry of the lavatory. I slowly opened and slipped out the door and with legs parted, hands held out in front of me with my gun. I shouted, "Freeze!”
Charles turned around and was startled. He lost interest as a few seconds took place. “Put that gun away Jaddus!” Aw. He killed my inspiration of shooting him with my finger-gun. Sheesh. My hands lowered at shoulder width. A surprise attack came from Charles and I get shot who-knows-where. I fell on the floor with a thump and Charles blew at the mouth of the pistol. “Ha-Ha! I got you!”
Getting up with pain I shot him back and he fell on the couch, hand at heart. “I got some Chinese food...ugh...” His tongue stuck out as I shouted at him, "No fair C! You cheated!"
"C?" Charles repeated.
"Yeah, I'm calling you C from now on," I informed.

“What’s your favorite color, C?” I asked while we ate away
He answered, “Well I like gray, blue, and green.”
“Gasp!” I barely touch my lips with my hand. “No kidding! Your very horny C! Much the less, green is my favorite color. It doesn’t mean anything right now unless if you’re wearing it, heh-heh.”
“Cool. You know, my niece’s favorite color is green, though she wears a great deal of black .” I lost interest in this so I took a sip of soda and asked between swigs, “So...are you like...MCR’s personal driver?”
“Temporary driver. Their real driver got sick and asked me to take over. Why do you ask?”
“Its just that I wondered if you enjoyed being one because Mr. Samuels would always complain the very moment he made it home from driving a taxi through traffic everyday.”
“Well, I enjoy being a bus driver because I get to travel more than a taxi cab ever would. I get to take a break when I get tired and its good pay, depending on who I drive, that is.”
I nodded. “So tell me about the band. I've actually never heard of them. Never.”
“Where to begin!” He swallowed his white rice. "Well they started out in New Jersey shortly after the twin towers incident in Manhattan, which had inspired Gerard to form a band, which rose to be the greatest so far, well in my opinion at least. Their first song was Skylines And Turnstiles—very beautiful. They’ve had wrecked lives but not as much as yours as far as I could make out. Anyways, My Chemical Romance’ s whole purpose is to save lives; But for that reason, of trying to help people with their music, they’ve been known as an ‘emo band’ since a bunch of emo kids love them. Though, Gerard rejects that by saying that ‘emo is a pile of shit’ but some humans still refer to them as ‘emo.' My Chem is inspiring to their fans because they motivate them to ‘keep on living' as it says in Famous Last Words; but not just that song, many others if you listen to the lyrics in a careful manner. So yeah, they motivate people to go through life no matter how shitty it gets. Know what I mean?” He finger quoted as he spoke. I thought about out it a minute or two, while he scratched his almost-bald gray-haired head.
“So they all lived in New Jersey, and were friends from the start to form the band?”
Without hesitation he clarified. “No. Bob is from Chicago. Matt Pelisser used to be the drummer for My Chem until he was kicked out. No one likes him anyways.” He wrinkled his nose.
“Okay...”
He eyed my Honey Chicken. “Are you going to eat that?”
“Nah—you can have it. I’m as stuffed as a turkey.” I patted my tummy with both hands as I struggle to jiggle it down and up. I wasn’t fat enough. He reached over without a word for the chicken and munched away.
I broke his joyous moment. “Does this bus have little secret holes around? Holes where you stick little things in to keep secret?” He stared at me with food at its course.
“Not that I know of. This really isn’t my bus. My friend drives it, remember?” Oh yes, I remember. “Why do you ask? Planning to hide or steal anything?” he added rather calmly.
“No. I was just curious 'cause it's a big bus,” I lied partially.
“This bus isn't that big," he claimed.
I gave him a Blond Offended Gasp. “Well, it’s certainly much superior than having to tour in a jam-packed mini-van!” I defended my point. It was true; traveling with Tony and the other members, in a suffocating mini-van without a twitch of a single muscle for what seemed like hours...yeah...that’s how tight it was.
Shifting the topic I questioned, “So how are the guys really like to you?” For real, I could overtake as some journalist— numerous questions I ask, no? Yes, I know.
