Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > My Own Sins
“Cheque please,” Patrick called to the waitress, looking away from the strangely dressed man seated opposite him.
“You can’t keep ignoring me, you know,” Benzedrine announced disdainfully.
“Oh, I think you’ll find I can,” Patrick snapped back barely glancing at him.
Benzedrine snorted his disdain as Patrick continued to look away from him and over towards the counter. To Patrick’s relief, the waitress returned within moments with the slip of paper detailing both orders and one total. As she walked away to serve another table, Patrick frowned before staring expectantly at Benzedrine.
“Well?” he finally prompted.
“Well what?” Benzedrine cocked his head to the side, staring quizzically at Patrick.
“Aren’t you going to pay your share?”
“No,” he replied with an innocent tone as if the question were ridiculous.
“You’re paying half!”
“You know,” he patted his pockets theatrically. “I think I left my wallet in my other suit.”
“Then I’ll just leave you to pay.”
“I think you may have a little difficulty doing that,” Benzedrine leaned forward and whispered. “They can’t see me.”
“What are you talking about? You asked her for coffee and cake!” Patrick replied quickly. “And more to the point, she heard you!”
Glancing up, Patrick was unnerved to see numerous faces openly staring at him and a few others sneaking sidelong glances.
“Not really,” Benzedrine shook his head before pointing at the table. “Look.”
Patrick glanced at the table and for the first time, he noticed that both plates and cups were on his side of the table. Had Benzedrine pushed them over? Had they always been there? Was this exactly how it appeared - a troubled mind inventing the entire scenario?
“Anyway, I thought you were ignoring me?” the brightly dressed man asked with a raised eyebrow.
Patrick sighed; this guy was really getting under his skin and the worst of it was, he was his own fictional character – basically, he was irritating himself.
“I can see you’re wondering if you are, in fact going insane, I assure you I’m real.”
“Really?” Patrick turned an uncertain expression back to the man opposite.
“Really!”
Could he be going insane? Was he imagining him? It was broad daylight, he’d had a reasonably decent amount of sleep, he was taking no medication that could induce strange hallucinogenic side-effects and he felt perfectly healthy in himself. Benzedrine couldn’t possibly be real. There could be no physical cause; that left only one possibility. He was going insane. It was as simple as that. There was a simple test, but either way, he would run the risk of appearing a lunatic. With money in his hand to pay the bill, he called the waitress over.
“Yes, Sir?” she addressed him politely but with a worried frown. “Is everything okay?”
“Er… yeah, that is…” Patrick was reluctant to actually speak the words, finally deciding just to get it over with. “Can you see him?” he asked, jabbing a finger in Benzedrine’s direction.
“Sir?” the waitress asked, confused by the question.
“There’s no one there, is there?” he added. Initially, there was an element of triumph to his tone, but it mixed with concern as he realised the implications of what that meant – he was hallucinating.
“Are you serious?” she asked as she took the proffered money.
“He’s very serious,” Benzedrine confirmed. “Sadly, he’s… ah… having a bad day. I suggest you answer him. If you can, perhaps you could describe me a little for good measure.”
“I’m having a bad day because of you!” Patrick snapped, unsure if he was making matters worse by talking to what he wanted to believe was an empty seat.
“No, Sir, there’s no one there,” she replied with a deep frown. “Would you like me to call anyone for you?”
“Men in white coats maybe?” Benzedrine suggested dryly.
“No… I… I’m not crazy… I… I’m just… Keep the change,” Patrick gabbled as he slid from the booth and headed briskly for the door.
“Wait for me!” Benzedrine shouted. “We still have to talk about what I need from you!”
“Go away!” Patrick shouted back, no longer caring what people thought.
*
Pete jerked his eyes open in a sudden exaggerated move. Momentarily he was disorientated and confused. Vaguely he remembered a nightmare and waking in a tangle of sheets beside the bed. It had felt so real, and now, he thought, he realised why. Lying at an awkward angle with his legs still trailing up towards the bed, Pete lay with his arms tightly wrapped in the twisted sheets. He was cold and stiff and must have been lying there for easily thirty minutes or more. Moving his arms inside the cotton cocoon was proving difficult; the only movement possible was from the elbows down. His legs were even more tightly wrapped.
