Categories > Celebrities > Panic! At The Disco > Playhouse
Jon stayed across the table from Spencer, head resting on his hand with a large Cheshire grin across his face. No matter how many times his mind told him to run away screaming, he couldn't seem to pull his eyes off of Jon's. They were hypnotizing; deep like they could go on forever. Logic told Spencer that he was bad news, but he couldn't find the strength to leave. He just felt...safe, in Jon's presence.
"You did what?"
Jon repeated himself, sounding bored though he looked happy. "I killed my family." Spencer licked his lips nervously. That was impossible. He looked to nice; his soft features, his slouched posture, the soft and sweet sound of his voice. He had no attributes of a killer. How could something beautiful be destructive?
"Why?" Spencer knew that prying wouldn't be the best of ideas, but he still couldn't help but do it. Maybe he was just acting like one of those women who only date guys in prison; he thought that if he got to know Jon that there would be a good reason for his insanity. Spencer was always a hopeful kid, believing in things that seemed ridiculous. He remembered that it was one of the things Ryan hated most about him.
"You wouldn't understand." Jon turned to look away, his smile fading. Spencer, thinking that Jon didn't believe in him, quickly reacted to this change in appearance.
"No. I mean, I might not understand, but I wanna try. Please, just tell me?" Jon seemed to give a soft sigh.
"Fine." He stretched his arms, resting his gloved hands on the table. He was staring at one of the candles, watching as the red wax ran down it's side before pooling on the white table cloth beneath. "It all began what I believe to be about 84 years ago. It was the Witches Night, and my family, keeping up with tradition, was preparing a feast. We had it every year on the same day at twelve sharp. Kind of like a final meal. It was a safety net, of sorts. It was believed that the day would bring misfortune and the chances of people dying rose with every hour until the day was up. We had this feast in case we died, so we could at least say that we had a good meal and had spent time with family.
"I was going out, to pick some fresh apples for the family. It was about two hours before our feast would have started when I was on my way back home. And there was this...man." He seemed to drift off for a moment, like he was trying to find the right words for what he had to describe. The faint candle light caste it's golden glow on his skin, making it shimmer like a china dolls skin. Spencer couldn't take his eyes off of the boy who sat across from him, no matter how hard he tried to. "He approached me with the posture of a hunter, though I didn't notice it at the time.
"He had this hat that covered his face, his head facing downwards to cast everything in shadow. The only hint that he even had a face was a single glowing red eye that seemed to capture even the slightest amount of light from the surrounding oil lamps. He was peculiar, to say the least. I figured he would just continue to walk on by, but as soon as I passed him he stopped. I cautiously took looks over my shoulder as I continued on the path to my house. He was always behind me, standing completely still. He would get closer with every glance, though his back was always to me, and it seemed that he wasn't even breathing. Wasn't moving in any way at all.
"I quickly became anxious and tried to get away from the man to the best of my abilities. So I started to run. When I took a final glance behind me, he wasn't there, so I slowed, staring at the empty street that was damp from the rain we had earlier in the day. It wasn't until I turned around that I noticed where he had gone to. The man was standing right in front of me, enough light showing his grinning face and glowing red eyes. There was something off about his smile, though I didn't look back into until after the accident, it was still there; two sharpened fangs pointing ever so slightly out of his mouth as he gave me the sickest grin I had ever seen.
"From there, it was just a sharp pain, an extreme heat coursing through me, and then blackness." He went quite for a minute, and Spencer tilted his head.
"Are you...alive?" The boy seemed saddened by this question, his face falling to a frown.
"Though I still breathe, I have no pulse. My heart does not beat, I need no food or water, time has no affect on me. So I suppose, I am not alive at all." Spencer stared at him. His white teeth bit into his bottom lip as he stared at Jon, his face flushing slightly. He was nervous, though he had no idea why.
"So what happened after you blacked out?"
