Rooftops
Going to stick a suicide trigger warning here real quick idk just in case x
Hotel days were rare on Warped.
We got maybe three in the whole tour if we were lucky.
Most nights were spent in the cramped darkness of tour bus bunks.
I treasured what little time we did get in hotels, not only because our bus stank of sweat and old takeaway but because of the privacy it offered.
I liked being alone in the evening. It gave me time to simply be with my thoughts.
That's a downright lie. I hated it for that exact reason but it was more of a need than a desire. A need to sort the wreckage that the day's events had left in my aching brain.
It was late July and the sun was just about blazing above the horizon when we rolled up to the second hotel of the tour.
I saw another bus rolling out of the parking lot as we entered. It wasn't uncommon to have multiple bands at one hotel, the only problem being it made you a key target to mobs of fans and paparazzi.
-
"You sure you don't want to share a room?" Patrick asked for what had to be the twelfth time.
"Stop worrying. I'll be alright. Get some rest, 'Trick" I attempted to brush off a paranoid Patrick.
I appreciated his concern, I really did but I also appreciated the privacy of not having to convince him that I'm okay every five minutes.
He nodded at me, looking uncertain and I disappeared into my room.
I ran and threw myself onto the double bed and lay spread on my front for at least ten minutes before my eyes fell on the mini-fridge.
I opened it and was pleased to see it was well stocked with drinks and a price list which I ignored as I helped myself to a beer.
There was a sliding door leading out onto a balcony with two chairs and a table to my left. I opened it in the hope of stopping myself from walking straight into it before digging around in my bag. It took little under a minute before I came back with the same battered notebook I'd had since Christmas last year. I ignore the few pages that fell out onto the floor and headed outside.
The view outside was electric. The lights of the city beginning to illuminate as the sun slunk lower towards the skyline, back into hiding.
The city lights always gave me an odd sort of melancholic feeling in my chest, I'd never been able to explain it but it made me feel heavy. Heavier than already at least.
I sighed and drank as I stared out at the life buzzing below. All people, all with their own little private lives.
Not that it was at all significant in any way.
None of it mattered. That seemed to be becoming my motto these days.
None of it mattered at all.
None of us do.
I certainly don't.
Nothing I say or do has any lasting impact on the world. When I die, my memory will rapidly begin to fade into nothing like I might never have existed in the first place. It's inevitable and life is pointless.
And I'm certainly not doing anyone any favours by projecting my views into the world. By rallying all those who think like me and taking their money in exchange for poetry composed of thoughts they've already had.
I'm not unique.
And Patrick can insist that I'm helping until forever ends but that's not true.
These people, these teenagers, they idolise me for whatever reason. So when the outcome of my thought process finally hits; when word gets around that I've hit the ground from fifty foot above. Then what?
The man...the boy they've elected leader of their view on life knows the outcome of his. And it comes before he reaches 28.
Is that their example to follow? That's another valid point from Patrick.
But they're not stupid. They'll find someone else. Someone like me, there's plenty out there.
But less of a coward. Somebody who won't poison their daydreams with metaphors of sex, pills and death.
Somebody less toxic.
That's a good word now that I think about it. An appropriate word.
When something becomes too toxic, when it begins to ruin the life around it, they bury it, deep in the ground.
That's the obvious thing to do, is it not? It's the right thing to do.
-
I was well and truly gone. Into the labyrinth of my own mind, growing more and more agitated as I realised the exits had been sealed off, and for good this time.
Patrick had any kind of medication I'd been prescribed hidden away, leaving me with just what I needed for the night. Except it wasn't what I needed at all. What I needed was the whole damn bottle of pills and a pen.
Practical thinking was never my forte, I've always been useless at anything that wasn't putting ink on a page. So now that my life or rather, my death actually depended on it I needed to think outside the box.
I didn't have a gun. You think Patrick, the emo band mom, would ever allow that?
I remember My Chem had one when I crashed at their bus. God knows where they were right now but I hope somebody is keeping it well away from Gerard.
I'm a fucking hypocrite.
My empty drink fell off the table with a clatter and I jumped.
Then it hit me.
Incredible how stupid a person called a genius by the media daily can really be.
Standing on a table, I hauled myself up and onto the floor above, not an actual room, just a platform and then up again.
-
I was stood on the roof of a hotel looking down. I could feel the static drone of the city under my skin.
I was alone and not backing down.
There was a note written on on the first page of the notebook I still held in my hand. Addressed to Patrick more than anyone.
"I'm sorry. And tell Mikey Way that I'm a fucking idiot and I'm in love with him."
Thrown out of the blue in the middle of a list of apologies. Carelessly simple but enough to tear the boy with the beanie and the weight of the world on his shoulders apart at the seams. I briefly wondered what Patrick would say to him. I just hoped I wouldn't drop the book as I tumbled.
My feet were moving so they were over the edge and I braved a glance down. Sickness shot straight to my stomach and I almost fell back. Thankfully I couldn't see anyone on their balconies watching my crippling lack of bravery from below.
