Loose

Let me lose myself

In your binding

And the smell of your pages

may I in may

If I may,

Let me speak.

Let me pour it all out.

Don't silence me.

Don't tell me to pay attention.

Dear, you are masking the problem instead of fixing it.

So if I may,

Let me fix you.

READ THIS

PEOPLE.
LEAVE ME COMMENTS. TALK TO ME.
I just wanna know what you think and get to know you.
(Please talk to me I love you all)

Illusioned

I wake to the sound of screaming: strange, inhuman screaming that comes from everywhere and nowhere.
It takes a moment for me to realize that the sound is coming from my own mouth.
I promptly snap it shut, still shivering from fear. This is not the night to be drawing attention to my home. This is the night to blend in with those who stand out.
I no longer trust majorities.
The walls of this gray house no longer suffocate me. They are merely a border. Beyond these cripplingly stoic walls lies the resistance. Beyond them, there is hope.
I am a ghost in my standard-issue white night-dress. I am silent and swift as I move through the standard house over the standard carpet to the standard kitchen.
I take out the red candle from my drawer. It is the only color in the grayscale room and milky moonlight that colors even my skin pale smoky gray. My lips draw into a smile as I run my fingers across the wax, smoothly gliding down the length of it.
I find the matches in the cupboard, right where they are supposed to be. Little plumes of swirling, refracted air spiral up from the tiny flame. I touch the match to the unused wick and wait for it to catch.
I feel the little burst of energy. It burns so quickly. If it just conserved its energy, it might be able to hold on for just a little longer. It burns so brightly in the darkness.
I glide over the cold wooden floor to the window.
Across the cobblestone street, through two panes of glass, I can see a blood-red candle flickering in Rebekah's window. She stands behind it, another ghost lost in the night. Our eyes lock, and even through the darkness and fog, I can see her faint smile.
I return it. The light of the candle under her face makes her look like a child telling a ghost story.
Everything about this strange hope seems surreal.
I hear ticking behind me, but I dare not look at the clock. They could come any second. I absolutely cannot risk missing them.
Down  the street, almost every window is illuminated in a faint glow. Our numbers have grown. We are the aware. We are the ones who know.
The government has stripped us of our rights. Our sector is run by cruel men with no limits and no empathy. We are kept in darkness, separated from our parents and all those who may influence our morals. Their teachings are that with proper punishment, we will all fall into line. I feel the lash scars on my back throb. Not many people realize that there is a possibility for life outside this vicious world. But we are the Resistance. We know.
They never expected this.
The men arrive with the thought of them. Black horses come down the street, their heels clicking in the silence. Revis, Rebekah's brother, rides the lead, a red infinity sign ringing his first two knuckles on his right hand.
There are just enough of them. The women come out of their homes, their candles left in the windows.
Rebekah really should be the one riding with Revis, but since the betrothal, we have shaped the rules of the Resistance to fit our needs.
I mount the back of his horse and wrap my arms around his torso. The animal begins to move, first slowly, then breaking into a steady gallop. I feel hollow. Yet I feel free.
The houses behind us begin to catch fire. The candles, caught on the drapes and floors, serve their purpose at last.
We ride into the darkness, away from the horrors of the past and toward a new world, unaware of anything but our breathing.
No one speaks.

Cherry Blossoms

Thought I'd post a poem while my next short story is in the works :)

Sitting alone in my room,
I dream of my fingers around a branch,
Dragging myself into the trees,
And kissing the sky

Presenting: A Typical Math Class

At first, I don't know what to think when the paper hits me in the head. Whoever threw it is a good shot; it hits right above my right eyebrow even as I'm taking notes.
I hear snickering to my right. It's quiet, but it's definitely feminine and irritating.
I open the note.
The writing is loopy and curled, and it looks vaguely familiar.
"Do you like me?
Check yes or no.
<3 Jordan"
I immediately know what is going on. Jordan doesn't write like this. His handwriting is horrendous. He sits diagonally in front of me, right in front of Angie. And Angie hates my guts.
I grin at my paper as our whale of a teacher snacks hungrily on pretzels in the front of the room. 
My mechanical pencil squeaks as I scrawl in my answer.
I see Angie turn around and shoot me a glance, wondering what I'm going to do. She's smirking.
I smile at my handiwork and check yes, writing "<3 Angie" underneath.
I throw it at Jordan with a huge smile.

