FicWad

There they go again.


Those stars just won't give up. They keep wailing and whizzing down, down, down, and even though they just fade off into oblivion, never actually reaching their goal, they don't stop trying. Before they crash into him, to earth, they explode into a flurry of silver and light and are never seen again. Their dreams of reaching the ground are dashed in a second, all because of a foolish choice they made and will never learn from. And despite the fact the other stars obviously saw their comrades' horrible demise, they decide to tumble down, too, because they're all just as foolish and they didn't learn from the mistake, either.


Brendon wonders why in the world something as special as a star would ever give up its phenomenal place in the heavens where it ruled high above the people, shining brilliantly and being admired by millions, just to come crashing down into the dismal, overrated place that is earth. Brendon wonders what in the world the stars see in Life down here that would make them want to undoubtedly give up their beautiful life up in the cosmos in attempt to live farther down.


Brendon thinks the stars must be really stupid; he doesn't think there's really much to Life down here at all.


It's just a world of playing pretend, selfishness, and faux joys.


Swallowing, the boy tilts his head to the side, just a little bit, so that his girlfriend's reclined form is now in his view. He opens his mouth slowly, and when the words finally do come out, they sound slow and ugly.


“Do you see them too, Audrey?”


There's silence, and Brendon feels frustration and anger bubbling inside his stomach, because he knows he's being ignored. He doesn't like being ignored, or being angry, or being frustrated; it reminds him that he's imperfect. He has to be imperfect, because if he weren't imperfect, then Audrey would love him enough to answer him. Brendon doesn't like being reminded of his imperfection.


It's not like Brendon thinks he's perfect or anything, in fact, he considers himself rotten to the core, but that doesn't mean he can't pretend. It doesn't mean he can't pretend that he's perfect. Brendon pretends that he's perfect every day of his life. He saunters into the high school, looking simply stunning, charming and funny, and he plays perfect so well that he thinks most of the student body believes that he really is flawless.


But the sad thing is, Brendon may be able to fool a thousand teenagers into thinking that he's wonderful, but he can't fool himself.


It drives him crazy when that little voice at the end of the day chimes in with an incessant,


“Liar. Liar, liar, liar.”


But it really gets Brendon when the voice says,


“You know you can only keep up this facade for so long.”


Because Brendon knows that voice is oh-so right. Far too right, for his taste. His popularity will only last for a season. And when Brendon thinks about it, it dawns on him that he's a senior this year, and that if he does go to college, his popularity will probably completely fade away as soon as he enters that new world. But Brendon doesn't want to focus on that unfortunate dilemma right now. He's finally kind of tired of being so negative.


Audrey still hasn't answered him, so he just forgets about her, and turns his gaze back up to the dark sky. Suddenly, his heart starts pounding a little faster. His eyes widen, and Brendon's not totally sure if he's seeing straight because are those stars falling faster or is it just him?


Are they cascading down to earth with a greater speed than he thinks any falling star should ever have or is it just that fourth cocktail he gulped down playing tricks with his mind? There's a sharp pain in his head now, and Brendon groans, pulling his hands up to his head and squeezing his temples tightly, trying to numb the pain.


His head's never hurt this bad in his entire life and now his stomach is starting to churn and he can almost feel the stomach acid burning his insides as he flops on his side and faces the girl next to him yet again.


“A-Audrey, seriously, do you see them?” he slurs, and he thinks that he must sound like a really imperfect idiot right now. “The stars, the-they're falling pretty fast and I think they might hit us…” he trails off because now he's not really sure what he's saying.


His more rational mind is yelling at him that “You moron! Stars can't fall and hit you!” but his currently impaired conscience is making that heart of his pump harder and the adrenaline flow through his veins faster because for heaven's sake those stars are falling too fast and too many all at once and he and Audrey are outside on the roof where they could easily be hit and…


“What are you talking about? God, Brendon, how many drinks did you freakin' have?”


Audrey finally says something, and Brendon groans again, burying his face into the rough shingles of the roof and trying to stop the pulsing and nausea.


“Just like, I don't know, like four or something?” Brendon mutters out, and then remembers another small fact. “But I did try some of that stuff what's-his-face brought. Zach. Yeah, Zach brought some…” But he can't finish his sentence because all of a sudden his vision is dark and tunneled and he feels the blood rush from his head to his toes.


“Brendon? Brendon? Oh God, William, get in here. I think Brendon's—”


But Brendon doesn't hear much of Audrey's already far off voice because next thing he knows his limbs are limp and every nerve of his is tingling, and he takes one last look up at the sky before it all goes black and the falling stars explode into a burst of silvery light.


--------------------------------


“All right, I need you to shoot him up with some Valium and then get the IV going.”


The doctor's hectic voice sounds really weird to Brendon as the cool fabric of the hospital gown rubs against his skin and foreign hands press down on his arms and legs, trying to get him to settle down onto the gurney they've rolled out.


The pulsing in his head isn't so bad anymore, but now he feels extremely panicked, and his breathing is ragged and he can't quite calm his heart rate no matter how much he wants to.


“Brendon, I need you to calm down, okay?”