“It was a bad dream,” he reassured himself. “You tossed and turned and fell out of bed.”
Pete held his breath waiting for a reply as had happened before in his dream, finally exhaling when there was only silence. Twisting to his left, Pete felt the sheets close tighter around him. Changing direction, Pete sighed with relief as the tangle of sheets loosened around him and he was finally able to pull free. A few more turns released his legs and he dragged himself backwards along the wooden floor, grateful to be able to stand at last. Shivering with cold, Pete reached straight away for his clothes still bundled in the corner of the room where he’d left them the night before and pulled them on quickly. Turning, his eyes widened with horror as he saw the figure from his dream standing right in front of him. Mr Sandman gave him a broad grin as he caught the expression on Pete’s face.
“I told you, I need to dispose of Dr Benzedrine, did you think I’d just get bored with the idea and go home?”
“I’m still asleep?” Pete’s brow furrowed; this dream was too real. When would he wake up? How would he know?
“No, not this time, I’m afraid,” Sandman grinned mischievously again. “This time it’s real, but there’s a slight hitch. I can’t stay real if you do.”
Pete’s eyes widened, was this… this psycho going to kill him? Stepping backward to put distance between him and the man who looked so much like him, Pete headed unknowingly towards what he would later discover to be a tear in the fabric of reality. A long, thin black line, roughly four feet in length, appeared gradually and hung in the air immediately behind him, widening as he approached it.
“You have to take my place, I’m sorry, it’s just the way it has to be. It’s only temporary until I’ve disposed of Doctor Benzedrine,” Sandman tried to explain to the puzzled bassist. “Try not to get killed, that would be… awkward… for you, not me.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Pete finally managed.
Without another word, Sandman rushed forward, closing the distance that Pete had put between them and shoved him backwards. The black oval behind Pete was now wide enough to accommodate him, but the opening began just below his knees causing him to fall backwards into the blackness. A cry of surprise escaped his lips but was immediately cut off as his head slipped through the void. As his feet disappeared, the tear sealed itself and finally faded.
“Now then!” Sandman clapped his hands together gleefully. “A change of clothes and off to destroy Benzedrine!”
“You can’t keep ignoring me, you know,” Benzedrine announced disdainfully.
“Oh, I think you’ll find I can,” Patrick snapped back barely glancing at him.
Benzedrine snorted his disdain as Patrick continued to look away from him and over towards the counter. To Patrick’s relief, the waitress returned within moments with the slip of paper detailing both orders and one total. As she walked away to serve another table, Patrick frowned before staring expectantly at Benzedrine.
“Well?” he finally prompted.
“Well what?” Benzedrine cocked his head to the side, staring quizzically at Patrick.
“Aren’t you going to pay your share?”
“No,” he replied with an innocent tone as if the question were ridiculous.
“You’re paying half!”
“You know,” he patted his pockets theatrically. “I think I left my wallet in my other suit.”
“Then I’ll just leave you to pay.”
“I think you may have a little difficulty doing that,” Benzedrine leaned forward and whispered. “They can’t see me.”
“What are you talking about? You asked her for coffee and cake!” Patrick replied quickly. “And more to the point, she heard you!”
Glancing up, Patrick was unnerved to see numerous faces openly staring at him and a few others sneaking sidelong glances.
“Not really,” Benzedrine shook his head before pointing at the table. “Look.”
Patrick glanced at the table and for the first time, he noticed that both plates and cups were on his side of the table. Had Benzedrine pushed them over? Had they always been there? Was this exactly how it appeared - a troubled mind inventing the entire scenario?
“Anyway, I thought you were ignoring me?” the brightly dressed man asked with a raised eyebrow.
Patrick sighed; this guy was really getting under his skin and the worst of it was, he was his own fictional character – basically, he was irritating himself.
“I can see you’re wondering if you are, in fact going insane, I assure you I’m real.”
“Really?” Patrick turned an uncertain expression back to the man opposite.
“Really!”
Could he be going insane? Was he imagining him? It was broad daylight, he’d had a reasonably decent amount of sleep, he was taking no medication that could induce strange hallucinogenic side-effects and he felt perfectly healthy in himself. Benzedrine couldn’t possibly be real. There could be no physical cause; that left only one possibility. He was going insane. It was as simple as that. There was a simple test, but either way, he would run the risk of appearing a lunatic. With money in his hand to pay the bill, he called the waitress over.
