Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance
Demolition Lovers, or Don't Look Back
2 reviewsOneshot I did for english this year. Yes, I know the name Emily is WAY overused, but I wrote this a long time ago and I'm not gonna change it just because other people have made it a chiche.
0Unrated
I look up from the floor momentarily to look at the clock on the wall. Only ten minutes until I have my break. I cross my legs and glance at Phoebe, who stands with her arms crossed amongst the band tees, skateboards and CDs. It's her job to make sure none of the kids try to nick anything.
A girl with fluorescent pink hair and fishnet gloves enters the store and goes straight to the skateboards, which are mounted on the back wall. She runs her eyes longingly over one with a pink and black design, but shakes her head regretfully when she sees the price: $189. I feel a pang of remorse at how expensive the boards are; it always seems like the kids who want them the most are the ones who'll never be able to afford them. I've talked to Mac, the General Manager, about discounting them a little, but he just laughed.
"Hey, Emily?" Phoebe's standing in front of the counter and looking at me strangely. I realize she's called my names a few times.
"Oh, uh, sorry. Yeah?"
"I'm gonna go change the music, okay? I'm sick of Good Charlotte." I nod. "Will you hold the fort for a bit?" I nod again.
When Phoebe's disappeared into the back of the store, another group of kids come in through the front door and start looking at the band tees. Most of them look to be about 16 or 17, but there's one guy with blonde, short dreadies who definitely looks older. I can't see his face because he has his back turned to me, though. I realize I was staring at them, but I can't help it. I absolutely love people-watching.
I zone out for a bit as they talk and laugh, jostling each other in the aisle and exclaiming at all the shirts. My job cad be so boring sometimes--especially since most people just come to browse, and don't actually buy anything.
And then the older guy turns around and looks right at me.
The music clicks off. It might just be my imagination, but it seems like everyone else in the store suddenly stops talking. The guy looks away quickly with no sign of recognition, but there's no doubt in my mind: it' him. It's definitely him.
I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he keeps looking at the various band merchandise. Does he really not remember me at all? Sure, I look different than the last time he saw me--now my hair's dyed black and falls in my face, and I got a lip piercing and started wearing green contacts--but surely he would remember me if it were really him. I try to tell myself that it can't be him, and that it's just my imagination running away with me, but then I see the self-possessed way that he talks to the others in his group, and I know I'm not mistaken.
I continue watching him discreetly. Is it really possible that he's forgotten every detail of the time we spent together? I remember the way he used to look at me, and I find the way he barely glanced at me just now to be incomprehensible.
I start as hear an unmistakable soft melody coming over the speakers. How did Phoebe know? I wonder. No; there's no way she could known that that had once been our song. She doesn't even know he's here.
As I watch his expressionless face, I feel like crying. How can he look so unruffled when this song is playing? Doesn't he even remember all the times he sang it to me, onstage with his band, looking straight into my eyes? Doesn't he remember those words,
I'm trying, I'm trying
To let you know just how much you mean to me
And after all the things we put each other through
And I would drive on to the end with you
A liquor store or two keeps the gas tank full
And I feel like there's nothing left to do
But prove myself to you, and we'll keep it running…
I start to remember things that happened back then, back when he noticed me, but then I realize that he's coming towards me, a t-shirt in his hand.
"Hi," I manage to say, thinking that maybe--just maybe--he'll recognize me from close up.
"Hey, can I get this one?" he asks. No recognition whatsoever.
I look at the shirt in an effort to distract myself from his face--his face that doesn't know me. It's a My Chemical Romance tee, I note with a smile. Some things never change. It's the new Black Parade shirt we got in yesterday, the one with a picture of the entire Parade on the back. The Patient's ghastly white face stares up at me as I ring the shirt up on the cash register.
He hands over the cash and I quickly call up his receipt for him.
"Here you go," I say with a fake smile. He doesn't seem to notice.
"Thanks." And he turns and walks out of the store, leaving the rest of his group behind.
Phoebe comes back to stand in the middle of the room, but quickly comes over when she sees the dazed expression on my face.
"Emily, are you okay?" she asks. She's concerned, I can tell. I don't want her to worry.
"I'm fine, Phoebs," I say, trying to smile. "I think I just need a break. Mind if I--?" I gesture towards the door.
"No, go ahead," she says immediately. "Don't worry, I'll take care of stuff."
I nod a 'thanks' as I make my way outside. I fish inside my coat pocket for my pack of smokes. I light one with shaky hands as I lean against the side of the building. I suck the smoke in, trying to calm down. Maybe I imagined the whole thing. Only then do I realize that he's there too, doing the exact same thing as I am--leaning against the wall and having a smoke. He nods to me.
“Uh, hey,” I say weakly, but he isn’t listening. In fact, he’s not even looking at me any more—he’s answering his phone. He laughs into it and rattles on about some gig they’ve got that night, at The Distance. I’ve been to that club. It blows.
As he keeps on talking, I slowly realize that nothing has changed with him. He’s still playing with his going-nowhere band, still hanging out with the same people, still going to the same clubs, still doing the same coke with the same cokeheads after every show. I don’t want that, I realize. I wonder why I wanted to see him so much for the two years we’ve been apart.
As he hangs up the phone, I throw my smoke on the ground and stub it out with my toe.
“You shouldn’t play at The Distance,” I say. He looks up at me like he’s seeing me for the first time.
“What?” he asks looking genuinely confused.
“The Distance,” I repeat. “You shouldn’t play there. Only spacks go there.”
He nods slowly, looking at me like I’m insane. But then something clicks, and his eyes start to look curious.