“They are like family to me. Adapted well and all, they’re easy to get along with.” He opinioined with an honest heart. “What did you mean by a ‘mini-van’ tour? Did you know that’s how they first started?”
“No I didn't know that,” I responded. “But about the mini-van tour, that’s how it’s been in my life for a few years now.”
“Were you touring with other bands?” He was puzzled as this was simple to comprehend. Seriously, does he have to make things harder to explain! Sherlock Holmes would have been the worst detective if he had Charles as his psychic. And did Charles happen to fall asleep when I was talking about my past?
I spoke carefully as if he was a demented retard. “No, Charles. The kidnappers and their minions were the ones I had spent some years traveling with in a damn mini-van!” My words ended up in an aggressive tone.
“Language!” He exclaimed. I folded my arms over my almost-flat-chest and glared at him. It was something natural for me after years of hearing it and such; it got glued onto my vocabulary.
He said no more and the meal went by quietly; only to be broken again by my big mouth no sooner than a minute or so. “You know, you’re the only person I know who’s enjoyed driving around,” I thought aloud. His fork had deafened in scraping the paper plate, whilst his grind softened.
“Is that so,” he responded rather slow but honored at the appeal of it. It wasn’t a compliment, if that’s what he thought. It was more of a…something. But it wasn’t a compliment and it wasn’t something rude, either.
“Yeah, really,” I went along. “Your not like them.” I had referred to the guys who's names are just unmentionable at the moment. “You actually enjoy it more and appreciated it for the good, it's not a scheme or something to complain about it. I don’t know, like you’re a safe driver.” Now that was a compliment. “It makes you different because you don’t do the things they do, and that makes you cool,” I added. I really had no idea what in the world I was saying, but at least it wasn’t silence.
He smiles sweetly like gingerbread pie. “Thanks for the compliments. Dare I say, I like your hair?”
An eyebrow rose, I pointed out to him, “Didn’t you already dare?” He laughed at this. Amazing how he had a life in him; I didn’t know what my laughter sounded like. Perhaps I wasn’t born with any laugh and I was laugh-less and boring like a trunk of a tree sitting in the middle of nowhere. Maybe that’s why the “mother” had abandoned me before it got to late, for the reason that she realized I wasn't a normal child, that I was someone without any sense of humor in a bone she had connected to her cadaver. A weakness filled my inner soul and I was down again. With a weak 'thanks' to Charles that slipped through my purse lips that were starting to feel chapped once more. Without a glance, I said to him, forcing a nice tone, “I like your almost-bald spot.”
Chucking up was a feeling that was charming over as the mouthful of air, intensely and slow, ghastly subsided. Phew!
He got up and threw away his paper plate, grabbing a towel from one of the cabinets in the mini hall way and said, “I’m going to take a shower, Jad. The same rules apply once more, so obey them, okay.” It wasn’t a question, as you could see; it was an order. Saluting once more to him, I had my fingers-crosses behind my back—just incase I broke that promise. Time passed and it was getting boring. So jumping off the couch, I searched the bus, (cleaning as I went through), and was out the door.

Though I broke my promise. I had previously slipped into the restroom, crawling quietly with screwed-tight eyes, and felt for my old clothes. Once out of there safely without a sound (partly by the miracle where Charles started to sing louder at the notes of the lyrics every time there was a creak or when I'd bumped into something since my eyes were tightly closed), I slipped on my pants with struggle since I couldn’t fit in them anymore, they had shrunk just like I was told they were; so there were some new fresh rips at the sides for all the squeezing I had to force. After the pants were stuffed onto my legs, I ran out. I guess I can never be the good-girl and keep useless promises, having behavior of someone from the streets . But I had a mission.
Once around the corner of the building, I glanced back at the security guards, who were looking at me like “what the…?” and kept my march, patting the side pocket to check that the drug pouches were still there. I needed to sell them to some next depressed loser in case I didn’t have enough money for my mission. Oh well, if I ruin another life for someone else; but there're looking for it, right?