Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > Young and Reckless
Traffic inches forward at such an incredibly slow speed that I watch several snails and a slug overtake my 1971 Plymouth Valiant. I grip the steering wheel harder until my knuckles turn white and I force myself to relax. I look at myself in the rear view mirror and rub away the smudged eyeliner underneath my eyes. I feel tired, emotionally and physically. I want to curl into a ball and cry until I’ve cried enough to drown myself in my own tears. I want to go to sleep forever; I want to never wake up. But mentally I’m buzzing. A million thoughts whiz through my mind at once followed by another million and some stick and others fly out of the other end.
I’m crazy in my green and brown whale of a car. I’m almost insane and almost alone. I chance a glance to my right at the man sitting in the front passenger seat. I feel the urge to reach out and run a finger along his jaw, down his cheek, to kiss the end of his nose. He turns his entire body and looks at me looking at him. I’m like a rabbit caught in headlights, staring at the two pools of hazel brown staring at me. I don’t know whether I should chance making a run for it or if I should just stay put.
His hand lands on my shoulder. I find the strength to look away from him but his other hand grips my chin and pulls my face towards his. Those lips are the colour of a natural tan gained from hours of sunbathing in Portugal or Brazil or Kenya. Those eyes are the colour of hazelnuts, flecked with darker brown slithers of chestnuts. The stubbly beard he’s allowed to grow over the past few months scratches my chin. I open my mouth a little so that I can taste the orangey tang of his slow, steady breaths. I imagine kissing him, his tongue sliding along the roof of my mouth, sliding along the surface of my own tongue. I imagine us intertwined, writhing and gasping and moaning. I can imagine all I want but the traffic starts to move again and we pull away from each other.
Think back to the night before, when we’re lying underneath the stars. He holds her hand instead of mine and I want to kill her. We don’t say anything. For almost ninety minutes not one of us says a word. It’s her fault. I want to set her alight and watch her beauty and youth burn.
In my green and brown 1971 Plymouth Valiant she’s stretched out in the spacious backseat. I push down on the gas pedal and we move forward, just as slowly as everyone else on the goddamned road. I watch her in the rear view mirror. She’s asleep, either that or she’s watching us through semi-closed eyes because she doesn’t trust me. Her curly honey-blonde hair falls all over her face, her shoulders, almost reaching her waist. Her skin the colour of steamed milk and her tiny freckles the colour of my mother’s golden floral tablecloth that she only uses on Palm Sunday. Her slim figure, slim and elegant fingers, her curves, her ample bust, her, her, her. Just her. I want her out of my car but I want him to stay. She’s the only reason why he stays though I do a good job of convincing myself otherwise.
“Your eyes look weird.” It’s a statement but there’s a question behind it. If the question weren’t hiding, maybe I would answer. I don’t like cowards. That’s probably why I don’t like myself.
Traffic inches forward, slower than before. More snails and slugs and animals without arms or legs slide past. I want to be outside with the limbless animals lying flat on the pavement, beating all the cars to whatever or whoever is causing the traffic jam. I swear they’re mocking me, mocking us all. Look at them, limbless and covered in slime, they’re getting further than the rest of us, they’re going places it feels like I’ll never see, they’re moving on with life and I’m hanging in a void between crazy and murder.
That muscular, toned body turns to the right and those hazel eyes look out of the window. He looks so goddamned good. I look into the rear view mirror again, glancing at her. I want to burn off all of that beautiful hair, every single lock of every single silky honey-coloured ringlet.
Back to the boy who doesn’t love me or like me or want to be near me. His hand brushes dark hair out of his eyes. “Maybe I should drive. You look really tired.” I frown. I bet he thinks that I’m going to kill us all by driving off of a bridge or steering the car over the edge of a narrow mountain road. I can tell by the tone of his voice. He doesn’t trust me. Neither does the goddess in the back. I don’t trust me. Who would trust a crazy person?
My voice returns - it popped outside for a breath of fresh air, “No way am I putting the life of my car in your hands, Wentz. God knows where they’ve been.”
I’m crazy in my green and brown whale of a car. I’m almost insane and almost alone. I chance a glance to my right at the man sitting in the front passenger seat. I feel the urge to reach out and run a finger along his jaw, down his cheek, to kiss the end of his nose. He turns his entire body and looks at me looking at him. I’m like a rabbit caught in headlights, staring at the two pools of hazel brown staring at me. I don’t know whether I should chance making a run for it or if I should just stay put.
His hand lands on my shoulder. I find the strength to look away from him but his other hand grips my chin and pulls my face towards his. Those lips are the colour of a natural tan gained from hours of sunbathing in Portugal or Brazil or Kenya. Those eyes are the colour of hazelnuts, flecked with darker brown slithers of chestnuts. The stubbly beard he’s allowed to grow over the past few months scratches my chin. I open my mouth a little so that I can taste the orangey tang of his slow, steady breaths. I imagine kissing him, his tongue sliding along the roof of my mouth, sliding along the surface of my own tongue. I imagine us intertwined, writhing and gasping and moaning. I can imagine all I want but the traffic starts to move again and we pull away from each other.
Think back to the night before, when we’re lying underneath the stars. He holds her hand instead of mine and I want to kill her. We don’t say anything. For almost ninety minutes not one of us says a word. It’s her fault. I want to set her alight and watch her beauty and youth burn.
In my green and brown 1971 Plymouth Valiant she’s stretched out in the spacious backseat. I push down on the gas pedal and we move forward, just as slowly as everyone else on the goddamned road. I watch her in the rear view mirror. She’s asleep, either that or she’s watching us through semi-closed eyes because she doesn’t trust me. Her curly honey-blonde hair falls all over her face, her shoulders, almost reaching her waist. Her skin the colour of steamed milk and her tiny freckles the colour of my mother’s golden floral tablecloth that she only uses on Palm Sunday. Her slim figure, slim and elegant fingers, her curves, her ample bust, her, her, her. Just her. I want her out of my car but I want him to stay. She’s the only reason why he stays though I do a good job of convincing myself otherwise.
“Your eyes look weird.” It’s a statement but there’s a question behind it. If the question weren’t hiding, maybe I would answer. I don’t like cowards. That’s probably why I don’t like myself.
Traffic inches forward, slower than before. More snails and slugs and animals without arms or legs slide past. I want to be outside with the limbless animals lying flat on the pavement, beating all the cars to whatever or whoever is causing the traffic jam. I swear they’re mocking me, mocking us all. Look at them, limbless and covered in slime, they’re getting further than the rest of us, they’re going places it feels like I’ll never see, they’re moving on with life and I’m hanging in a void between crazy and murder.
That muscular, toned body turns to the right and those hazel eyes look out of the window. He looks so goddamned good. I look into the rear view mirror again, glancing at her. I want to burn off all of that beautiful hair, every single lock of every single silky honey-coloured ringlet.
Back to the boy who doesn’t love me or like me or want to be near me. His hand brushes dark hair out of his eyes. “Maybe I should drive. You look really tired.” I frown. I bet he thinks that I’m going to kill us all by driving off of a bridge or steering the car over the edge of a narrow mountain road. I can tell by the tone of his voice. He doesn’t trust me. Neither does the goddess in the back. I don’t trust me. Who would trust a crazy person?
My voice returns - it popped outside for a breath of fresh air, “No way am I putting the life of my car in your hands, Wentz. God knows where they’ve been.”
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