Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > Wake Me Up When The Nightmare Ends
Joe’s head flopped backwards and for a few seconds it felt as though all he was doing was breathing out. Short shallow breaths, always out, never in. That wasn’t possible, was it? His mind was reeling from the shock of what had just happened. A man who looked and sounded exactly like Patrick had set up his murder and made it appear to be Pete’s doing. This couldn’t be real – could it? Any moment he would wake up in bed back at the hotel and he would be fine. No, he knew this was real. It felt too scary and painful not to be. He wanted to struggle free of the tape, but he new panicking would push his heart rate even further. If he did nothing, he would die anyway. It was a lose-lose situation. Trying hard to concentrate on a possible solution, Joe’s mind reeled and all coherent thought began to slide away. Perhaps he should struggle to get free? Or roll to the door? No, the door was too heavy. Double-glazed, the heavy, close-fitting door was difficult to move at the best of times. A wave of nausea hit him as the room began to spin.
*
Standing beside his car, Andy scowled as he rifled through his pockets. He was already in a foul temper after having wasted two fruitless hours waiting for Pete and he just wasn’t in the mood for the new development of not being able to find his keys. It was a minute or two before he finally remembered taking his keys and phone out of his pocket and placing them on one of the chairs in studio while he played. Or, as it turned out, didn’t play. With a deep sigh, Andy turned and traipsed back hoping that Joe was still there and the place wasn’t already locked up. The last thing he needed was no keys or phone until the next day.
Andy allowed himself a wry smile as he saw the light still on in the live room. It had been a reasonably safe bet when he thought more about it. Joe was good at changing guitar strings, still surprisingly quick for one who, in recent years, had the services of a guitar tech to do the job for him. But then, Joe played so much at home too and always kept his many guitars in perfect condition. Andy understood the need to shower personal attention on instruments; he always liked to tune his own drums, often to the annoyance of his drum tech; it was a task that was really quite personal and geared to his own tastes. Not so with the guitar, the pitches to tune to were pretty much standard, except for the occasions where Joe liked to play in Drop D like some of his heroes. No, a drum sound was almost entirely a matter of personal taste and Andy knew what he liked; a big fat thump from the toms and bass and a nice loud crack like gunfire from the snare. By the time he reached the studio door, Andy was surprised to find that just thinking about his beloved drums had raised a smile to his previously dour expression.
Opening the door to the live room, all Andy’s good humour collapsed as he saw the pale and shaking Joe, lying on the floor, his wrists and ankles still bound with tape. His shirt clung to him, soaking wet; even his hair was slick with sweat as his heart raced out of control.
“Joe!” Andy cried, his eyes wide with shock. Snatching his keys and phone from the chair where he had placed them earlier, he knelt at the guitarist’s side, dialling 911 as talked. “Joe? Can you hear me? What happened?”
Joe’s eyes opened partially as he heard what seemed like the distant voice of his friend. Everything felt like it was moving so slowly while inside he burnt up. Andy appeared to loom over him, moving in and out of focus as he gazed with blurred vision and lashes dampened by a combination of sweat and frightened tears. Eventually he recognised his friend.
“A… A… An…” he stammered trying to call the drummer’s name.
“Joe, what happened?” Andy asked again before being distracted by the voice on the line asking the services he needed. “Police and ambulance.”
“Nature of the emergency?” the voice replied almost indifferently.
“My friend’s dying here! Just get me a goddamn ambulance!” Andy yelled incensed by what seemed an unnecessary question.
It only took a few moments for Andy to give all the information he needed to, but it felt like forever. In front of him, Joe alternately snatched a short breath or held it in a desperate attempt to slow his heart rate, but he was fighting a losing battle and he knew it. Having spied the discarded syringe on the floor, Andy knew it was some sort of drug, but what? If he could tell the ambulance crew when they arrived, they would know what to do. It could save Joe’s life. He had to find out. Scooping the guitarist into his arms and resting him gently on his knees, supporting his back and head with his right arm. He spoke softly, and he hoped, calmly.
“Joe? Joe, can you hear me? I have to know what they gave you. Do you know?”
Turning distant, unfocussed eyes upwards, Joe tried to speak again. After a number of almost soundless false starts, he managed to stammer the first syllable.
“C… C… Co… C… uh.”
Andy’s brow creased at the pain in his friend’s eyes as he struggled with the word, eventually giving up as the effort became too much.
“Co…?” Andy mused briefly, before realising with horror what it could only be. “Cocaine? Who did this to you?”
Giving a brief, weak nod, Joe tried again, but after three attempts only managed to whisper the letter P before slumping in Andy’s grip.
“Joe!”
*
Patrick stood outside the music store and heaved a sigh. He had travelled over thirty miles only to find the store closed for refurbishment. He wished he’d given it enough thought to have called to check even their opening hours, but he had no reason to. How could he possibly have guessed that his favourite store was closed this particular week? There was nothing to do but drive home again. Sighing, he checked his phone as it vibrated in his pocket, raising his eyebrows as he saw the message was from Andy, not Pete, as he had half expected. With the click of a few buttons, Patrick was reading the shocking message.
Joe attacked. In ambulance on way to the hosp. It’s bad. Call me when you get here.
