Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy
The Tragic Death Of Lolita Sullivan
2 reviewsWhenever someone mentions that little Sullivan girl my world goes quiet. Whatever caused her to bring forth her untimely death. I thought I would never know.
0Unrated
Title: The Tragic Death Of Lolita Sullivan.
Author: Sblood311.
Rating: NC17.
Warnings: Death, Depression, Swearing.
Parings: Pete Wentz/OC (Female).
POV: First Person.
Genre: Angst, Romance.
Summery: Whenever someone mentions that little Sullivan girl my world goes quiet. Whatever caused her to bring forth her untimely death. I thought I would never know.
Whenever someone mentions that little Sullivan girl my world goes quiet. Whatever caused her to bring forth her untimely death. I thought I would never know.
Lolita Sullivan and I grew up next door to each other. It was at the age of twelve while jumping on the trampoline that occupied my backyard that I realised I loved her. Everything about her from the was she smiled to the way she cried.
They found her in her bath tub the morning after he sixteenth birthday. She had taken sixteen sleeping pills with the bottle of vodka that was floating next to her in the water, which was red from the blood coming from the deep gashes on both her wrists. The water had stained the medieval style white dress she had worn to at her party not twelve hours before. The autopsy report told us of her her history of self mutilation. There were burns, cuts, scratches and bruises adorning her skin like shards of jagged glass on a bed right along with her multiple piercing's and the two tattoos she was so fond of. I wondered why I had never noticed her hurting. No one noticed. Maybe she was just good at hiding it, or perhaps they did notice they just chose not to see it. I remember watching her at her party. She stood there blankly beside her mother smiling but not smiling, her lips were turned up but when you looked close you could tell that she didn’t really mean it. She had sat next to me on the emerald green couch resting her head of black curls on my shoulder. She smelled of raspberry lip gloss and the Jasmine flowers that were intricately woven through her hair. I remember that day as well as I remember her funeral. When we were twelve Lolita decided that her funeral would look exactly like the My Chemical Romance video for ‘Helena’. Her mother carried out her daughter’s wishes. I remember, I walked up to the polished black coffin lined in white velvet. She lied there in her black and red dress, she looked so beautiful. I stopped breathing. It was in that moment that I cried for the first time since I was eight. It was as though seeing her like that made it all final, made it all real. At that moment I realised I would never see her at my front door, I would never be able to watch her sleep. No more hugs, no more nights on the trampoline. It was over. She was over. I cried for almost a week straight. I didn’t go to school, I cried. I cried till there was nothing left to cry.
Two weeks after Lolita’s funeral, her mother Mrs. Sullivan asked me to come over. When I got there Mrs. Sullivan handed me a box and the key to Lolita’s room. “Take whatever you want. I don’t want any of it.” She said.
Being in Lolita’s room was like burning. It was like her dying all over again. Time stood still in there, bobby pins piled up on her dresser next to a pile of shrivelled Jasmine flowers. A messed up quilt was all that occupied her bed and there was a piece of toilet paper on her vanity smudged with her lipstick. I moved quickly taking pictures of her and I, I took a pile of her writing books, I took her guitar. I stared at her brown monkey shaped teddy bear for a moment before taking it too. From her closet I took her old school Misfit’s hoodie, it had been her favourite. Off her vanity I treasured her famous red lipstick and her perfume. I went into her bathroom last. I must have stood in front of the door for at least ten minutes before I got the guts to go in. When I opened the door the smell of vodka and her shampoo filled my senses. I stayed as far away from the bathtub as humanly possible. I looked through the cupboards and came upon a red velvet covered box at the very back. I was curious as to what was in it but decided to open it later. I took all her things and put them in the box that her mother had given me.
I found Mrs. Sullivan sitting in a chair by the living room windows. I watched her for a second as she glared out the window at the world that just continued to go on. I told her that I hadn’t taken much and asked her if I could take Lolita’s guitar. Mrs. Sullivan nodded absently before disappearing for a moment. When she came back she held a brown envelope that had my name scrawled across the from in Lolita’s delicate wispy handwriting. Mrs. Sullivan told me that they found it in the bathroom when they found Lolita. I thanked her and said good-bye.
That night I laid everything out on my bedroom floor. Trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together, the pieces of her life. I looked at it all trying to imprint every image into my brain. The pictures and the songs and the poetry told me nothing I didn’t know and nothing to help me solve her misery. I came to the velvet box and still couldn’t bring myself to open it, as though there were a clear sheild around it to keep me out. I pulled the envelope from my pocket and broke the seal. It was a letter enclosed inside. Her last letter. To me.