"I didn't black out. I remember, ever so vaguely walking back to my house, the apples forgotten in the street as I wondered almost aimlessly. I had this...this sort of craving. This blood lust, if you will. I wanted to see it be shed, to watch it trickle down others throats..." He trailed off, seeming to be lost in the memory. "I know it sounds insane, and I honestly don't know how to go about describing it.
"I made it back to my home, and without even really thinking about what I was doing I took the axe from our shed, going into the home like I would any other day. Not a single member of my family seemed to notice the difference in my behavior. At least, not until it was too late. I can't remember anything past that. It's all just a blank nothingness. Like I was in a dream or trance; and when I awoke everyone member of my family was dead.
"I felt nothing. No guilt, regret; anger or self-loathing. Just envy. I had this envy that they could die. That they didn't have the blood of their family on their hands, the twisted voices that would scream inside their heads. They felt nothing, just slept. Like everyday was just a dream that they could pass by. I can still remember their faces; their lips void of color, their skin pale and stained red. They all looked so happy and peaceful.
"The way I see it, I was releasing them."
"Releasing them?" Spencer sat up in his seat, staring at the lost look on Jon's face.
"It's a fucked up world we live in." Jon moved his hand, taking one of the gloves off before reaching out for the candle. "Theirs so much pain, suffering, hatred. They no longer have to deal with it. Every last thing that makes this world the sick and vial place it is, it's all lost to them.
"But their still mad at me. Maybe they'll always be mad at me. That's why they always eat dinner with me. Because I stole that last meal from them. They'll never let it go. The same thing every night, they come in, they eat, they leave. No words, promises, or messes made." Jon seemed to take the flame in his hand, the little ball of fire dancing between his fingers before sizzling out.
"Is that it?" Jon looked from his hand back up to Spencer, the light dimmer than it had been before from the loss of one of the main candles.
"Were you expecting more?" Spencer stayed silent for a moment before speaking quietly.
"How long have you been alone?" Jon seemed lost in thought for a minute, biting his bottom lip. It made Spencer lick his lips, staring at the shiny white fangs that dug into the soft pale flesh of Jon's lips.
"I don't believe I can remember the last night I spent with someone who was alive." Spencer nodded once.
"Then I'll stay. But only if I can go back to my friends." Jon stared at him for a minute before giving a wide smile. He quickly stood, practically jumping over the table so he could hold out a hand for Spencer to take.
"I want to show you something." Spencer smiled, taking the cold soft hand that was in front of him.
Ryan and Brendon sat at the table in the kitchen; Ryan was staring at the bills in front of him as he gripped and pulled at his hair, Brendon watching his every movement. "We're never getting out of this." Ryan mumbled as he finally let go of his hair, letting his head fall to the table below.
"How much do we have?" Brendon asked cautiously as he started to look around the adjoining room for things to pawn for a little cash.
"Not enough to make it through this week. Brendon, what are we going to do?" Ryan gave Brendon the most pathetic look he had ever seen on the older male, the sight making Brendon sick. Ryan was always supposed to have an answer for everything, but he was completely at a lost as to what to do in the situation they were in.
"We could sell that." Brendon raised his hand, pointing to the small couch in the living room.
"The red couch we picked up off of the street? You really think that will bring enough money?"
"We could get rid of the TV."
"Maybe we should just get rid of my Fender." Ryan said in a sad tone, staring at one of the payments he needed to make within the next few days.
"No! We can't do that! We can get rid of everything in the living room, other than the purple recliner."
"Why not the purple recliner? I fucking hate that chair." Brendon gave Ryan his best puppy dog eyes.
"Because I love it." Ryan stared at Brendon for a minute, doing all of the calculations in his head.
"If I sell my book collection we should be fine for a little bit longer. We might even get a meal or two every day." He gave a content smile at the thought of a hot meal, Brendon staring at him for a few minutes.
"Sarah's birthday is coming up soon." Ryan groaned.
"Don't you dare tell me-"
"I need money to buy her a present."
