Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy
My Picket Fence
Patrick struggles to feel alive again after his recent separation from Elisa and the band goes on another long tour On the way, he meets a special someone.
?Blocked
My Picket Fence
It was noon. I was still in my pajamas, lying in my king-sized bed, staring at the ceiling. I felt the need to scrunch up, fearful of what it would feel like to spread out amongst my bed and not feel the familiar touch of another body next to me. A lot of words filled my mind: coward, bitch, liar, cheater, insignificant other. What did she want with me in the first place? What was the purpose of those 8 years?
“Get up, Patrick,” I said to myself. So I did. I forced myself out of the bed and made it quickly, wanting to avoid eye contact with it as much as possible. I pictured those many nights I had come home, Elisa sitting on that bed waiting for me.
Sing to me, and then I’ll take my clothes off
I gladly did every damn time.
“Forget it, Patrick,” so I did.
Quickly, I walked into my closet, pulling out a casual, white button down shirt and a pair of jeans, I laid them on the floor, I didn’t even want to touch the bed right now.
After taking a quick moment to shower, shave and style my hair, I put on the clothes I laid out and walked out the room, keys and wallet in my pocket, and phone in my hand. I quickly sifted through the contacts on my phone until I came to “Pete” and tapped his name.
“Please pick up.” I was impatient.
Click.
“Hey Patrick!” Pete’s voice sounded too happy to me. I took a deep breath; I can’t let myself be annoyed by these small things
“Pete, I’m going to get some Scotch—“
“Be over in fifteen.”
Click.
He knew I needed this.
I just finished my third glass of Oban Highland Single Malt Scotch Whisky. Pete was only on his second. He observed me, no particular expression. Just watching. I was sitting at my keyboard in the room I had recorded most of Soulpunk in. Pete was sitting in a chair, straddling it; his face resting on the top of it’s back. He spoke.
“You never told me why Elisa left you. And it’s been about three weeks.”
I didn’t respond.
“Patrick, you told me you were going to go buy Scotch,” he sounded concerned.
“You’re point?” I asked as I took another satisfying warm gulp of my drink,
He got up and took the glass from my hand.
“You and I both know that you never buy Scotch unless it’s a special occasion. You always have about two bottles for yourself in the house that you moderately drink out of. The fact that you bought some today tells me you didn’t have any Scotch in your house, which also tells me you’ve been drinking a lot of it.”
For some reason I found this humorous, so I laughed.
“Good Scotch is real. Elisa isn’t anymore. I can’t decide if this is a good thing or not.”
Pete sighed.
“What do you mean she’s not real?”
I couldn’t hold it back anymore. I stood up and I yelled.
“SHE, told ME that she’s been seeing another man for 5 months. THAT woman told me she couldn’t trust me. That the only reason she stayed with me for all these years is because she wanted to see me grow confident and realize I could do better than her. What kind of twisted logic is that? She said once I got back on tour, she REALIZED she couldn’t trust me. Realized? She fucking realized? My God, I could write a million songs about crying-teenage boys fucked up on benzedrine and what their dreams were like that would conclude with a lot more logical realizations than the one she supposedly came to. That's not a real woman. That's a fake woman. A woman who, who I loved so god-damn much." I sat down and put my head in my hands. I could feel a couple tears escaping my eyes and I hated myself for crying.
"You know it's okay to like, cry right?" Pete said calmly. I didn't say anything. Pete sighed again.
"Patrick, I believe you when you say she's a fake woman. Clearly she is, this is fucked. Very fucked up. And the fact that it's fucked up, is a clear indication that she needs to be forgotten about. It's not like you did something wrong and she's leaving you. She did something wrong, made some bull shit excuse, and is leaving you. So I'm going to warn you, you're gonna miss all those good times. But I'm telling you, you can't. It's going to tear you apart. We need to help you forget it. You need a distraction. A big one. Maybe we should go back on tour again."
I looked up at him.
"Another tour? Seriously?" Pete shrugged.
"I mean why not? We have nothing else to do. I say we keep going. We always develop some new material on the road too. Sometimes we need a break, but I don't think we should take a break any time soon. Especially you. You don't need anymore one night stands with Oban Highland."
I chuckled.
"Okay, lets tour."
