Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > Golden

The Lights Of The City Were Too Heavy [Pt. 2]

by moocow 11 reviews

Andy and Dirty. Props to Izzy and Alex for total comic relief. Sorta. Not really. :]

Category: Fall Out Boy - Rating: R - Genres: Angst, Drama, Humor - Warnings: [!!!] [?] - Published: 2007-02-14 - Updated: 2007-02-15 - 1423 words


"Andy, put that down- ANDY!"

I looked back to where Andy was still messing about in the isle somewhere, his hands reaching for the match boxes and lighter fluids in front of him. I came out of the check-out line, and grabbed what was in his hands.

"Andy, leave it. We're going home now," He growled slightly and crossed his arms.

"Bitch." He muttered, and stomped off towards the line.

I rolled my eyes, and followed his footsteps to where he had situated himself in front of the cashier. I paid, and asked him to carry a few of the bags. He mumbled under his breath slightly, but picked up the groceries anyway. Arriving home, he threw the bag onto the worktop, and I swear I heard one of the eggs break. Shaking my head, I followed him into the front room.

"So, what do you want to do today?" I asked him, and he looked up from the TV and glared at me.

"I don't know. Maybe you can go and hang yourself by a rope. That sounds fun." I rolled my eyes again, and sat down on the chair.

This is what I got most of the time.

I still can't believe I was the one voted on taking care of the man. He's only my cousin. I mean, why me? Stupid mother! Only because I took a psychology diploma, doesn't mean I'm qualified. But in the words of my mother; "I'm better than sending him to a mental institution" Yeah right. That where he needs to be right now.

A mental institution.

I looked back to Andy, and asked again.

"So there's definitely nothing you want to do?" He groaned loudly, and glared at me. If looks could kill, I'd be six feet under.

"FOR FUCK SAKE! NO! FUCKING HELL!" He screamed, and lunged at me. I side stepped him; Good job he didn't have very good reflexes.

"Andy. Get up," He screamed into the floor and stood up. He began to walk off; when his eyes lit up with a glint that only one thing could produce. He looked at me, and smiled.

"Actually, let's, have a barbeque!" He pleaded in his eyes with me, and I shook my head fiercely.

"Nice try Mr. But no way. I don't want you getting all hyper because of that. We'll play video games or something okay?" His eyes returned to the previous anger, and he stomped upstairs. I groaned.

Like I say; Everyday is like this.

At first, I didn't know what his condition was. I found out the hard way. Let's just say my teddy bear won't be growing its fur back anytime soon. I actually had to look his condition up on the internet, as none of the family dared to tell me, because they thought it would freak me out.

Pyromania, /Noun/:
Intense obsession with fire, explosives, and their related effects.
Pyromaniacs start fires to induce euphoria.
In colloquial English, the synonyms "firebug" and "fire starter" are sometimes used.

They were right. It did freak me out


"John, come on. I know you can do this," I gave him a warm smile.

"I told you to call me 'Dirty', Millie," he scolded me, but snickered upon saying my name.


All it took was some patience.

The man, slightly over twenty, looked up from his plate of spaghetti, his face a mess of tomato sauce and noodles. A meatball tucked behind his ear. This might sound funny, but trust me, it was not.

"I know you can eat like a grown up, Jo- Dirty. Just watch me."

"You mean... like... use the spoon?" Of course, I had cut the spaghetti into small pieces before serving them. It was not adviseable to give him a fork or even a knife.

"Yes, using the spoon would be the second step," I nodded my head in encouragement. "But first you want to aim for your mouth, not your nose, ok?" He grinned at me.

I smiled back, grabbed one of the napkins I had always at my side - rule number one around dirty Johnny - and removed the two noodles that were dangling out of his nostrils. I wasn't disgusted. Even though I still wasn't sure if I was really up to this, I had seen worse than spaghetti that were consumed nasally. Dirty sniffed.

Then he burped loudly.

"And what do you say when that happens?" I asked him in a friendly tone.

"I'm full," he replied cheerfully.

"Fair enough," I muttered under my breath and grabbed his and my plates to carry them into the kitchen.

This was my second week with him.

There had already been times when I wanted to quit.

This was a full-time job.

And by full-time I mean 24 hours a day.

During the first three nights he wanted to sleep in one bed with me!

I've been told that Jonathan Miller hasn't always been like that. My experience had been exclusively made up by patients who had just stopped maturing at a certain age. You are inclined to feel sorry for them, think about all the things they're missing out on.

Once I had a 30-year-old woman who had the mind frame of a 12-year-old girl. She would giggle when she saw a handsome boy and was terribly in love with all things pink. And all things pony. So you're tempted to think that this poor individual will never find a husband, will never be able to have a 'normal' job. Well, maybe she won't but it doesn't matter to her because she doesn't know it any other way.

Dirty's case was different.

Before I agreed to take care of him I had been informed that he did mature like everyone else usually did, but after what must have been a horrible incident that had wreaked havoc on his mental health, he just regressed into an earlier stage of development. The doctors were convinced that it didn't have any biological reasons; his brain was physically still capable of what it had been before the trigger moment.

Therefore it was assumed that the reason for his regression was an entirely emotional one. Escaping into the mind frame of a young child was his brain's mechanism of building a safeguard against the horror that he must have been confronted with in the adult world.

These explanations sounded plausible to me, yet, I tried not to diagnose too much myself as I had clearly not been trained for such an action. I was there to look after him, to make sure he didn't hurt himself or others. Dirty wasn't violent per se but he could get quite worked up when things didn't go the way he wanted. Rather natural for children. (And frankly, there were a couple of individuals among my so-called grown-up friends who still behave like that.)

This was a major thing, a first time.

Until now I had only visited my patients, mostly at their parents' house. Helped the mothers and fathers who hardly had time for themselves. This was a much bigger project. The idea was that he developed enough faith and trust in me, an adult, so that he would eventually get to the point where his brain could start to tackle the underlying problem. He needed to learn to trust grown-ups again, then maybe his maturity would tune in with his age. I understood this method was more wishful thinking than medically attested, but I have always been one to believe in miracles.

Most of my former patients had been happy-go-lucky types of people and John didn't prove to be an exception. If you spend a lot of time with young children (matching appearance or not), you realize what a dazzling and exciting place this world really is. To Dirty the spare blankets in my cupboard equalled a tent in his room (the formerly empty one next to mine). Going shopping with him was always an adventure. He would have his toy gun tucked into his belt, pulling it out every now and then to aim at various objects and people (I had to apologize for him regularly, but I never minded that) while making up stories about aliens or fantasy worlds.

This was part of the reason why, despite drawbacks such as not being able to have much privacy, I had agreed to have him move in with me: It kept you young.

I would never risk the danger of losing touch with the inner child inside of me.
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