"We don't have any fucking money! Goddamn it Brendon! Weren't you listening? I've been starving for the past two weeks and you're still asking me for money for a stupid trinket for your stupid girlfriend?" Brendon stood, walking out of the room.
"I don't fucking need this Ryan! I'd be doing better on my own anyway!" He stormed towards the door, Ryan quickly standing.
"I'd love to see the day you could do better than me! I've been working my ass off just to support us, and on top of that I've been having to pay for you're damn girl!"
"Fuck you and fuck your money!" Brendon stormed out of the apartment, leaving Ryan alone to shake with regret. He fell to the floor, burying his head in his hands. He cried, thinking of all the ways he could try to get money.
He stood, leaning over the sink as he let one of his hands open the drawer and pull out a shiny knife. He rolled up his sleeve, pressing it on the inside of his elbow. "I'm sorry Brendon." He let it sink into his flesh, leaving a small trail of blood in it's wake. "I'm sorry I let you down. I'm sorry I can't keep up with the bills. I'm sorry I can never tell you everything I feel." He made another cut, trying his hardest to make sure they would leave scars without going to deep. "I'm so fucking sorry." He let the knife fall, his head falling into his hands once more as his sobbing made him shake.
When he finally calmed down he sent a quick text to Brendon, rolling down his sleeve to cover the cuts he had been making almost every day for the past five months. 'I'll quit school and get a third job, sell my Fender. I'll do whatever it takes to make sure we make it through. Promise.' He knew that Brendon wouldn't read it. That he was with Sarah and was devoting every minute to forgetting about Ryan if only for a night.
There was a soft knock on the door, forcing Ryan out of his thoughts. He stood, carrying himself to the front door of the apartment that he shared with his only friend. What was on the other side was such a shock that he felt as if he was going to collapse. "Spencer?" Spencer gave a smile, his beat-up face making a small smile. His frame was weak, practically zero fat and covered in cuts and bruises. Ryan was positive that he had rope burn on his wrists.
"Hey Ryan. Missed you." Spencer fell forward, forcing Ryan to quickly catch him as the older male blacked out. Ryan rushed out the door, carrying the far-to-lightweight-Spencer out to his car where he put him in the backseat, quickly hitting speed-dial number five.
It went to voice mail as Ryan started to rush for the hospital.
"Brendon, I know you don't want to talk to me, but it's an emergency. Spencer. Just, come to the hospital, okay?" He hung up tossing his phone to the floorboards. With one quick glance at the review mirror, he slammed on the accelerator, hoping to get his once lost friend to the hospital as soon as he could.
~~~~~
I'm going to go ahead and be very truthful right now. I don't have time for this. It was a struggle just to write this little chapter. I think no matter how much time I spend on trying to get new things out for stories I already have written and active, I just don't think I'll ever get it done at the rate I'm going.
Today, I was very close to just deleting everything.
But I know I shouldn't give up, because it's not necessarily fare to you guys. So I'm not going to do that.
Just be expecting closer to one or two updates a month, instead of the usual one or two a week.
TheAnonymous:I felt it time for a change, break away from what I almost always do. I'm glad you like it so far.
PartyPoison:I'm going to tell you right now, it's not writers block. And now I'm going to tell you why. When I get writers block, it means that I literally can't think of what to write next. It means I'm confused about what I want to do, and I just can't seem to get the words to come out. What I'm feeling, is inadequacy. I know that what I write will be plenty good for some people, but I still can't help but fear the ridicule that it might produce. This ticking I feel every time I try to get the words out and onto the screen? It's my subconscious mind telling me that no matter how hard I try, I will always be just as inferior as I've always been. (I've been a fairly horrid place for the past few...weeks.)
I know what happens next, I know the stories I want to tell, and the words to tell them; I just can't seem to get them on the computer. (I can write them on paper just fine.) I think the only reason as to why I can write this story is because it's one of the few that I'm writing just for myself. Almost everything else is for other people, but this one is for me.