Brendon wants to punch the nurse in her pretty little face. He can't really move because now they've strapped him in, so he just glares at her as best he can with his cloudy eyes.


“I-I'm try-trying…” he tries to tell her that's exactly what he's been attempting to do for the past ten minutes but it's obviously not working out so she just needs to shut up because her annoying little instructions aren't helping the situation, either.


“What did you say, sweetie?”


Now Brendon's just completely annoyed. A quick fury rises in his chest with his frustration, because this nurse is so incompetent that she can't even understand him. He takes a deep breath in and sits up quickly.


All of sudden, the beeping of the machines all around him, the doctor scampering around getting ready to pump his stomach, the nurse outside trying to console Brendon's hysterical mother, and the various other medical helpers shuffling about hit him all like a brick. His headache comes back full force, and before he can stop it, he feels his stomach heaving and he writhes to the side and vomits.


The nurses and doctor don't miss a beat. The nurse nearest to his right simply rubs his back soothingly and whispers, “Shh, honey, it's okay”, and Brendon starts heaving in and out. Finally, he feels his gut settle down and he hesitantly lies back onto the pillow.


“I-I wasn't supposed to mix those pills and the alcohol, I guess,” he slurs, and the nurse chuckles despite herself. Once again, Brendon gets the urge to smack her.


“No, you weren't, Mr. Urie,” The doctor's stern voice replies, and Brendon feelings oddly ashamed of himself. “You're lucky your friends called the ambulance when they did, or you might be dead right now.”


Brendon feels a sudden rush of shock and disdain at that comment, and looks to his left because all of a sudden he feels wet cotton on his arm. The nurse is dabbing his limb with what he assumes is alcohol, and he's about to ask why before she plunges a several inch long needle into his soft flesh and he watches in horror as the liquid vile empties into his veins.


It's a millisecond before Brendon feels the sharp, slicing pain of the tool and he opens his mouth, shooting upwards a little, wanting to scream and pull the needle out of his delicate flesh, but when no sound comes out and he realizes his hands are strapped in, he feels really rather hopeless. Finally, the woman pulls out the shot with one more burst of piercing pain, and quickly slaps a new cotton ball onto Brendon's arm where she just injected the needle, cleaning it off.


“Why would he ever do this? Why?”


Brendon looks up suddenly with the hysterical, tear-choked voice, and catches sight of his distraught mother and father standing in the window outside the hospital room he's in. They're speaking with who Brendon guesses is another nurse.


The nurse that Brendon wants to punch must have overheard them and thought the question worth repeating because she says,


“Brendon, did someone make you do this?”


Brendon laughs. But it's hollow due to his condition and sounds sick and sarcastic, but that's okay because that's what he was aiming for it to sound like anyway.


Did someone make you do this?


The ludicrous statement rings throughout his mind, and he looks the nurse straight in the eye. He sees a flicker of fear in her face when their gazes meet, and he thinks that's because he must look really crazy right now, with his brown eyes wide and wild, his dark hair matted to his forehead with sweat, his face paler than paper, with various needles and drugs in him.


“Yes, someone made me do this,” he sneers, thoughts tumbling about in his head. He's actually kind of sickly pleased with himself that even in this condition he knows exactly what to say to her statement. Brendon Urie is never one without words. “Someone made me do this because someone was sick and tired of being suffocated and lied to his entire life, and he wanted to finally get away from it all, even if it was only going to be for one night.”


The nurse looks confused, so Brendon continues.


“That someone was me.”


“Is the IV going?” The doctor cuts rudely into his conversation loudly, asking the nurse Brendon was speaking to.


The nurse jumps out of her conversation with Brendon all too easily, and replies positively to the doctor's statement, and Brendon feels angry again. But he doesn't really have time to act on that feeling, because next thing he knows his vision is once again dark and tunneling and he feels really, really tired. Slowly, his eyes close, and as they do, he chuckles. He gives one last look at the nurse hovering above him, and as she's fading away, he whispers,


“But, y'know, it coulda just been an accident, too.”


--------------------------------


It's a balancing act.


Brendon tries to situate the pencil on top of the armrest of the chair just so. He doesn't want it to tumble down and made a clatter, after all. Unfortunately, the laws of physics work against him as always, and the pencil begins to roll down the surface of wood. Brendon's quick enough to catch it before it whirls to the ground, however.


“Brendon, answer Mr. Hawthorne.”


His mother's scornful voice breaks him out of his odd reverie, and he looks up, wide, brown eyes searching the face of the older man sitting at an all-too familiar mahogany desk in front of him.


A small smile takes its place on his face.


“What was the question, sorry?” he says, getting a twisted satisfaction as his mother groans and his father shakes his head.


“We apologize, Mr. Hawthorne. Ever since Brendon was let out of the hospital, he's been acting a bit dazed. But they said that was common side effect of all the drugs he was on, so we assure you, he won't always be this distracted, so to speak,” his mother says, and Brendon snorts, earning a disdainful look from his dad.


Mr. Hawthorne looks mildly amused, but only for a moment, until his face melts back into that “no-nonsense” look Brendon is far too accustomed to. The principal of his high school was someone Brendon had to say he was well acquainted with.


