Categories > Celebrities > Panic! At The Disco > Bet You Ten Bucks I Can Make You Regret Her

Rip What You Sew

by XxMyChemicalPanicsxX 6 reviews

"Ripping What You Sew" and "Reaping What You Sow" are two VERY different things.

Category: Panic! At The Disco - Rating: R - Genres: Angst,Erotica,Horror - Warnings: [V] [X] [R] - Published: 2008-06-22 - Updated: 2008-06-23 - 2082 words - Complete

0Unrated
This is it people!!!! THE END!!! Oh I'm so happy I can barely contain myself. Though I must admit, I'm scared out my goddamn mind. I have no clue what you all will think but I guess I'll find out when you review. You know if you review.... Please review.

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The feeling now?
Embarrassment.

I don't get it.
I can't get it.

How one can be so naive.
How one can be so blind.
How one can be so fucking stupid.

We all know what I was seeing.
What I thought I wanted to see.
And hear.

It's Halloween.
Infatuation and Abhorrence decide to dress up as each other.
Poor Gumption didn't get the memo though.
But that's okay.
Lots of people didn't.

Gumption is fine now.
Gumption is doing his job now.

I've taken off the ring long ago.
It's not mine.
It never was mine.
It never will be mine.

I've already put it in my mind that I will never have a ring on that finger again.
Who can put it there?
Who can put up with me?
Who can handle me?
Judging by the position I'm in now, not even I can handle me.

I've given the ring back to its owner.

I'm alone now.
Alone meaning the only body here.
Long have they left.

Every hair curled, every cheek blushed, every tooth bright.
Every bone in place, every contusion hidden, every wound sealed.

Bathed and dressed in a gown that would make Cinderella rage with envy, the not so blushing bride sat with her head upon her dapper groom's shoulder,
just like old times.

They didn't say anything.
Not that I expected them to.
I wouldn't talk to me either.
Never did they stir.
Only for the occasional speed bump.

I'm not that bad, you know.
I wanted to make amends.
And that was my way of doing it.

No.
They didn't marry.
And no.
Their crowning moment wasn't in a wedding chapel.

But with their bands squeezing the decaying and distended flesh of their ring fingers, they lay eternally in one another's hold in a bed they call their own.

Yet still, I don't understand the whole 'till death do us part' thing.
Why?
For they never parted to begin with.
And that's how I want it to stay.

The ride home from Salem was the worst.
For it was then that I realized I was really and truly alone.

I hear no longer.
It's not that I say I miss It.
It's not that I say I blame It.

But It gave me a sense of security.
I refuse to call It, Me.
That can't be Me can it?
It always told me it was.
I never believed It.
If I did, I'd be gone along with It.
And I'd never be able to convey this.

After It left, I finally find out what I needed the coffee grounds for.
When burned it removes the scent of death.
The normal person isn't supposed to know that.

But it's still here.
The presence.
The scent.

Her perfume.
Her remains.

His shampoo.
His blood.

I lay on my bed.
Eyes closed but sleep won't engulf me.
Which makes me wonder.
For a short amount of time,
I slept,
And ate,
And laughed,
And smiled.
But will I sleep now?
Or will my ashes stir restlessly?

Another thought.
As I tried.
Tried to find peace and tranquility,
A week ago,
He was in the exact same spot.
Only a few inches down,
Trying to find hope in a name.

A combination of things, presumes me woozy, unsteady, and unfeeling.
I validate it.
I drag the knife by my side as roughly across the thin skin of my throat as I can.
And I splash into the Red Sea.

I kindly greet the fishies that pass my way.
They all take a wholesome bite out of my leg before one finally drags me back onto shore.

Didn't feel a thing.
But I'm just gonna wait it out.
It wasn't until after the pills were ingested that I decided I want to feel this.

I want to feel the pain I will inflict upon myself.
In memorial of them.

I'm just gonna wait it out.

So I pass time.
I care.
My pact ran away from me remember.
So I write.
To my parents, to my band mates, to the media.
Easy.
To their parents.
Hard.
It's not a simple task explaining to four parents that their children are not on a two week cruise.

It's not a simple task explaining to four parents that there is no need to meet up with their children on the pier tomorrow because they won't be coming off the ship they never boarded.

How can you explain?
"Dear Mr. and Mrs. Urie/Moretti,
I'm sorry to say but I killed your son/daughter and disposed of his/her body afterwards."

That's why I keep writing.
Yet that's what I keep writing.
I have overflowed my garbage bin.
I'm down to five sheets of paper out of a pack of 500.

I write.
Quickly.
Now reading back, it's the most pathetic thing I've ever read but, it'll do.

Hours pass so I decide to test myself out again.
I walk slowly to the stairs.

Shutting my eyes, I shift all my weight forward and I allow myself to tumble down.

Once at the base of the stairs I begin hissing in pain, holding my right shoulder as I figure out what that popping noise was on the sixth step.

My little margarita mix has worn off but I'm still not ready.
I'm sure that by the time I'm done preparing I will be.

I stand up, pop my shoulder back in with another hiss, and painfully head back up the stairs again, almost slipping and falling all the way back down again on a tiny puddle of blood.

When reaching upstairs I head towards the bathroom and shut the door.

Long ago has the large mirror over the sink met my fist.
Now I stare at the asphalt-colored wall behind it.