“Yes, Sir?” she addressed him politely but with a worried frown. “Is everything okay?”
“Er… yeah, that is…” Patrick was reluctant to actually speak the words, finally deciding just to get it over with. “Can you see him?” he asked, jabbing a finger in Benzedrine’s direction.
“Sir?” the waitress asked, confused by the question.
“There’s no one there, is there?” he added. Initially, there was an element of triumph to his tone, but it mixed with concern as he realised the implications of what that meant – he was hallucinating.
“Are you serious?” she asked as she took the proffered money.
“He’s very serious,” Benzedrine confirmed. “Sadly, he’s… ah… having a bad day. I suggest you answer him. If you can, perhaps you could describe me a little for good measure.”
“I’m having a bad day because of you!” Patrick snapped, unsure if he was making matters worse by talking to what he wanted to believe was an empty seat.
“No, Sir, there’s no one there,” she replied with a deep frown. “Would you like me to call anyone for you?”
“Men in white coats maybe?” Benzedrine suggested dryly.
“No… I… I’m not crazy… I… I’m just… Keep the change,” Patrick gabbled as he slid from the booth and headed briskly for the door.
“Wait for me!” Benzedrine shouted. “We still have to talk about what I need from you!”
“Go away!” Patrick shouted back, no longer caring what people thought.
*
Pete jerked his eyes open in a sudden exaggerated move. Momentarily he was disorientated and confused. Vaguely he remembered a nightmare and waking in a tangle of sheets beside the bed. It had felt so real, and now, he thought, he realised why. Lying at an awkward angle with his legs still trailing up towards the bed, Pete lay with his arms tightly wrapped in the twisted sheets. He was cold and stiff and must have been lying there for easily thirty minutes or more. Moving his arms inside the cotton cocoon was proving difficult; the only movement possible was from the elbows down. His legs were even more tightly wrapped.
“It was a bad dream,” he reassured himself. “You tossed and turned and fell out of bed.”
Pete held his breath waiting for a reply as had happened before in his dream, finally exhaling when there was only silence. Twisting to his left, Pete felt the sheets close tighter around him. Changing direction, Pete sighed with relief as the tangle of sheets loosened around him and he was finally able to pull free. A few more turns released his legs and he dragged himself backwards along the wooden floor, grateful to be able to stand at last. Shivering with cold, Pete reached straight away for his clothes still bundled in the corner of the room where he’d left them the night before and pulled them on quickly. Turning, his eyes widened with horror as he saw the figure from his dream standing right in front of him. Mr Sandman gave him a broad grin as he caught the expression on Pete’s face.
“I told you, I need to dispose of Dr Benzedrine, did you think I’d just get bored with the idea and go home?”
“I’m still asleep?” Pete’s brow furrowed; this dream was too real. When would he wake up? How would he know?
“No, not this time, I’m afraid,” Sandman grinned mischievously again. “This time it’s real, but there’s a slight hitch. I can’t stay real if you do.”
Pete’s eyes widened, was this… this psycho going to kill him? Stepping backward to put distance between him and the man who looked so much like him, Pete headed unknowingly towards what he would later discover to be a tear in the fabric of reality. A long, thin black line, roughly four feet in length, appeared gradually and hung in the air immediately behind him, widening as he approached it.
“You have to take my place, I’m sorry, it’s just the way it has to be. It’s only temporary until I’ve disposed of Doctor Benzedrine,” Sandman tried to explain to the puzzled bassist. “Try not to get killed, that would be… awkward… for you, not me.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Pete finally managed.
Without another word, Sandman rushed forward, closing the distance that Pete had put between them and shoved him backwards. The black oval behind Pete was now wide enough to accommodate him, but the opening began just below his knees causing him to fall backwards into the blackness. A cry of surprise escaped his lips but was immediately cut off as his head slipped through the void. As his feet disappeared, the tear sealed itself and finally faded.
“Now then!” Sandman clapped his hands together gleefully. “A change of clothes and off to destroy Benzedrine!”
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