FicWad

[ A/N I hate this chapter so much. It's more of a filler than anything, but I still wrote it six times before I settled with something half decent
Criticise away. review, please, even if you don't like the story? I really need to improve yanno ]

I feel like I'm in a cage. It's in a dark place, and the tiniest bit of light hits it ,causing shadows to settle across the cage. The metal of the cage bars is slightly scratched, but apart from that nothing else indicates a way I can escape. There's no lock. there's no way out. I'm trapped there, forever, in this small dark room, in an even smaller, darker cage, and I'm craving a way to escape, but the thing is, there isn't one.

My house is just the same. I don't refer to it as my home, because it never has felt like one. It smells of all these things the old Pete Wentz would have only taken in measured accounts, the house is so untidy you could probably lose yourself in the junk on the floor, and I haven't paid the electricity bills, so apart from the slight light streaming through the curtained windows, the room is shrouded in shadows. It seems like a ghost house. It doesn't seem like mine. It seems like a stranger's; an outsider's. it never was mine.

I spend the entire day brooding over this shit I've spilled my heart into, and drinking even more. It's disgusting, it's pathetic, but I can't stop. My writing is barely readable to anyone else, and I doubt when I'm sober I'll be able to read the untidy scrawl I've lapsed into, but for now every word is completely clear to me, and that's all I care about. This is my only way out, this is my only escape from the real world, and the challenges of reality. It's as if it's testing me, waiting for me to finally make a right decision, and wincing sympathetically as I fail to make that decision, and ending up falling even further into this dark place I've found myself lost in.

I don't like this dark place. All it does is drag me further and further into my own grave, and the more I let myself play with death, the more I help sentence my own death. I feel like I'm being continually mocked by death, so close but yet so far. So near to death, but so far away from that. I think it'd be paradise compared to here. Or maybe not. Because there you don't have the continual hope that you'll die soon.

It's sad that's the only thing I have to cling onto anymore. That this won't last forever. one day, I just won't wake up, and it'll all be over. This nightmare will be finished, this dream that's been haunting me for years, but has only really surfaced in the past year or so, will end.

I don't go looking for trouble. it just seems to find me. Actually, scratch that. I sound like Harry Potter. How pathetic am I?

I don't expect you to answer. You're an inanimate object, but you're the only thing I have; the only thing I can actually open up to without feeling like a fool. You don't judge me, you don't mock me, you just sit there and listen, and don't interrupt. You remind me of a bit like Patrick, only I think that this thing I'm having with Patrick might actually turn into something worth keeping. With you, it'll only end up in me being strapped in a white jacket, because talking to inanimate objects is a big no on those disphits list.

They don't get it. No-one does. Either that, or I'm just going mad. I reel so isolated, like everyone I once knew has moved on, and I'm stuck in the same place, with no-one to turn to, except a damn notebook. No-one at all. No-one to lean on when things get tough (understatement much?), heck I don't even have someone to just hang out with anymore, and pretend everything's normal, even for a few minutes. pretend that reality isn't reality, and it's just some crazy hyped up dream. pretend that everything's perfect. Pretend that we're all unstoppable, untouchable, invincible.

Like when we were kids, and girls had some weird, contagious disease that stopped us from touching them. When my parents could do no wrong, and my brother was superman, and my sister was some weird stranger. When you didn't have to worry about "when you grow up", or what you wear for school, or what people think of you. Nothing mattered, nothing that's so ridiculously important anymore. They're the days I dream about on the best of days, and wake up with a sense of longing so deep that I think I'm ill for a second.

Then I realize I am ill, mentally at least. I'm completely fucked up, and there's no cure for that.

I'm not sure how long I've sat here, in the dark, slumped up against the wall with my head lolling slightly, just writing and writing and writing, until my head hurts too much to continue. I'm not sure whether it's the alcohol wearing off, or whether it's the fact I'm concentrating so hard to see in the dark, or whatever it is. I don't know why I bother, all my time is spent writing in this notebook, and yet I'm not sure its doing me any good. It just makes me cry, and occasionally lose my balance and fall off roofs.

I've come to the conclusion that my headache isn't the alcohol wearing off, because when I stood up I immediately swayed, and my legs folded beneath me again. I can never stand properly when I'm drunk, I mean even when I'm just slightly drunk, I always stumble, or lean to one side, or just fall over and lay in a heap, giggling like it's the funniest thing in the world. I don't today though. not even alcohol can make me laugh anymore.

I think I passed out, because the next thing I know it's the afternoon of the next day, and I'm still lying in a heap on the floor, and every bone in my body protests when I try to move, so I give up and just lie there; thinking "why me?". I think this every day I wake up, and find out I didn't tragically pass away in the night. But who knows, I could already be dead. This could be Hell; it sure seems like it.

Joe's calling again. I don't know whether I'm just hearing things, but as the phone rings louder, I ignore my groaning joints as I get up, swaying and clutching onto the wall for support, and answer him with a groggy hello. I think he can tell I'm drunk, or was, because he speaks rather hesitantly. Asks me whether I know where Patrick is, because his girlfriends looking for him.

He has a girlfriend? I feel so guilty now, for bugging him. he could have been around at his girlfriends when I called it's not fair on either of them. Oh, if only I knew what it felt like. I haven't had a date since well over a year. It's almost embarrassing. I doubt anyone would want to go out with me though. I mean, just look at me.

I'm just so tired of everything. it's just constantly draining me now, I haven't left this house ( except you count the whole roof thing) in about a couple of months now, and I don't plan on going out soon. The outside world's a big place - I'm not ready for it.

I never was

pete x

I don't know who this new Pete Wentz is, but he's an arsehole, he's pathetic, he's a mess, he's a complete failure.

He sickens me, he makes me cringe

He's everything I never wanted to be.

pete x