Undressing I step into the shower.
Letting the scalding hot water rush over me, I can't help but scream out as it hits the deep wound on my neck.

But I can't stay in here fooling around.
I have business to tend to.

Soon stepping out of the shower, I get dressed, tend to my wound and step into the guest bedroom.

There I retrieve my bag.

Leaving, I sit in front of the linen closet.
Here.
Where I'd guard my prisoners.
I no longer say guests.
Guests want to be there.
Here.
Where I'd sit, for hours and hours on end, raking through my mind, digging up new ways of torture.

And this is why I have to go.
What I did was not fully reliable on a term of insanity.
As far as I'm concerned, I.... am?
I was?
No.
I am only half insane.
The other half, my "logical" half, knew what they were doing.

I knew completely what I was doing.
So there's no reason for me not to do this.
There's no way that I'll have an easy life if I don't.
I've realized.
Long ago.
Don't think for a second that it was all
"Blah, blah, blah, and we'll live happily ever after."

I (as much as I didn't want to) went over the consequences.
The facts.
The opinions.
The choices.

I knew what would happen if this didn't go the way I wanted.
Only thing is, I knew it wasn't going to happen that way.

The car hit me all the same though.
In my mind I knew that there was that chance.
The slight chance that the executioners might find out that the electric chair isn't plugged in,
But it's not like it was wasn't when I started.

I mean, come on.

The only thing.
The only thing I didn't think thoroughly of:
What if he doesn't love me.

Not once did the even thought of that cross my mind.
I knew he loved me.
Loves me.
Loved me.
Loves me.
Loved me.

Taking deep breaths, I unzip the bag in front of me.
And pull out the Semi- automatic pistol that was buried all the way at the bottom.

This is heavier than I thought.

Loading and cocking it back, I gently place it next to the bag.

Letting my head tilt back, I do something I never thought I'd do again.

I prayed.
To whom?
Well that's beyond me.
I gave up on God when he gave up on me.
But still I pray.
Not knowing or caring who's listening.

Not that anyone is.

Picking my head back up again, I avoid my reflection on the gun.

One last thing.
One last try.

Hello?
Hello?


No answer.

Well, whether you're there or not, I'll just go on.
I'm leaving now.
I'm not sure if you'll be coming with me or if I'll be going to you....
But either way...
I kinda hope to hear from you again...


I stop.
I can't force myself to continue.

Picking up my fate, I place my finger on the trigger.

It's now or never.

Opening my mouth, I delicately place the cold steel upon my tongue and shiver.

I close my eyes.
Breathing in and out deeply I begin counting down.

Ten.







Nine.






Eight.






Seven.






Six.






Five.






Four.






Three.






Two.






"RYAN!! WHERE ARE YOU!!"

I jump, dropping the barrel down my throat and gagging loudly on it.

"Oh, would you quit yelling. I mean, really!"

I recognize the two voices as Jon and Spencer.

Jittery from the adrenaline coursing through my body, my eyes go wide, my breathing irregular.

What the fuck do I do now?
Do I go downstairs and make them go away?
Do I go through with it anyway?

I feel like crying and screaming.
But tears fell long ago.
I know I don't bother anymore.
For if I cry again, blood will replace the salty fluid in my lacrimal glands

Wildly picking at my fingertips, my heart rate quickens as I hear footsteps come up the stairs.

I pick up the gun.

The footsteps come closer.

Still not knowing what to do I place my finger back on the trigger.

"Hey Ryan?"

Spencer reaches the top of the stairs.
My heart drops.

Turning in my direction he stop in his tracks.

"Ryan."

I raise the gun.

"Wh- What are you doing?"

Making up my mind I fire the gun.





And watch as Spencer's face twists in pain and agony and as he tumbles back down the stairs.

My hands still shaking I place the gun back on my tongue as I hear more footsteps come up the stairs.

Jon is up about two seconds later.
Frozen in the spot Spencer was, he begins shaking his head no, wide eyed and mouth agape.

He takes a step towards me and I turn my gaze away from him.

Closing my eyes, I hear more steps towards me.

No turning back now.


And I pull the trigger two times quick.







I slump over forward and my head hits the ground with a loud thud.

Someone comes.
Someone comes to my side.
And strokes my hair.
Whispering to me.

I can't see this someone.

The blood covers my eyes like a diffident young female, hiding behind her long auburn hair.

I try to moan but all that comes out is a fountain of blood.

I shake.
I shake the most I've ever shook.
And someone holds me.

Soon, I hear many voices.
EMT.

I can't move.
I try to.
But I just can't.

I hear things.
Can't make them out.
But I hear things.

It's okay?

Whoever this is.
Speaking this shit in my ear,
Must be fucking retarded.

Though they probably don't know why, they do know that I won't be okay.

It's fucking obvious.

I know I'll never look the same.
I know I'll never walk the same.
I know I'll never be the same.

How do you think I must feel, you idiot?

Obviously I did this as a way out.
Because I can't do anything right.
And look what I can't do right.

Fuck Irony.

"Ryan? Help's here. You're gonna make it. You're gonna be okay."
Tearful.

Fuck that.
I know that's just false.

Because,

I'm out of my mind.
Out of my luck.
Out of your grasp.
And out of ten bucks.
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