LePanicFan:I'm glad you're liking it, hope this chapter didn't scare you away. And it's not writers block. Just like what I said (typed, really) to PartyPoison, it's just not the same as writer's block.
-xoxo Pansy.
"You did what?"
Jon repeated himself, sounding bored though he looked happy. "I killed my family." Spencer licked his lips nervously. That was impossible. He looked to nice; his soft features, his slouched posture, the soft and sweet sound of his voice. He had no attributes of a killer. How could something beautiful be destructive?
"Why?" Spencer knew that prying wouldn't be the best of ideas, but he still couldn't help but do it. Maybe he was just acting like one of those women who only date guys in prison; he thought that if he got to know Jon that there would be a good reason for his insanity. Spencer was always a hopeful kid, believing in things that seemed ridiculous. He remembered that it was one of the things Ryan hated most about him.
"You wouldn't understand." Jon turned to look away, his smile fading. Spencer, thinking that Jon didn't believe in him, quickly reacted to this change in appearance.
"No. I mean, I might not understand, but I wanna try. Please, just tell me?" Jon seemed to give a soft sigh.
"Fine." He stretched his arms, resting his gloved hands on the table. He was staring at one of the candles, watching as the red wax ran down it's side before pooling on the white table cloth beneath. "It all began what I believe to be about 84 years ago. It was the Witches Night, and my family, keeping up with tradition, was preparing a feast. We had it every year on the same day at twelve sharp. Kind of like a final meal. It was a safety net, of sorts. It was believed that the day would bring misfortune and the chances of people dying rose with every hour until the day was up. We had this feast in case we died, so we could at least say that we had a good meal and had spent time with family.
"I was going out, to pick some fresh apples for the family. It was about two hours before our feast would have started when I was on my way back home. And there was this...man." He seemed to drift off for a moment, like he was trying to find the right words for what he had to describe. The faint candle light caste it's golden glow on his skin, making it shimmer like a china dolls skin. Spencer couldn't take his eyes off of the boy who sat across from him, no matter how hard he tried to. "He approached me with the posture of a hunter, though I didn't notice it at the time.
"He had this hat that covered his face, his head facing downwards to cast everything in shadow. The only hint that he even had a face was a single glowing red eye that seemed to capture even the slightest amount of light from the surrounding oil lamps. He was peculiar, to say the least. I figured he would just continue to walk on by, but as soon as I passed him he stopped. I cautiously took looks over my shoulder as I continued on the path to my house. He was always behind me, standing completely still. He would get closer with every glance, though his back was always to me, and it seemed that he wasn't even breathing. Wasn't moving in any way at all.
"I quickly became anxious and tried to get away from the man to the best of my abilities. So I started to run. When I took a final glance behind me, he wasn't there, so I slowed, staring at the empty street that was damp from the rain we had earlier in the day. It wasn't until I turned around that I noticed where he had gone to. The man was standing right in front of me, enough light showing his grinning face and glowing red eyes. There was something off about his smile, though I didn't look back into until after the accident, it was still there; two sharpened fangs pointing ever so slightly out of his mouth as he gave me the sickest grin I had ever seen.
"From there, it was just a sharp pain, an extreme heat coursing through me, and then blackness." He went quite for a minute, and Spencer tilted his head.
"Are you...alive?" The boy seemed saddened by this question, his face falling to a frown.
"Though I still breathe, I have no pulse. My heart does not beat, I need no food or water, time has no affect on me. So I suppose, I am not alive at all." Spencer stared at him. His white teeth bit into his bottom lip as he stared at Jon, his face flushing slightly. He was nervous, though he had no idea why.
"So what happened after you blacked out?"
"I didn't black out. I remember, ever so vaguely walking back to my house, the apples forgotten in the street as I wondered almost aimlessly. I had this...this sort of craving. This blood lust, if you will. I wanted to see it be shed, to watch it trickle down others throats..." He trailed off, seeming to be lost in the memory. "I know it sounds insane, and I honestly don't know how to go about describing it.
