Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > some say the world will end in fire..
in neglect.
4 reviews..and try if we cannot feel forsaken. But what I'm feeling is much worse than that.
1Moving
[ A/N - okay, so I'm so sorry rhis chapter took FOREVER but school's been getting in the way with GCSEs and everything, and I've lost the ability to write a half decent chapter it seems. But ayah, it's done, here you go ^^ Enjoy
OH! And, also, I'm thinking of writing a Rydon, whether it be a one-shot, or a full chaptered fic once I've finished this one I don't know. The thing is, I don't have any ideas for a plot, so here's the point of all of this - what would you guys like to see in a Rydon? It can be anything, from a minor detail to a whole plot, but anything that you leave in a review will be added to this Rydon, or possibly another fic I may later create. Have fun [:]
Why I bother, I just don't know.
I've been sitting on this couch for exactly three days, not moving, just sitting there hunched up, with my legs curled up beneath me, staring at a blank TV screen as if it has all the answers to my half hearted prayers.
If only.
That funny smell is surrounding my house again, the smell of too much booze and alcohol, but it's mixed with something unfamiliar, something that I'm not quite sure about, it's almost worrying. It smells a bit like blood, and though I don't have the energy to investigate the smell seems as if it's coming from next door.
My neighbour scares me, she often likes to boast to me on the rare occasion I go outside, that she killed two guys, and strangled the third with their intestines, before burying al three under her floorboards and leaving them until the smell of rotting flesh caused her to flee from the police. Sadly, the other residents aren't much better, as far as I've seen.
Needless to say, I often try and stay out of her way, but I'm quite worried about what she's up to.
But I'm not going to step in, and try and do good.
I'm too much of a coward. And anyway, I'll probably just mess everything up.
Like I usually do.
pete x
I hate Christmas.
Hate hate hate hate hate hate hate it.
I just don't do Christmas. It's never been my thing, it causes too much stress and money-related problems, but even so maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing compared to being alone on Christmas, only having your psychopath of a next door neighbour for possible company. Somehow, it doesn't seem like such a good idea to me. Maybe I'm wrong though. It's better than nothing.
The idea of being alone on Christmas scares me, and I'm not sure why. I've been coping for a whole year now at being alone, so why should Christmas be any different? I know I could probably stay with my parents, but I don't want them to have to much on their hands, and besides, I don't blame them if they don't want me around.
No-one does these days.
pete x
Okay, I changed my mind. I was up in the attic (just...don't ask. Please?) and I found this box of Christmas decorations. They're tatty, and over-used, but no-one's going to be coming to admire the shit I've decided to hang around my house, so there's no point in splashing out on buying new decorations.
The tree's finally up, it's one of those artificial trees that have to be put together branch by branch. Thank God it's finally up though, after being resurrected from the crumpled heap on the ground twice I don't think would have the patience to do it again, especially after actually screaming out in frustration and kicking at the heap on the floo that had been the tree.
Christmas sucks.
Decorating the tree made me lose my patience more times than I would like to remember, and I'm lucky the tree's still standing upright, the way I lashed out at it. The silly electric lights wouldn't work, but finally they did manage to, but really weirdly, constantly flickering out of rhythm at me, it's enough to give you a headache with the neon lights glaring at you and constantly flashing in your face.
Once the lights had became tangled in the tree, and not around me, I started on the decorations. There wasn't much, and the tree looked pathetically bare once I'd done, but I didn't expect anyone to see it, so it didn't matter. I added a few more decorations around the walls, succeeding in stapling my hands twice , before clearing up half heartedly, leaving a few boxes scattered around, and slumping on my bed. It still smells of Patrick; of cherry-ade and this aftershave he wears and the smell of familiarity. It smells exactly of how I wanted my home to smell like, when this house actually became a home.
I can't help but think of what will happen once I do die, I've been told I'm fairly morbid, and there's nothing to prove I'm not, life seems ridiculously short when you think about it. I'm to sure what I want to happen at my funeral, whether anyone will actually turn up because they want to, and not to just piss on my grave and kick the chipped gravestone.
I wouldn't blame them, really.