Dear. Peter,
I know you weren’t expecting this. I know you want answers, and I don’t really know how to explain. I know I can’t apologize for this and I’m not really sure that I want to. In my bathroom there is a red box and answers, at least to the questions worth answering. Just remember me, and know that I love you. You were always there for me. Thank you.
Love.
Lolita
Behind her letter was the drawing of her I had given her two weeks before her birthday telling her I had captured her childhood. I took a deep breath before opening the box. Inside it contained: Razor blades, lighters, three packs of varying brands of cigarettes, a bottle of red ink and at the bottom there was a pick covered journal. On the cover was a picture of her and I. We couldn’t have been more than twelve and we were on the trampoline. She was looking down smiling slightly and my head and turned to her smiling brightly. The picture I realised had captured us perfectly. Inside the journal I found out some very disturbing things. I read all about her abusive boyfriend, her obsession with darkness and I also found the worst thing I could possibly find. She had loved me.
April 3rd, 2005.
I slept on the trampoline with Pete last night. I woke up this morning to find that he had given me all the blankets. I watched him sleep for a while and as I did I couldn’t help but notice all my favourite things about him. He snored softly, his mouth was open just slightly, and he slept in fettle position. I know, and I think I am finally able to admit to the one thing I’ve been denying for fourteen years... I am in love with Peter Wentz. There is something weird about this revelation. It came about this morning when we were doing something very routine for us. It’s interesting how something that happens over and over again can still suprise you. I love Peter and always have. How do i tell him this? How do you tell someone you’ve known your entire life how you really feel about them?
Love, your puzzled. Lolita Sullivan.
How can I go on without her? How can I go on living everyday knowing that I’ll never see her face? How can I wake up for school in the morning knowing that she wont be waiting for me downstairs? How could I just keep on going? Maybe I’m not supposed to. Maybe you don’t get over these things. Maybe you’re not supposed to just get over them, why would you want to get over them anyway. I don’t want to move on, I don’t want to forget Lolita. Maybe hanging onto it is the only way to keep breathing. Or maybe following is. Maybe I’ll never know.
-The Tragic Death Of Lolita Sullivan by, Peter Wentz.
‘sixteen year old Peter Wentz was found dead in his bathtub a month after the suicide of his neighbour and best friend Lolita Sullivan. This story was his suicide note.’
Author: Sblood311.
Rating: NC17.
Warnings: Death, Depression, Swearing.
Parings: Pete Wentz/OC (Female).
POV: First Person.
Genre: Angst, Romance.
Summery: Whenever someone mentions that little Sullivan girl my world goes quiet. Whatever caused her to bring forth her untimely death. I thought I would never know.
Whenever someone mentions that little Sullivan girl my world goes quiet. Whatever caused her to bring forth her untimely death. I thought I would never know.
Lolita Sullivan and I grew up next door to each other. It was at the age of twelve while jumping on the trampoline that occupied my backyard that I realised I loved her. Everything about her from the was she smiled to the way she cried.
They found her in her bath tub the morning after he sixteenth birthday. She had taken sixteen sleeping pills with the bottle of vodka that was floating next to her in the water, which was red from the blood coming from the deep gashes on both her wrists. The water had stained the medieval style white dress she had worn to at her party not twelve hours before. The autopsy report told us of her her history of self mutilation. There were burns, cuts, scratches and bruises adorning her skin like shards of jagged glass on a bed right along with her multiple piercing's and the two tattoos she was so fond of. I wondered why I had never noticed her hurting. No one noticed. Maybe she was just good at hiding it, or perhaps they did notice they just chose not to see it. I remember watching her at her party. She stood there blankly beside her mother smiling but not smiling, her lips were turned up but when you looked close you could tell that she didn’t really mean it. She had sat next to me on the emerald green couch resting her head of black curls on my shoulder. She smelled of raspberry lip gloss and the Jasmine flowers that were intricately woven through her hair. I remember that day as well as I remember her funeral. When we were twelve Lolita decided that her funeral would look exactly like the My Chemical Romance video for ‘Helena’. Her mother carried out her daughter’s wishes. I remember, I walked up to the polished black coffin lined in white velvet. She lied there in her black and red dress, she looked so beautiful. I stopped breathing. It was in that moment that I cried for the first time since I was eight. It was as though seeing her like that made it all final, made it all real. At that moment I realised I would never see her at my front door, I would never be able to watch her sleep. No more hugs, no more nights on the trampoline. It was over. She was over. I cried for almost a week straight. I didn’t go to school, I cried. I cried till there was nothing left to cry.