"I made it back to my home, and without even really thinking about what I was doing I took the axe from our shed, going into the home like I would any other day. Not a single member of my family seemed to notice the difference in my behavior. At least, not until it was too late. I can't remember anything past that. It's all just a blank nothingness. Like I was in a dream or trance; and when I awoke everyone member of my family was dead.
"I felt nothing. No guilt, regret; anger or self-loathing. Just envy. I had this envy that they could die. That they didn't have the blood of their family on their hands, the twisted voices that would scream inside their heads. They felt nothing, just slept. Like everyday was just a dream that they could pass by. I can still remember their faces; their lips void of color, their skin pale and stained red. They all looked so happy and peaceful.
"The way I see it, I was releasing them."
"Releasing them?" Spencer sat up in his seat, staring at the lost look on Jon's face.
"It's a fucked up world we live in." Jon moved his hand, taking one of the gloves off before reaching out for the candle. "Theirs so much pain, suffering, hatred. They no longer have to deal with it. Every last thing that makes this world the sick and vial place it is, it's all lost to them.
"But their still mad at me. Maybe they'll always be mad at me. That's why they always eat dinner with me. Because I stole that last meal from them. They'll never let it go. The same thing every night, they come in, they eat, they leave. No words, promises, or messes made." Jon seemed to take the flame in his hand, the little ball of fire dancing between his fingers before sizzling out.
"Is that it?" Jon looked from his hand back up to Spencer, the light dimmer than it had been before from the loss of one of the main candles.
"Were you expecting more?" Spencer stayed silent for a moment before speaking quietly.
"How long have you been alone?" Jon seemed lost in thought for a minute, biting his bottom lip. It made Spencer lick his lips, staring at the shiny white fangs that dug into the soft pale flesh of Jon's lips.
"I don't believe I can remember the last night I spent with someone who was alive." Spencer nodded once.
"Then I'll stay. But only if I can go back to my friends." Jon stared at him for a minute before giving a wide smile. He quickly stood, practically jumping over the table so he could hold out a hand for Spencer to take.
"I want to show you something." Spencer smiled, taking the cold soft hand that was in front of him.
Ryan and Brendon sat at the table in the kitchen; Ryan was staring at the bills in front of him as he gripped and pulled at his hair, Brendon watching his every movement. "We're never getting out of this." Ryan mumbled as he finally let go of his hair, letting his head fall to the table below.
"How much do we have?" Brendon asked cautiously as he started to look around the adjoining room for things to pawn for a little cash.
"Not enough to make it through this week. Brendon, what are we going to do?" Ryan gave Brendon the most pathetic look he had ever seen on the older male, the sight making Brendon sick. Ryan was always supposed to have an answer for everything, but he was completely at a lost as to what to do in the situation they were in.
"We could sell that." Brendon raised his hand, pointing to the small couch in the living room.
"The red couch we picked up off of the street? You really think that will bring enough money?"
"We could get rid of the TV."
"Maybe we should just get rid of my Fender." Ryan said in a sad tone, staring at one of the payments he needed to make within the next few days.
"No! We can't do that! We can get rid of everything in the living room, other than the purple recliner."
"Why not the purple recliner? I fucking hate that chair." Brendon gave Ryan his best puppy dog eyes.
"Because I love it." Ryan stared at Brendon for a minute, doing all of the calculations in his head.
"If I sell my book collection we should be fine for a little bit longer. We might even get a meal or two every day." He gave a content smile at the thought of a hot meal, Brendon staring at him for a few minutes.
"Sarah's birthday is coming up soon." Ryan groaned.
"Don't you dare tell me-"
"I need money to buy her a present."
"We don't have any fucking money! Goddamn it Brendon! Weren't you listening? I've been starving for the past two weeks and you're still asking me for money for a stupid trinket for your stupid girlfriend?" Brendon stood, walking out of the room.