Patrick wanted to call there and then. Pressing the speed-dial key for Andy, he was at first frustrated to go straight to voicemail, but realised that, in the ambulance, Andy would be obliged to switch off his phone.
How was he? What had happened? Who did it?
He had a thousand other urgent questions, none of which he could ask. There was only one thing for it - sliding back behind the wheel, he threw the car into drive intent on making it back as fast as he dared; all the while, hoping, praying that he wouldn’t be stopped by the police.
*
Standing beside his car, Andy scowled as he rifled through his pockets. He was already in a foul temper after having wasted two fruitless hours waiting for Pete and he just wasn’t in the mood for the new development of not being able to find his keys. It was a minute or two before he finally remembered taking his keys and phone out of his pocket and placing them on one of the chairs in studio while he played. Or, as it turned out, didn’t play. With a deep sigh, Andy turned and traipsed back hoping that Joe was still there and the place wasn’t already locked up. The last thing he needed was no keys or phone until the next day.
Andy allowed himself a wry smile as he saw the light still on in the live room. It had been a reasonably safe bet when he thought more about it. Joe was good at changing guitar strings, still surprisingly quick for one who, in recent years, had the services of a guitar tech to do the job for him. But then, Joe played so much at home too and always kept his many guitars in perfect condition. Andy understood the need to shower personal attention on instruments; he always liked to tune his own drums, often to the annoyance of his drum tech; it was a task that was really quite personal and geared to his own tastes. Not so with the guitar, the pitches to tune to were pretty much standard, except for the occasions where Joe liked to play in Drop D like some of his heroes. No, a drum sound was almost entirely a matter of personal taste and Andy knew what he liked; a big fat thump from the toms and bass and a nice loud crack like gunfire from the snare. By the time he reached the studio door, Andy was surprised to find that just thinking about his beloved drums had raised a smile to his previously dour expression.
Opening the door to the live room, all Andy’s good humour collapsed as he saw the pale and shaking Joe, lying on the floor, his wrists and ankles still bound with tape. His shirt clung to him, soaking wet; even his hair was slick with sweat as his heart raced out of control.
“Joe!” Andy cried, his eyes wide with shock. Snatching his keys and phone from the chair where he had placed them earlier, he knelt at the guitarist’s side, dialling 911 as talked. “Joe? Can you hear me? What happened?”
Joe’s eyes opened partially as he heard what seemed like the distant voice of his friend. Everything felt like it was moving so slowly while inside he burnt up. Andy appeared to loom over him, moving in and out of focus as he gazed with blurred vision and lashes dampened by a combination of sweat and frightened tears. Eventually he recognised his friend.
“A… A… An…” he stammered trying to call the drummer’s name.
“Joe, what happened?” Andy asked again before being distracted by the voice on the line asking the services he needed. “Police and ambulance.”
“Nature of the emergency?” the voice replied almost indifferently.
“My friend’s dying here! Just get me a goddamn ambulance!” Andy yelled incensed by what seemed an unnecessary question.
It only took a few moments for Andy to give all the information he needed to, but it felt like forever. In front of him, Joe alternately snatched a short breath or held it in a desperate attempt to slow his heart rate, but he was fighting a losing battle and he knew it. Having spied the discarded syringe on the floor, Andy knew it was some sort of drug, but what? If he could tell the ambulance crew when they arrived, they would know what to do. It could save Joe’s life. He had to find out. Scooping the guitarist into his arms and resting him gently on his knees, supporting his back and head with his right arm. He spoke softly, and he hoped, calmly.
“Joe? Joe, can you hear me? I have to know what they gave you. Do you know?”
Turning distant, unfocussed eyes upwards, Joe tried to speak again. After a number of almost soundless false starts, he managed to stammer the first syllable.
“C… C… Co… C… uh.”
Andy’s brow creased at the pain in his friend’s eyes as he struggled with the word, eventually giving up as the effort became too much.
“Co…?” Andy mused briefly, before realising with horror what it could only be. “Cocaine? Who did this to you?”
Giving a brief, weak nod, Joe tried again, but after three attempts only managed to whisper the letter P before slumping in Andy’s grip.
“Joe!”
*
Patrick stood outside the music store and heaved a sigh. He had travelled over thirty miles only to find the store closed for refurbishment. He wished he’d given it enough thought to have called to check even their opening hours, but he had no reason to. How could he possibly have guessed that his favourite store was closed this particular week? There was nothing to do but drive home again. Sighing, he checked his phone as it vibrated in his pocket, raising his eyebrows as he saw the message was from Andy, not Pete, as he had half expected. With the click of a few buttons, Patrick was reading the shocking message.
Joe attacked. In ambulance on way to the hosp. It’s bad. Call me when you get here.
Patrick wanted to call there and then. Pressing the speed-dial key for Andy, he was at first frustrated to go straight to voicemail, but realised that, in the ambulance, Andy would be obliged to switch off his phone.
How was he? What had happened? Who did it?
He had a thousand other urgent questions, none of which he could ask. There was only one thing for it - sliding back behind the wheel, he threw the car into drive intent on making it back as fast as he dared; all the while, hoping, praying that he wouldn’t be stopped by the police.
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