I'm starting to worry that I won't have accomplished anything by the time I die. It just seems so close, I kind of want to die, but I'm too much of a coward for suicide, I've had too many attempts to my name anyway. But, the thing is, I haven't' done anything, apart from write this, just about scrape through school with a passing mark, and moving to a town inhabited with the creatures from hell, who probably don't even know my name. Maybe they think this house is inhabited,. I'm sure everyone would prefer it, me too. To be sitting in some swanky mansion full with everything I want, a house that smells fresh and clean and not of booze and fags, to be able to go out each day without worrying that everyone's talking behind your back and gossiping about you?
Well, that'd be too perfect.
I'm usually pretty socially retarded, as you can probably tell. I'm not a people's person, no matter how I try to pretend that I am, I guess I fooled most people until I just stopped coming out of my house permanently, except for odd jaunts up the roof to clear my head when it all gets too much to be kept in this derelict, dismal house. But whatever, I never said I was a social butterfly, if it isn't obvious. I'm the only person I can count on, the only person I can trust anymore, even if I do hate me.
I'm pretty sure everyone hates me, there's nothing much to amok them change their minds really, is there? But, there's just one thing that keeps me going, and stops me from giving up right now, and that's the fact that Patrick seems to actually, /genuinely/, care about me, and it's the first time in a long time anyone has, and I'm glad he does.
Really. I am. He's the only thing keeping me alive right now.
I'm not sure how long I laid there, head pushed into my pillow and just breathing into Patrick's smell (I was never going to wash this bed again) but someone ringing the doorbell startle me out of my reverie. I jerked off of the bed, as the door was hesitantly tried, and whoever it was crept in after finding it unlocked. I expect it's a bit strange that, seeing as the street I live on is inhabited with mostly people on the run from the law (my next door neighbour for example), or former inmates, that I keep the door unlocked, but I always do, I can never summon up the energy to lock the door. I step onto the top of the stairs, noticing Patrick. He's staring into the living room, where my pathetic Christmas decorations are strung haphazardly across the room, they look like they've been put up by a five year old. He turns around, as though he could hear my silent footsteps onto the landing, and he glances up at the stairs, the expression on his face totally confusing me.
He looks like he's about to cry, and I'm not sure why.
pete x
OH! And, also, I'm thinking of writing a Rydon, whether it be a one-shot, or a full chaptered fic once I've finished this one I don't know. The thing is, I don't have any ideas for a plot, so here's the point of all of this - what would you guys like to see in a Rydon? It can be anything, from a minor detail to a whole plot, but anything that you leave in a review will be added to this Rydon, or possibly another fic I may later create. Have fun [:]
Why I bother, I just don't know.
I've been sitting on this couch for exactly three days, not moving, just sitting there hunched up, with my legs curled up beneath me, staring at a blank TV screen as if it has all the answers to my half hearted prayers.
If only.
That funny smell is surrounding my house again, the smell of too much booze and alcohol, but it's mixed with something unfamiliar, something that I'm not quite sure about, it's almost worrying. It smells a bit like blood, and though I don't have the energy to investigate the smell seems as if it's coming from next door.
My neighbour scares me, she often likes to boast to me on the rare occasion I go outside, that she killed two guys, and strangled the third with their intestines, before burying al three under her floorboards and leaving them until the smell of rotting flesh caused her to flee from the police. Sadly, the other residents aren't much better, as far as I've seen.
Needless to say, I often try and stay out of her way, but I'm quite worried about what she's up to.
But I'm not going to step in, and try and do good.
I'm too much of a coward. And anyway, I'll probably just mess everything up.
Like I usually do.
pete x
I hate Christmas.
Hate hate hate hate hate hate hate it.
I just don't do Christmas. It's never been my thing, it causes too much stress and money-related problems, but even so maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing compared to being alone on Christmas, only having your psychopath of a next door neighbour for possible company. Somehow, it doesn't seem like such a good idea to me. Maybe I'm wrong though. It's better than nothing.
The idea of being alone on Christmas scares me, and I'm not sure why. I've been coping for a whole year now at being alone, so why should Christmas be any different? I know I could probably stay with my parents, but I don't want them to have to much on their hands, and besides, I don't blame them if they don't want me around.
