Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy
The blank page stares back at him like an ironic inside joke.
It's pathetic.
He was pathetic.
There he was, belching emotions onto sheets of paper, when he should be out there, claiming his position in society. As an individual, standing on his own two feet, arm in arm with a pretty girl, and a bubble in his chest.
But there he was, inserting semicolon's into every thought in his head, arguing with himself, making this worse than it actually was. It makes one wonder, really.
Do I like misery, or does it like me?
He smiles to himself. And he's not really sure why. It's probably from the faint hint of irony that seeped through from that sentence. That bitch is everywhere, innit? Either that, or from the constant bleeping of Patrick's sidekick. The idea of social contact could tempt him like nothing else could. He hadn't moved the phone from the spot where Patrick had left it, between the pages of a gossip magazine, carefully strewn on the bed. And that was mainly because he hadn't gotten into his bed for the best three days. He hadn't done much for the past three days, really. It was a mental lock down for his personal pleasure. To be away from the streets, the smoke, the whiskey and the thongs.
The funny thing was, seclusion seemed more like Hug Drug than a laxative.
Pete sat there, in the darkness of his hotel room, nibbling at his black nails and bobbing his left leg up and down, as if waiting at the end of a queue in Disneyland.
Mmm, Disneyland. It was his Savings Account of memories. The light, sugary taste of churros on his tongue, the worn out sneakers and the camera smiles. He bit his nails faster and bobbed his leg higher, images carving themselves into his mind's eye. The wind ruffling his hair as he he flew into the air, protected by nothing by a few metal bars and familiar screams. He almost remembered what her voice sounded like.
Almost.
But she forgot. They all forgot. Every one of them. No phone calls. No letters. No e-mails. Their memories were wiped clean, starting with their speed dials. Not that he had tried to stay in touch, because he didn't. Probably for the same reasons that they didn't either. It was sad. None of them would ever own an original copy.
Because back then, he was just a xerox.
Chicago had become his printer. He dived into its ink, colors and needles without any regrets. He'd drawn deep, lasting breaths and memories and this time, he used a permanent marker. It was real, pure and overwhelming. Every breath was worth taking. Every picture was worth clicking. Everyday was worth living. It was a fairytale and he was Cinder-fucking-ella.
And now, here he was, in an empty hotel room, wondering what was wrong with his life. And the truth was, there wasn't anything wrong with it. Everything was perfect. And that just just disturbing. This wasn't how Happiness is supposed to feel. It was supposed to be fulfilling and satisfying like a video of a rainbow after a thunderstorm on loop. Not like like a trigger to the side of your head.
He was out there, having the time of his life, enjoying fame and fortune, getting lap dances from nurses and falling in love. He was roaming the streets at three in the morning with people who owned original copies of him. He was doing everything a person like him should be doing. But it all felt so wrong.
He'd spent the last three days in seclusion, away from the world, away from his life and his love, just thinking. Thinking about this nagging feeling at the back of his mind, that refused to leave him alone, like a mother needling her unwashed child. But every time he tried to unravel the huge knot that had formed in this sub conscience, he just ended up going in circles.
It gave him a fucking headache, and that's all it did.
Urgh.
His life was a plate of platonic dreams, dropping dead at every chance it could get. It had a mind of it's own, where it thought, dreamed and sang by itself, occasionally dragging him along with it on a never ending journey through crowded rooms, stadiums, pubs and streets on nothing but pure willpower and coffee. His fingers moved away from his mouth, coming to rest on his left thigh, now perfectly still. He raised himself from off his chair, and padded across the dimly lit hotel room.
Sighing, he quietly crawled into the bed, Patrick's sidekick safe on the bedside table.
'Guess I'm in for a long ride.
---
A/N- Review and rate, my loves. =)
It's my first attempt at one-shots so some constructive criticism would be very much welcome! =)
It's pathetic.
He was pathetic.
There he was, belching emotions onto sheets of paper, when he should be out there, claiming his position in society. As an individual, standing on his own two feet, arm in arm with a pretty girl, and a bubble in his chest.
But there he was, inserting semicolon's into every thought in his head, arguing with himself, making this worse than it actually was. It makes one wonder, really.
Do I like misery, or does it like me?
He smiles to himself. And he's not really sure why. It's probably from the faint hint of irony that seeped through from that sentence. That bitch is everywhere, innit? Either that, or from the constant bleeping of Patrick's sidekick. The idea of social contact could tempt him like nothing else could. He hadn't moved the phone from the spot where Patrick had left it, between the pages of a gossip magazine, carefully strewn on the bed. And that was mainly because he hadn't gotten into his bed for the best three days. He hadn't done much for the past three days, really. It was a mental lock down for his personal pleasure. To be away from the streets, the smoke, the whiskey and the thongs.
The funny thing was, seclusion seemed more like Hug Drug than a laxative.
Pete sat there, in the darkness of his hotel room, nibbling at his black nails and bobbing his left leg up and down, as if waiting at the end of a queue in Disneyland.
Mmm, Disneyland. It was his Savings Account of memories. The light, sugary taste of churros on his tongue, the worn out sneakers and the camera smiles. He bit his nails faster and bobbed his leg higher, images carving themselves into his mind's eye. The wind ruffling his hair as he he flew into the air, protected by nothing by a few metal bars and familiar screams. He almost remembered what her voice sounded like.
Almost.
But she forgot. They all forgot. Every one of them. No phone calls. No letters. No e-mails. Their memories were wiped clean, starting with their speed dials. Not that he had tried to stay in touch, because he didn't. Probably for the same reasons that they didn't either. It was sad. None of them would ever own an original copy.
Because back then, he was just a xerox.
Chicago had become his printer. He dived into its ink, colors and needles without any regrets. He'd drawn deep, lasting breaths and memories and this time, he used a permanent marker. It was real, pure and overwhelming. Every breath was worth taking. Every picture was worth clicking. Everyday was worth living. It was a fairytale and he was Cinder-fucking-ella.
And now, here he was, in an empty hotel room, wondering what was wrong with his life. And the truth was, there wasn't anything wrong with it. Everything was perfect. And that just just disturbing. This wasn't how Happiness is supposed to feel. It was supposed to be fulfilling and satisfying like a video of a rainbow after a thunderstorm on loop. Not like like a trigger to the side of your head.
He was out there, having the time of his life, enjoying fame and fortune, getting lap dances from nurses and falling in love. He was roaming the streets at three in the morning with people who owned original copies of him. He was doing everything a person like him should be doing. But it all felt so wrong.
He'd spent the last three days in seclusion, away from the world, away from his life and his love, just thinking. Thinking about this nagging feeling at the back of his mind, that refused to leave him alone, like a mother needling her unwashed child. But every time he tried to unravel the huge knot that had formed in this sub conscience, he just ended up going in circles.
It gave him a fucking headache, and that's all it did.
Urgh.
His life was a plate of platonic dreams, dropping dead at every chance it could get. It had a mind of it's own, where it thought, dreamed and sang by itself, occasionally dragging him along with it on a never ending journey through crowded rooms, stadiums, pubs and streets on nothing but pure willpower and coffee. His fingers moved away from his mouth, coming to rest on his left thigh, now perfectly still. He raised himself from off his chair, and padded across the dimly lit hotel room.
Sighing, he quietly crawled into the bed, Patrick's sidekick safe on the bedside table.
'Guess I'm in for a long ride.
---
A/N- Review and rate, my loves. =)
It's my first attempt at one-shots so some constructive criticism would be very much welcome! =)
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