Two weeks after Lolita’s funeral, her mother Mrs. Sullivan asked me to come over. When I got there Mrs. Sullivan handed me a box and the key to Lolita’s room. “Take whatever you want. I don’t want any of it.” She said.
Being in Lolita’s room was like burning. It was like her dying all over again. Time stood still in there, bobby pins piled up on her dresser next to a pile of shrivelled Jasmine flowers. A messed up quilt was all that occupied her bed and there was a piece of toilet paper on her vanity smudged with her lipstick. I moved quickly taking pictures of her and I, I took a pile of her writing books, I took her guitar. I stared at her brown monkey shaped teddy bear for a moment before taking it too. From her closet I took her old school Misfit’s hoodie, it had been her favourite. Off her vanity I treasured her famous red lipstick and her perfume. I went into her bathroom last. I must have stood in front of the door for at least ten minutes before I got the guts to go in. When I opened the door the smell of vodka and her shampoo filled my senses. I stayed as far away from the bathtub as humanly possible. I looked through the cupboards and came upon a red velvet covered box at the very back. I was curious as to what was in it but decided to open it later. I took all her things and put them in the box that her mother had given me.
I found Mrs. Sullivan sitting in a chair by the living room windows. I watched her for a second as she glared out the window at the world that just continued to go on. I told her that I hadn’t taken much and asked her if I could take Lolita’s guitar. Mrs. Sullivan nodded absently before disappearing for a moment. When she came back she held a brown envelope that had my name scrawled across the from in Lolita’s delicate wispy handwriting. Mrs. Sullivan told me that they found it in the bathroom when they found Lolita. I thanked her and said good-bye.
That night I laid everything out on my bedroom floor. Trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together, the pieces of her life. I looked at it all trying to imprint every image into my brain. The pictures and the songs and the poetry told me nothing I didn’t know and nothing to help me solve her misery. I came to the velvet box and still couldn’t bring myself to open it, as though there were a clear sheild around it to keep me out. I pulled the envelope from my pocket and broke the seal. It was a letter enclosed inside. Her last letter. To me.
Dear. Peter,
I know you weren’t expecting this. I know you want answers, and I don’t really know how to explain. I know I can’t apologize for this and I’m not really sure that I want to. In my bathroom there is a red box and answers, at least to the questions worth answering. Just remember me, and know that I love you. You were always there for me. Thank you.
Love.
Lolita
Behind her letter was the drawing of her I had given her two weeks before her birthday telling her I had captured her childhood. I took a deep breath before opening the box. Inside it contained: Razor blades, lighters, three packs of varying brands of cigarettes, a bottle of red ink and at the bottom there was a pick covered journal. On the cover was a picture of her and I. We couldn’t have been more than twelve and we were on the trampoline. She was looking down smiling slightly and my head and turned to her smiling brightly. The picture I realised had captured us perfectly. Inside the journal I found out some very disturbing things. I read all about her abusive boyfriend, her obsession with darkness and I also found the worst thing I could possibly find. She had loved me.
April 3rd, 2005.
I slept on the trampoline with Pete last night. I woke up this morning to find that he had given me all the blankets. I watched him sleep for a while and as I did I couldn’t help but notice all my favourite things about him. He snored softly, his mouth was open just slightly, and he slept in fettle position. I know, and I think I am finally able to admit to the one thing I’ve been denying for fourteen years... I am in love with Peter Wentz. There is something weird about this revelation. It came about this morning when we were doing something very routine for us. It’s interesting how something that happens over and over again can still suprise you. I love Peter and always have. How do i tell him this? How do you tell someone you’ve known your entire life how you really feel about them?
Love, your puzzled. Lolita Sullivan.
How can I go on without her? How can I go on living everyday knowing that I’ll never see her face? How can I wake up for school in the morning knowing that she wont be waiting for me downstairs? How could I just keep on going? Maybe I’m not supposed to. Maybe you don’t get over these things. Maybe you’re not supposed to just get over them, why would you want to get over them anyway. I don’t want to move on, I don’t want to forget Lolita. Maybe hanging onto it is the only way to keep breathing. Or maybe following is. Maybe I’ll never know.
-The Tragic Death Of Lolita Sullivan by, Peter Wentz.
‘sixteen year old Peter Wentz was found dead in his bathtub a month after the suicide of his neighbour and best friend Lolita Sullivan. This story was his suicide note.’
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