No-one does these days.
pete x
Okay, I changed my mind. I was up in the attic (just...don't ask. Please?) and I found this box of Christmas decorations. They're tatty, and over-used, but no-one's going to be coming to admire the shit I've decided to hang around my house, so there's no point in splashing out on buying new decorations.
The tree's finally up, it's one of those artificial trees that have to be put together branch by branch. Thank God it's finally up though, after being resurrected from the crumpled heap on the ground twice I don't think would have the patience to do it again, especially after actually screaming out in frustration and kicking at the heap on the floo that had been the tree.
Christmas sucks.
Decorating the tree made me lose my patience more times than I would like to remember, and I'm lucky the tree's still standing upright, the way I lashed out at it. The silly electric lights wouldn't work, but finally they did manage to, but really weirdly, constantly flickering out of rhythm at me, it's enough to give you a headache with the neon lights glaring at you and constantly flashing in your face.
Once the lights had became tangled in the tree, and not around me, I started on the decorations. There wasn't much, and the tree looked pathetically bare once I'd done, but I didn't expect anyone to see it, so it didn't matter. I added a few more decorations around the walls, succeeding in stapling my hands twice , before clearing up half heartedly, leaving a few boxes scattered around, and slumping on my bed. It still smells of Patrick; of cherry-ade and this aftershave he wears and the smell of familiarity. It smells exactly of how I wanted my home to smell like, when this house actually became a home.
I can't help but think of what will happen once I do die, I've been told I'm fairly morbid, and there's nothing to prove I'm not, life seems ridiculously short when you think about it. I'm to sure what I want to happen at my funeral, whether anyone will actually turn up because they want to, and not to just piss on my grave and kick the chipped gravestone.
I wouldn't blame them, really.
I'm starting to worry that I won't have accomplished anything by the time I die. It just seems so close, I kind of want to die, but I'm too much of a coward for suicide, I've had too many attempts to my name anyway. But, the thing is, I haven't' done anything, apart from write this, just about scrape through school with a passing mark, and moving to a town inhabited with the creatures from hell, who probably don't even know my name. Maybe they think this house is inhabited,. I'm sure everyone would prefer it, me too. To be sitting in some swanky mansion full with everything I want, a house that smells fresh and clean and not of booze and fags, to be able to go out each day without worrying that everyone's talking behind your back and gossiping about you?
Well, that'd be too perfect.
I'm usually pretty socially retarded, as you can probably tell. I'm not a people's person, no matter how I try to pretend that I am, I guess I fooled most people until I just stopped coming out of my house permanently, except for odd jaunts up the roof to clear my head when it all gets too much to be kept in this derelict, dismal house. But whatever, I never said I was a social butterfly, if it isn't obvious. I'm the only person I can count on, the only person I can trust anymore, even if I do hate me.
I'm pretty sure everyone hates me, there's nothing much to amok them change their minds really, is there? But, there's just one thing that keeps me going, and stops me from giving up right now, and that's the fact that Patrick seems to actually, /genuinely/, care about me, and it's the first time in a long time anyone has, and I'm glad he does.
Really. I am. He's the only thing keeping me alive right now.
I'm not sure how long I laid there, head pushed into my pillow and just breathing into Patrick's smell (I was never going to wash this bed again) but someone ringing the doorbell startle me out of my reverie. I jerked off of the bed, as the door was hesitantly tried, and whoever it was crept in after finding it unlocked. I expect it's a bit strange that, seeing as the street I live on is inhabited with mostly people on the run from the law (my next door neighbour for example), or former inmates, that I keep the door unlocked, but I always do, I can never summon up the energy to lock the door. I step onto the top of the stairs, noticing Patrick. He's staring into the living room, where my pathetic Christmas decorations are strung haphazardly across the room, they look like they've been put up by a five year old. He turns around, as though he could hear my silent footsteps onto the landing, and he glances up at the stairs, the expression on his face totally confusing me.
He looks like he's about to cry, and I'm not sure why.
pete x
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