He may be “perfect” to his fellow students, but his parents had a whole different standard of “flawless”, and being clever, witty, and daring wasn't on the list.


“I understand, Mrs. Urie. What Brendon went through obviously was a toll on his body, and we'll make sure to take that into consideration as we set up his final exam and last semester classes' schedule,” the man announces, and Brendon's father takes the initiative to speak up.


“So he still can graduate even though he missed almost a month?” he asks, a mix of hope and tremulousness in his voice that Brendon finds appealing only because he really thinks it's just that unappealing.


The principal nods, but then reaches into his desk and pulls out a manila folder filled with papers. On the tab, Brendon reads in bold, permanent marker shaped letters: BRENDON URIE.


A smirk rises to his lips despite the uneasiness that dances around in his gut, suddenly.


“Unfortunately, though, Mr. Urie, your son will have to take a couple extra classes to make up for the ones he skipped earlier this year,” the principal reveals, and Brendon laughs inwardly.


Here it comes.


His mother gets a look of horror on her face whereas his father simply looks shocked. Mrs. Urie opens her mouth to say something, squeaks out a noise, and then snaps her lips shut again. Mr. Urie takes over for what his wife obviously can't do.


“Excuse me, but did you say `skipped classes'?” Brendon's father asks disbelievingly.


The older man sitting at the desk in front of the three looks confused and surprised but nods.


“Why, yes. Your son skipped three classes—” Mr. Hawthorne pauses, peeks into the folder, and continues, “—biology, Spanish III, and literature last semester. Just didn't show up once.”


Immediately Brendon feels like melting into a puddle of goo or bursting out of his chair and dashing out of the school and down into the street in hopes of getting hit by a car to save him from the humiliation he feels as his parents turn their heads to slowly look at their child in utter shock and disappointment.


“Well, good gracious, sir, we had no idea. We can't express how sorry we are that our son caused you this inconvenience but—” Mrs. Urie begins, her tone still wistful and surprised, but she is interrupted by the principal.


“Didn't know? Our office staff and I left several messages at your home phone and one or two at each of your cell phones telling you of Brendon's skipping,” Mr. Hawthorne announces.


Brendon lets the smallest of smiles emerge at that. Brendon's pretty darn good at making sure he gets to the message machine every day before his parents come home or sneaking into his parents coats or purse for the cell phones and erasing every message that the school leaves on the voicemail so that his parents don't have a clue.


It's really a pity that something as tricky as that that was so brilliantly pulled off has to come tumbling down like this.


Once again, he gets a death glare from his father and his mother simply lets out a sound of despair and hangs her head. Brendon simply shrugs, and begins tapping the wood of the armrest idly.


“So…are we done yet?” he asks.


--------------------------------


“My God, Brendon. Be serious,” Audrey sneers, and Brendon snaps out of his thoughts to see her tear-stained, eyeliner and mascara smeared face twisted into a look of astonishment and annoyance. His “best friend” William Beckett stands next to his (ex)-girlfriend, and his long hair hangs over his eyes as his spidery hands rest on his hips and he stares at Brendon with disdain. Zach, his other “best friend”, hovers over William and Audrey, looking taller, bulkier, and nastier than ever.


It's weird.


Weird that his “friends” hate him like this.


Brendon simply stands up taller at their accusing faces. He repeats,


“I said that my parents told me I couldn't hang around you guys anymore, and I'm going to listen to them.”


Zach scoffs. His deep voice retorts,


“What? Get real. You, Brendon Urie, actually listening to your parents? C'mon, dude, be serious.”


Brendon stares unblinkingly at his three companions, and it's only when Audrey sniffles that he finally answers,


“I am.”


--------------------------------


The whizzing landscape is making him awfully dizzy.


But the radio station is playing nothing but that godforsaken “Church of the Latter Day Saints Bible Study” channel on the satellite radio and God knows that's the last thing he wants to pay attention to. So the next best thing is to watch the shrubbery and faux forestry of suburban Las Vegas fly by outside the mini van's window.


Brendon friggin' hates that mini van, by the way.


It's bright purple and weirdly shaped, like a jellybean. Now, Brendon likes jellybeans (well, he actually likes anything sugary, really) and the color purple (lavender, as he calls it) is his favorite, but when you mix the two together and put it in the form of a car, it just isn't right.


Which is why he totally renounced the automobile the minute he got his license and went out and bought another vehicle with some of his college money despite his parents' protests (Like he cared if his college fund was drained; the way he saw it, he was barely passing high school and didn't have plans to go to a university anyway).


But alas, his mother adored the strange thing, and every time Brendon went somewhere with her, he was forced to ride in it.


So with his arms crossed a bitter attitude, they pull up in front of a nice brick house. The flowers are colorful and the yard is weeded. The bright green lawn is flawlessly mowed, and there's a large oak tree out front with a simple tire swing swaying in the breeze dangling from its large limb. It's picture perfect.


Brendon feels sick.


He hears the click of his mother unbuckling, and he shifts uneasily in his seat. Still not looking at her, he hears her begin to talk, and once she's done, Brendon's not making any promises.


“Don't lie to the therapist, honey.”