Water

The document before Ellie was just sitting there, staring her in the face. The paper was crumpled on the corners where her backpack had taken hold of it; the margins were filled with scribbles and angry lyrics. Next to the printer paper sat an unfinished essay, the title at the top in swirling calligraphy, the words beneath in an indistinguishable scrawl. Every few minutes she glanced at the little alarm clock on her desk and then back at the essay, but her motivation was already small and every passing minute only made it wane further.

When the clock read eight thirty five and her paper was sufficiently covered in explicit lyrics, she forced her attention to the task at hand, her chest tightening.

Her eyes shifted back and forth between the assignment and the lined  paper. The original text of the assignment was nearly impossible to see under the swirling letters and doodles, but she didn’t need to look at it. She had it memorized from the countless hours she’d spent worrying about it all day.

She’d never been taught how to do this. She couldn’t have been taught how to do this. The words tied knots in her mind, flowing together like they should have made sense but didn’t, running circles around her head.

She set the pen to the paper, her mind in a haze, and tried to continue what she’d already started. Halfway through the second word, it ran out of ink.

It was the final straw. She hurled the writing implement at the wall and shrunk down in her chair, sobbing.

Loathing and anger turned in her stomach. He was out to get her. Mr. Peterson, with his swooping nose and thin, slitted features, had detested her ever since the moment he’d learned her last name. Ellie was used to being disliked by teachers. She knew that she wasn't a good student to begin with. Ever since kindergarten she’d been singled out by teachers for not being as good as the other students at anything. The other kids used to make fun of her at lunch and tell her she was stupid and nobody liked her. None of the teachers did anything about it because they all thought the same thing. She was used to the demeaning look that professors gave their least favorite students. She was used to retaking tests during after school detention. She could deal with all of the condescending voices telling her that she wasn't applying herself. But this crossed a line.

She looked helplessly at her half-finished research paper. She knew it was Peterson's way of punishing her for launching a paper rocket across the room with a bendy straw. It was epic. Of course, she hadn't thought for a second that she would get stuck with a thousand word essay due tomorrow, an empty pen, and no motivation.

She turned around when the door opened, ferociously drying her wet cheeks.

"Ellie," a deep voice said. Her older brother Jack poked his head in. " I really need to borrow a..." His voice trailed off as he slipped in the door and looked at her for the first time. "Whaa..." he mumbled.

 "Get out of my room," she hissed at him under her breath. There was venom into her voice to cover up the tremor in her throat. She bit back the livid tears.

"No," he replied, his voice curious. "What's gotcha all weepy sis?"

She just glared at her desk, her eyes sore and hot.

"Come on, Elephant. You can tell The Jack of Most Trades."

She cocked an eyebrow, still looking at the floor. She craved a distraction from the world, something her brother was an expert at providing. "Most?"

He nodded, leaning against the doorframe. "Most. See, I can trade things like crackers for pudding or my slice of pie for your piece of cake, but I can't trade Alaska for some cold hard cash or something like that, cuz I ain't got the money." His lips pulled into a small grin like he was pleased with himself.

"I don't think that's what it means," she said.

"What, no laugh?" She glared at him, and he raised his eyebrows. "Damn, you are upset, aren't you?"

"Just go away," she mumbled, turning back around in her swivel chair.

"No." She grit her teeth. He better not finish that sentence. "I'm not leaving until-"

"YOU WANNA KNOW WHAT'S WRONG?!" she shouted at him, actually making him take a step back. "THIS IS WHAT'S WRONG!" She crumpled up all three pages of the essay and threw it at him. She buried her head in her arms and didn't look to see if he caught it.

There was a pause. She heard him unfolding the paper and holding it up. Another pause.

"What is this?" he finally said.

"What does it look like?" she replied flatly, still staring at the wall.

"Hmm..." was his answer, then he was quiet for so long Ellie thought he had left her room.

She turned around and was surprised to find him still standing there, squinting at the crumpled paper. He looked up at her, his eyebrows knit. "What grade you in again?"

"Tenth," she answered automatically. Then she stopped for a second. "Why?"

"Because I did this essay this year. In my twelfth grade English class. In an AP class.” He looked down at the essay again. “ Who assigned you this?"