“Hey…isn’t—is your name Emily, by any chance?” He’s standing up straight and looking at me eagerly.
I shift my purse onto my other arm. “No,” I shake my head. “Not in a million years.”
And I walk back to the front of the store, go inside, and close the door firmly behind me—without looking back.
A girl with fluorescent pink hair and fishnet gloves enters the store and goes straight to the skateboards, which are mounted on the back wall. She runs her eyes longingly over one with a pink and black design, but shakes her head regretfully when she sees the price: $189. I feel a pang of remorse at how expensive the boards are; it always seems like the kids who want them the most are the ones who'll never be able to afford them. I've talked to Mac, the General Manager, about discounting them a little, but he just laughed.
"Hey, Emily?" Phoebe's standing in front of the counter and looking at me strangely. I realize she's called my names a few times.
"Oh, uh, sorry. Yeah?"
"I'm gonna go change the music, okay? I'm sick of Good Charlotte." I nod. "Will you hold the fort for a bit?" I nod again.
When Phoebe's disappeared into the back of the store, another group of kids come in through the front door and start looking at the band tees. Most of them look to be about 16 or 17, but there's one guy with blonde, short dreadies who definitely looks older. I can't see his face because he has his back turned to me, though. I realize I was staring at them, but I can't help it. I absolutely love people-watching.
I zone out for a bit as they talk and laugh, jostling each other in the aisle and exclaiming at all the shirts. My job cad be so boring sometimes--especially since most people just come to browse, and don't actually buy anything.
And then the older guy turns around and looks right at me.
The music clicks off. It might just be my imagination, but it seems like everyone else in the store suddenly stops talking. The guy looks away quickly with no sign of recognition, but there's no doubt in my mind: it' him. It's definitely him.
I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he keeps looking at the various band merchandise. Does he really not remember me at all? Sure, I look different than the last time he saw me--now my hair's dyed black and falls in my face, and I got a lip piercing and started wearing green contacts--but surely he would remember me if it were really him. I try to tell myself that it can't be him, and that it's just my imagination running away with me, but then I see the self-possessed way that he talks to the others in his group, and I know I'm not mistaken.
I continue watching him discreetly. Is it really possible that he's forgotten every detail of the time we spent together? I remember the way he used to look at me, and I find the way he barely glanced at me just now to be incomprehensible.
I start as hear an unmistakable soft melody coming over the speakers. How did Phoebe know? I wonder. No; there's no way she could known that that had once been our song. She doesn't even know he's here.
As I watch his expressionless face, I feel like crying. How can he look so unruffled when this song is playing? Doesn't he even remember all the times he sang it to me, onstage with his band, looking straight into my eyes? Doesn't he remember those words,
I'm trying, I'm trying
To let you know just how much you mean to me
And after all the things we put each other through
And I would drive on to the end with you
A liquor store or two keeps the gas tank full
And I feel like there's nothing left to do
But prove myself to you, and we'll keep it running…
I start to remember things that happened back then, back when he noticed me, but then I realize that he's coming towards me, a t-shirt in his hand.
"Hi," I manage to say, thinking that maybe--just maybe--he'll recognize me from close up.
"Hey, can I get this one?" he asks. No recognition whatsoever.
I look at the shirt in an effort to distract myself from his face--his face that doesn't know me. It's a My Chemical Romance tee, I note with a smile. Some things never change. It's the new Black Parade shirt we got in yesterday, the one with a picture of the entire Parade on the back. The Patient's ghastly white face stares up at me as I ring the shirt up on the cash register.
He hands over the cash and I quickly call up his receipt for him.
"Here you go," I say with a fake smile. He doesn't seem to notice.
"Thanks." And he turns and walks out of the store, leaving the rest of his group behind.
Phoebe comes back to stand in the middle of the room, but quickly comes over when she sees the dazed expression on my face.
"Emily, are you okay?" she asks. She's concerned, I can tell. I don't want her to worry.
"I'm fine, Phoebs," I say, trying to smile. "I think I just need a break. Mind if I--?" I gesture towards the door.
"No, go ahead," she says immediately. "Don't worry, I'll take care of stuff."
I nod a 'thanks' as I make my way outside. I fish inside my coat pocket for my pack of smokes. I light one with shaky hands as I lean against the side of the building. I suck the smoke in, trying to calm down. Maybe I imagined the whole thing. Only then do I realize that he's there too, doing the exact same thing as I am--leaning against the wall and having a smoke. He nods to me.
“Uh, hey,” I say weakly, but he isn’t listening. In fact, he’s not even looking at me any more—he’s answering his phone. He laughs into it and rattles on about some gig they’ve got that night, at The Distance. I’ve been to that club. It blows.
As he keeps on talking, I slowly realize that nothing has changed with him. He’s still playing with his going-nowhere band, still hanging out with the same people, still going to the same clubs, still doing the same coke with the same cokeheads after every show. I don’t want that, I realize. I wonder why I wanted to see him so much for the two years we’ve been apart.
As he hangs up the phone, I throw my smoke on the ground and stub it out with my toe.
“You shouldn’t play at The Distance,” I say. He looks up at me like he’s seeing me for the first time.
“What?” he asks looking genuinely confused.
“The Distance,” I repeat. “You shouldn’t play there. Only spacks go there.”
He nods slowly, looking at me like I’m insane. But then something clicks, and his eyes start to look curious.
“Hey…isn’t—is your name Emily, by any chance?” He’s standing up straight and looking at me eagerly.
I shift my purse onto my other arm. “No,” I shake my head. “Not in a million years.”
And I walk back to the front of the store, go inside, and close the door firmly behind me—without looking back.
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