Rage and love, story of my life. The Jesus of Suburbia is a lie. A story about Part 1 of the song Homecoming, and about Jimmy's life.
The wind’s really blowing hard today. I didn’t know that the wind in this place could be so cold, or maybe I just never noticed.
The world actually looks a damn lot brighter and sharper when you’re clean and sober. My laugh is echoing trough the street, because even the thought of me being clean and sober is ridiculous. But the proof’s walking right on this boulevard.
There’s a warm glow over the city I just walked out, but the sea is cold. Well, seas and harbors and all that shit are always cold, I think. Unless you’re talking about palm beaches and shit, but they don’t matter to me: I’ve never been to one and I never will either. The gun in my pocket feels heavy. I’m not used to weapons, even though I used to claim I did. Well, I did usually have some pocket knifes and occasionally I caused a stab wound or two, but never in my life have I pulled a trigger. This would be my first.
And well, my last too off course, but that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.
I’m surprised that even though I’m sober my head’s still this much of a mess: I talk more nonsense than my mom does when she’s drunk.
She’s drunk all the time by the way. Or at least she was, I haven’t seen her in a long time. I haven’t really seen anyone in a long time. I ran away from my so-called home and from the whore that is my mother more than a year ago.
I left that jolly old Jingletown, I left the suburbs and with that I left my identity as the Jesus of Suburbia. Deep down inside I’d always known I wasn’t a Jesus, and it was kind of relieving to admit it was a lie. But if I wasn’t Jesus, and I wasn’t anything else…I was nothing. And I could impress this city I was running to with being a nobody, now could I? So, I wasn’t a nobody: I was St. Jimmy.
I’d always been St. Jimmy, even when I was Jesus. Whatever, they’re pretty much the same in the bible anyway, aren’t they? I was a true rebel, vandalizing everything I ran into, screaming anarchy all the way and off course I hated the government, hated America. That’s probably what attracted her. Whatsername…
But we were different. She was an amazing girl, and a true rebel. Punkass like no other girl. She smoked, she did drugs, alcohol, and a lot of sex. My dream girl, eh? But…there comes a point when you can’t lie to yourself anymore.
Turns out I never ran away from Jingletown, turns out I couldn’t put it all behind me. Turns out I loved my drunk bitch of a mom, and that I was indeed the son of rage and love…but that it was my mother’s love and father’s rage, not the other way around. Yes, I’m the son of a bitch and Edgar Allen Poe. But dear Edgar never did a fuck for his son, and my mom did. And maybe I was just born to be miserable.
And this city…
In these streets of shame stand so many broken people, the always gray sky shows the color of the life in this city. St. Jimmy was hope, I suppose.
I simply said that we were fucked up. But I never said that I could fix it, and turnes out you need to be fixed. Speaking of fixes…no.
My hand reaches into my right pocket. I did it on purpose, the gun in the left pocket. My hand grabs the tobacco. And drops it on the boulevard. And the dope too, all of it. The cannabis, and the cocaine if you want to be precise.
Yes, I’m throwing my cocaine on the ground. The cocaine that cost me all of my rent. So what? I search deeper in the pocket. A strip of Ritalin hits the road as well. Useless drugs, for me at least. Plus, selling them barely brings in any money.
Then, and this is equally dramatic as the cocaine, the last three condoms I had left also fall on the ground. Well, I haven’t used any since whatsername anyway, after her I honestly couldn’t care anymore if I’d knock up some slut.
Whatsername… I ignore the thought. Not yet. And I just keep on walking, leaving it all behind, the same way I left whatsername behind.
I simply walk on for a while, until I’ve seen enough of this boulevard.
I change my direction and walk towards the bay now, walk without thinking, until all I can see is the water. And now my hand slides into my left pocket.
But I’m not reaching for the gun, in case you think so. I would never describe reaching for a gun that dramatically, I’m not a fucking fag.
I turn my eyes away from the bay to face the nearly empty packet of Luckies.
Inside is just one cigarette left, and the fact that I’m not even a bit moved by the thought that this is the last cigarette I’ll smoke confirms this is al there’s left to do. There’s nothing but misery in life for me. The hard blowing wind is proving it right now, because my lighter was already almost empty, but with this wind lighting the goddamn thing is nearly impossible. At last I see the red glow and inhale deep. I dump the lighter in the packet and throw it in the direction of the water. The last time I’ll see the red circle with ‘Lucky Strike’ in it. At last I feel my mind coming at ease, my head’s calming down, as far as it can without Ritalin or other drugs. There’s only calm thoughts now, about whatsername. How has she been, what has she done since our paths separated? It seems so long ago…
Yes, she’s in my head I must confess. I remember her face, how could I ever forget? But her name…Whatsername?
I get distracted by the sudden cold against my head. Yeah, a gun really is heavy, especially when you have to hold it up against your head like this.
Well…remember, whatever, it seems like forever ago. It’s time to focus on something else now. My finger around that trigger for example. Any cool last words from this saint, this Jesus? No. There aren’t any words left, except for a name I don’t know. It’s been long enough, let’s end this misery.
So without doubt now pull the trigger.
What the hell’s your name?