"I don't fucking need this Ryan! I'd be doing better on my own anyway!" He stormed towards the door, Ryan quickly standing.
"I'd love to see the day you could do better than me! I've been working my ass off just to support us, and on top of that I've been having to pay for you're damn girl!"
"Fuck you and fuck your money!" Brendon stormed out of the apartment, leaving Ryan alone to shake with regret. He fell to the floor, burying his head in his hands. He cried, thinking of all the ways he could try to get money.
He stood, leaning over the sink as he let one of his hands open the drawer and pull out a shiny knife. He rolled up his sleeve, pressing it on the inside of his elbow. "I'm sorry Brendon." He let it sink into his flesh, leaving a small trail of blood in it's wake. "I'm sorry I let you down. I'm sorry I can't keep up with the bills. I'm sorry I can never tell you everything I feel." He made another cut, trying his hardest to make sure they would leave scars without going to deep. "I'm so fucking sorry." He let the knife fall, his head falling into his hands once more as his sobbing made him shake.
When he finally calmed down he sent a quick text to Brendon, rolling down his sleeve to cover the cuts he had been making almost every day for the past five months. 'I'll quit school and get a third job, sell my Fender. I'll do whatever it takes to make sure we make it through. Promise.' He knew that Brendon wouldn't read it. That he was with Sarah and was devoting every minute to forgetting about Ryan if only for a night.
There was a soft knock on the door, forcing Ryan out of his thoughts. He stood, carrying himself to the front door of the apartment that he shared with his only friend. What was on the other side was such a shock that he felt as if he was going to collapse. "Spencer?" Spencer gave a smile, his beat-up face making a small smile. His frame was weak, practically zero fat and covered in cuts and bruises. Ryan was positive that he had rope burn on his wrists.
"Hey Ryan. Missed you." Spencer fell forward, forcing Ryan to quickly catch him as the older male blacked out. Ryan rushed out the door, carrying the far-to-lightweight-Spencer out to his car where he put him in the backseat, quickly hitting speed-dial number five.
It went to voice mail as Ryan started to rush for the hospital.
"Brendon, I know you don't want to talk to me, but it's an emergency. Spencer. Just, come to the hospital, okay?" He hung up tossing his phone to the floorboards. With one quick glance at the review mirror, he slammed on the accelerator, hoping to get his once lost friend to the hospital as soon as he could.
~~~~~
I'm going to go ahead and be very truthful right now. I don't have time for this. It was a struggle just to write this little chapter. I think no matter how much time I spend on trying to get new things out for stories I already have written and active, I just don't think I'll ever get it done at the rate I'm going.
Today, I was very close to just deleting everything.
But I know I shouldn't give up, because it's not necessarily fare to you guys. So I'm not going to do that.
Just be expecting closer to one or two updates a month, instead of the usual one or two a week.
TheAnonymous:I felt it time for a change, break away from what I almost always do. I'm glad you like it so far.
PartyPoison:I'm going to tell you right now, it's not writers block. And now I'm going to tell you why. When I get writers block, it means that I literally can't think of what to write next. It means I'm confused about what I want to do, and I just can't seem to get the words to come out. What I'm feeling, is inadequacy. I know that what I write will be plenty good for some people, but I still can't help but fear the ridicule that it might produce. This ticking I feel every time I try to get the words out and onto the screen? It's my subconscious mind telling me that no matter how hard I try, I will always be just as inferior as I've always been. (I've been a fairly horrid place for the past few...weeks.)
I know what happens next, I know the stories I want to tell, and the words to tell them; I just can't seem to get them on the computer. (I can write them on paper just fine.) I think the only reason as to why I can write this story is because it's one of the few that I'm writing just for myself. Almost everything else is for other people, but this one is for me.
LePanicFan:I'm glad you're liking it, hope this chapter didn't scare you away. And it's not writers block. Just like what I said (typed, really) to PartyPoison, it's just not the same as writer's block.
-xoxo Pansy.
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