Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > Blessed by a Nightmare
I'm the Narrator and This is Just the Prolouge
3 reviewsWhat goes up must come down. Everythign falls. Toss a ball up in the air, it falls. Empires fall. Temperatures fall. Tears fall. It's their nature. I guess it's my nature to keep stumbling throu...
0Unrated
I'm still plowing through chapter two after months of writing - I started this before Champagne for My Real Friends, and that's been three months now. So shut up and read.
I don't know whether she's going to fall for Trick or Pete just yet. You decide.
I'm the Narrator and This is Just the Prologue
I rub my eyes and groan sleepily. My logical mind begins to assess the situation. The headache? Most likely a hangover. My surroundings? Leah's apartment, I decide after some thought. Blurry vision? Oh, yeah. Stupid contacts - I never remember to wear them. I probably left them in my purse, or in the bathroom this morning when I got up. I wish I knew - my glasses are ugly, and I'm not sure where my purse is. I feebly search the surrounding area, hoping I don't look like an idiot. A snicker tells me I do. Still, I almost fall off the couch in the process.
Then, a blob is standing in front of me. A very indistinct blob, to be exact. But I can still see what the blob is holding - a purse sized object dangles from its arm. "Looking for this?" it taunts.
"Leah, give me my purse back this instant!" I yell at the blob. Leah's my best friend and all, but she can be very immature. This is the exact kind of thing she'd do to me after waking up - even though she knows I'll kick her in the shins afterward as revenge. I'm not exactly a morning person. Well, not at all a morning person. I don't do well before noon. I lurch for my purse, only to actually fall off the couch this time. The frigid tiles feel nice and cool on my warm body, even with pain shooting up my ribcage.
"Not until you get my name right," it laughs. If this isn't Leah, then who is it? I rub my head and sit up slowly, taking my own sweet time. Pain shoots through my left arm as I prop myself up, only to fade into a dull throb. I flex it tenderly. "Here." The blob tosses my glasses case into my lap. Fumbling, I take them out and put them on.
I'm not in Leah's apartment - nowhere I've ever been before, actually. The four white walls have a puke-green wallpaper on the bottom half of it. It reminds me of the cabinet in our bathroom at home - smells like medication. A vending machine stands in the corner, blinking like it's in need of repair. Four boys are scattered around the room in various chairs, looking extremely out of place. One attempts to read a magazine, one is brooding. One looks like he's asleep, and the other is standing in front of me, grinning broadly.* I look up at him. He keeps on grinning, there in his trucker hat. Futilely, I search for his name. One comes to me - Hat Boy. I doubt that's the million-dollar answer to this question. He has to have one, right?
"Er, Patrick?" I guess. I close my eyes and hope that it's correct. It'd be slightly embarassing to find out that this isn't Patrick, and more than a little confusing to me.
"Correct, sleepy-head," says another, unfamiliar voice. I turn towards him - it's the brooding one, with the shaggy hair and an odd resemblance to Jesus.
Oh.
My.
God.
It's not Jesus, just Andy. Andy, who was at the party. Andy, who was with Leah last night. Andy, who was there when my best friend collapsed at a party.
And I realize that the headache's not a hangover - it's a concussion. I'm not at Leah's apartment - I'm at the hospital. This isn't just any group of guys - they're the only support I have right now. That boy in the trucker hat is the only friend I've got now. My eyes go wide with shock as all the horrible memories from the night before come back.
* In case you're too brain-damaged to figure it out, the one attempting to read a magazine is Joe. The brooding one is in fact, Andrew. The one pretending to be asleep is Pete, and of course, as Aeri so pointedly, uh, pointed out for us, the one who is grinning like a maniac is Patrick. Just in case you didn't know.
I don't know whether she's going to fall for Trick or Pete just yet. You decide.
I'm the Narrator and This is Just the Prologue
I rub my eyes and groan sleepily. My logical mind begins to assess the situation. The headache? Most likely a hangover. My surroundings? Leah's apartment, I decide after some thought. Blurry vision? Oh, yeah. Stupid contacts - I never remember to wear them. I probably left them in my purse, or in the bathroom this morning when I got up. I wish I knew - my glasses are ugly, and I'm not sure where my purse is. I feebly search the surrounding area, hoping I don't look like an idiot. A snicker tells me I do. Still, I almost fall off the couch in the process.
Then, a blob is standing in front of me. A very indistinct blob, to be exact. But I can still see what the blob is holding - a purse sized object dangles from its arm. "Looking for this?" it taunts.
"Leah, give me my purse back this instant!" I yell at the blob. Leah's my best friend and all, but she can be very immature. This is the exact kind of thing she'd do to me after waking up - even though she knows I'll kick her in the shins afterward as revenge. I'm not exactly a morning person. Well, not at all a morning person. I don't do well before noon. I lurch for my purse, only to actually fall off the couch this time. The frigid tiles feel nice and cool on my warm body, even with pain shooting up my ribcage.
"Not until you get my name right," it laughs. If this isn't Leah, then who is it? I rub my head and sit up slowly, taking my own sweet time. Pain shoots through my left arm as I prop myself up, only to fade into a dull throb. I flex it tenderly. "Here." The blob tosses my glasses case into my lap. Fumbling, I take them out and put them on.
I'm not in Leah's apartment - nowhere I've ever been before, actually. The four white walls have a puke-green wallpaper on the bottom half of it. It reminds me of the cabinet in our bathroom at home - smells like medication. A vending machine stands in the corner, blinking like it's in need of repair. Four boys are scattered around the room in various chairs, looking extremely out of place. One attempts to read a magazine, one is brooding. One looks like he's asleep, and the other is standing in front of me, grinning broadly.* I look up at him. He keeps on grinning, there in his trucker hat. Futilely, I search for his name. One comes to me - Hat Boy. I doubt that's the million-dollar answer to this question. He has to have one, right?
"Er, Patrick?" I guess. I close my eyes and hope that it's correct. It'd be slightly embarassing to find out that this isn't Patrick, and more than a little confusing to me.
"Correct, sleepy-head," says another, unfamiliar voice. I turn towards him - it's the brooding one, with the shaggy hair and an odd resemblance to Jesus.
Oh.
My.
God.
It's not Jesus, just Andy. Andy, who was at the party. Andy, who was with Leah last night. Andy, who was there when my best friend collapsed at a party.
And I realize that the headache's not a hangover - it's a concussion. I'm not at Leah's apartment - I'm at the hospital. This isn't just any group of guys - they're the only support I have right now. That boy in the trucker hat is the only friend I've got now. My eyes go wide with shock as all the horrible memories from the night before come back.
* In case you're too brain-damaged to figure it out, the one attempting to read a magazine is Joe. The brooding one is in fact, Andrew. The one pretending to be asleep is Pete, and of course, as Aeri so pointedly, uh, pointed out for us, the one who is grinning like a maniac is Patrick. Just in case you didn't know.
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