I hope you like this. This is my first FOB story ever and I am really excited to be apart of this community here on ficwad. Please review.
It was noon. I was still in my pajamas, lying in my king-sized bed, staring at the ceiling. I felt the need to scrunch up, fearful of what it would feel like to spread out amongst my bed and not feel the familiar touch of another body next to me. A lot of words filled my mind: coward, bitch, liar, cheater, insignificant other. What did she want with me in the first place? What was the purpose of those 8 years?
“Get up, Patrick,” I said to myself. So I did. I forced myself out of the bed and made it quickly, wanting to avoid eye contact with it as much as possible. I pictured those many nights I had come home, Elisa sitting on that bed waiting for me.
Sing to me, and then I’ll take my clothes off
I gladly did every damn time.
“Forget it, Patrick,” so I did.
Quickly, I walked into my closet, pulling out a casual, white button down shirt and a pair of jeans, I laid them on the floor, I didn’t even want to touch the bed right now.
After taking a quick moment to shower, shave and style my hair, I put on the clothes I laid out and walked out the room, keys and wallet in my pocket, and phone in my hand. I quickly sifted through the contacts on my phone until I came to “Pete” and tapped his name.
“Please pick up.” I was impatient.
Click.
“Hey Patrick!” Pete’s voice sounded too happy to me. I took a deep breath; I can’t let myself be annoyed by these small things
“Pete, I’m going to get some Scotch—“
“Be over in fifteen.”
Click.
He knew I needed this.
I just finished my third glass of Oban Highland Single Malt Scotch Whisky. Pete was only on his second. He observed me, no particular expression. Just watching. I was sitting at my keyboard in the room I had recorded most of Soulpunk in. Pete was sitting in a chair, straddling it; his face resting on the top of it’s back. He spoke.
“You never told me why Elisa left you. And it’s been about three weeks.”
I didn’t respond.
“Patrick, you told me you were going to go buy Scotch,” he sounded concerned.
“You’re point?” I asked as I took another satisfying warm gulp of my drink,
He got up and took the glass from my hand.
“You and I both know that you never buy Scotch unless it’s a special occasion. You always have about two bottles for yourself in the house that you moderately drink out of. The fact that you bought some today tells me you didn’t have any Scotch in your house, which also tells me you’ve been drinking a lot of it.”
For some reason I found this humorous, so I laughed.
“Good Scotch is real. Elisa isn’t anymore. I can’t decide if this is a good thing or not.”
Pete sighed.
“What do you mean she’s not real?”
I couldn’t hold it back anymore. I stood up and I yelled.
“SHE, told ME that she’s been seeing another man for 5 months. THAT woman told me she couldn’t trust me. That the only reason she stayed with me for all these years is because she wanted to see me grow confident and realize I could do better than her. What kind of twisted logic is that? She said once I got back on tour, she REALIZED she couldn’t trust me. Realized? She fucking realized? My God, I could write a million songs about crying-teenage boys fucked up on benzedrine and what their dreams were like that would conclude with a lot more logical realizations than the one she supposedly came to. That's not a real woman. That's a fake woman. A woman who, who I loved so god-damn much." I sat down and put my head in my hands. I could feel a couple tears escaping my eyes and I hated myself for crying.
"You know it's okay to like, cry right?" Pete said calmly. I didn't say anything. Pete sighed again.
"Patrick, I believe you when you say she's a fake woman. Clearly she is, this is fucked. Very fucked up. And the fact that it's fucked up, is a clear indication that she needs to be forgotten about. It's not like you did something wrong and she's leaving you. She did something wrong, made some bull shit excuse, and is leaving you. So I'm going to warn you, you're gonna miss all those good times. But I'm telling you, you can't. It's going to tear you apart. We need to help you forget it. You need a distraction. A big one. Maybe we should go back on tour again."
I looked up at him.
"Another tour? Seriously?" Pete shrugged.
"I mean why not? We have nothing else to do. I say we keep going. We always develop some new material on the road too. Sometimes we need a break, but I don't think we should take a break any time soon. Especially you. You don't need anymore one night stands with Oban Highland."
I chuckled.
"Okay, lets tour."
I hope you like this. This is my first FOB story ever and I am really excited to be apart of this community here on ficwad. Please review.
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