I could just step and that would be it. My mind would finally be at rest and my thoughts wouldn't be able to suffocate me if I wasn't breathing. Patrick wouldn't have to worry. All these teenagers might still have some hearing left by the time they're 21.
My legs had died without me and I wasn't moving anywhere so I sat down.
I hesitated rocking forwards a little but steadying myself with my palms.
I couldn't.
In a finally feeble effort to bide myself some time I took out my phone any posted on any social media I still had access to.
"Think. Always think.
Think of yourself more than anything. And be there for those around you. Be strong, keep dreaming and learn to let go. You'll make it, kid.
P xo"
It was rushed. It was pointless. I didn't read it back.
I placed my hands over my ears and stood up again.
If I was choosing to be a coward, I was going to be brave about it.
Silence, bright lights, buzzing chemicals in my veins.
"I'm sorry." I whispered to no-one in particular and the entire world at the same time as I closed my eyes and made a move forwards.
I could feel a foot over the edge, resting on nothing but I wasn't falling. I tried again, harder but didn't move.
I opened my eyes and felt a tightness around my waist.
I started to panic as I was pulled back by a pair of arms.
They weren't restraining me so much now my feet were back on solid ground, more so hugging me from behind, very tightly. As if their life depended on it as my as mine.
"No." The voice behind me whispered.
I felt my heart drop to my feet, maybe even straight out my body. I was so far beyond fucked.
I went limp against his grip.
"Mikey." I said pathetically.
"You're not leaving me. Not like this. Not with a shitty livejournal post." His voice was weak.
He turned me around and I could see he was crying. Not just a few tears running down his cheeks but shaking from head to toe, pink faced and heartbroken.
"Mikey." I repeated helplessly.
"You're a fucking idiot, Pete Wentz. Jesus Christ." He shook his head at me.
"I know. And I'm sorry." I mumbled.
"No, you're not. And I don't care. Just tell me how you're feeling because you never do that. And don't fucking lie to me." He was shaking so badly. It was starting to get cold but I knew very well that had nothing to do with it.
I sank down and sat cross legged at his feet. He followed.
"I feel like an idiot for a start. And a coward. And a liar. And I am all of those things." I sighed.
"Those aren't feelings." He was wiping his eyes on the back of his hand.
I though for a long time then addressed him again.
"I feel fucking scared. Of myself, of my reputation, of my responsibility. Fuck, even of my own mind. I feel sad. So sad I can't move some days. I feel heavy, I'm dead weight."
A play on words. I saw something in his eyes flicker in the way they always did when I said something smart or poetic.
"I feel insignificant but above all I feel poisonous." I concluded.
"How so?"
"Look around me. Not around yourself, around me. Anyone who's close to me. Do my fans seem happy to you? Does Patrick? Does anyone who read my livejournal. Buying a fall out boy album is basically the equivalent label of having a therapist. I ruin everything in my vicinity, Mikey and I'm not trying it's just how I am. And that's a horrible thing to have to carry around." I shut my eyes and sighed. "I feel vulnerable." I added as an afterthought.
"What about me?" He asked.
"What about you?"
"You said everyone around you is unhappy because of you. That's not quite true. Given, I'm not exactly little miss sunshine but I'm happy around you. Pete, you make me feel like I'm alive. You give me reason to get up, to come find you, talk to you, make you smile. You make me want to skip parties and practices just to listen to your thoughts. And that means something whether you like to hear it or not."
I was stunned for a moment. In my mind I was always just something to do, someone to kiss, for Mikey.
"Your fans. He continued. They're not upset because of you, they just are. I've seen their faces when you're onstage. They're grinning, they're dancing, fuck, they're laughing. You're like them and you're still kicking, therefore so are they. You give them something to hold onto Pete. And you're right. Your music is their therapy."
For somebody who earned their living with words, I was doing pretty badly to think of a single sentence in reply to that.
"Look." Mikey seemed to detect my lack of ability to respond and lay back on the floor.
He was pointing at the night sky. It was the clearest it had been all summer.
I lay beside him and he put his arm round me, pulling me closer. I could hear his heart thumping and his chest rose and fell against my head.
It might have been 10 minutes, it might have been two hours but I lay with him and watched the stars. There was beauty in this world. In the form of distant, burning gases in space and in the form of human beings with beating hearts and love in their eyes.
"Stay alive." It sounded almost like a question as the words left his lips
"For you."
It was simple but I knew he understood me and I knew that he knew it was a strange way of saying 'I love you.'
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It's probably going to be the year 2050 and I still won't be over ginasfs that song is an emotional ride to say the least.
Anyways Shit I'm finding it difficult to write happy stuff at the moment (as evident) so I guess I've given up. I should rename this collection Petekey angst central.
Anyway I hope you're having a nice day and thanks for the comments, votes and reads ily (*^-^*)
Until the next chapter,
~Lauren xoxo