She just stared at him, and she could see him put the pieces together. Tenth grade. English class. Awful teacher.

"Peterson." He shook his head. "I hated that class. On the last day I snapped his glasses when he wasn't in the room and hid them in his desk drawer."

Her mouth twitched into a second-long almost-smile. He smirked, taking her smirk as a sign of victory. He dropped down onto her bed, smoothing the paper out on his thigh. "You know," he said, "this essay isn't half-bad."

"Whatever,” she muttered. "Either way, it’s only half-finished."

He pretended he didn't hear her. "With some revision, you could get an A on this, even by Peterson's standards. Just put it down and work on it tomorrow."

"I can't." Her face was growing hot in even more anger. "It's due tomorrow."

He looks at her disapprovingly and she clenches her fists. "Why did you put it off?"

"You aren't Dad!" she shrieked. "Stop trying to be Dad!"

His face fell and he just sat there a second, trying to get rid of the hurt his expression betrayed. "Ellie..."

"Don't," she sighed. "Anyway, I didn't put it off. He assigned it to me today." She turned angrily back to the wall so he wouldn’t see her lividly cry. "Just me."

"What?" Jack asked, but he had heard her. She just stared at the painting on her wall, her eyes growing hot again. She bit down on her lip, hard. Finally he snarled, "He can't do that!" He made her jump with his intensity.

"You're gonna wake the dog," she muttered.

"The hell with the dog! That is freaking ridiculous!" He glared at the paper with a lot more anger than Ellie expected.

A silence followed that she didn't know how to break. Her older brother angrily read and reread her essay.

Finally he stood, knocking the paper to the ground. He didn't pick it up. "Come on."

She wiped her cheeks again with the heel of her palm. "Where we going?"

"We, my dear sister," he said with fire in his eyes, "are going to rebel."

She had almost forgotten the way the air tasted in the spring, heavy with pollen and sweet, like some kind of seed she would never be able to identify. There was a half moon, which she liked. It wasn't a cliché moon, full or crescent or new. It was simply there, a sideways bowl in the sky.

She was dressed in all black, wearing a short lacy dress that came down to her mid-thigh and a warm leather jacket. Jack walked ahead of her in a similar bulky jacket and jeans dirtied from being used for too long.

The road they walked was familiar but not well-worn. Grass tickled her calves. She was still worrying about that essay, but something about the warm feeling of the night and the sounds of the frogs croaking made her relax.

Of course, she knew where they were going. As soon as her brother led her out the back door, she'd known. As they approached, she started to hear the sound of heavy music and uproarious laughter.

She'd only been to one of Jack's senior parties before, and even then it was only because she'd secretly followed him into the woods. Once he found her laughing with a group of eleventh graders, he'd angrily dragged her home and told her never to follow him again. This time, he'd just invited her, no strings attached.

He turned back and grinned hugely, "Just don't look stupid. You'll be fine, I swear."

She started to hear the sound of rushing water, meaning that they were getting close. She tapped Jack on the shoulder. He turned, his eyebrows up in the air.

"When're we gonna be back?" she whispered nervously, not sure why she was being quiet.

He matched her tone. "Round oneish. Don't worry, Elephant, I'll get one of the honor students to finish it for you." A huge weight came off her chest, and she let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding.

They broke into the clearing.

It was just as wild as she remembered. Dozens of teenagers were huddled in groups, tossing each other into the river, drinking heavily caffeinated drinks, and dancing chaotically to the pounding rock music. It took a second for anyone to notice they were there, but then a boy with scruffy blonde hair and an angular jaw yelled, "Hey, Rivers made it!"

A couple heads turned and a cheer went up. The boy jogged over, grinning at Jack. "Thought you said you weren't coming," he said curiously.

"I did. Change of plans." Ellie stood there, gawking at the boy, whose sharp features and curved nose belonged on a screen.

He turned, sensing that there was somebody looking at him, and grinned a little. "Well, hello there, Miss..."

"Ellie," she answered a little too quickly.

"Miss Ellie." He tilted his head and smiled. "And why have I never met you before?"

Jack teasingly punched him in the shoulder. "Eyes off my sister, Ev."

Ev's eyebrows shot up. Then came down. He squinted as he looked back and forth between them.

"I see it," he said. "You both have the same shape of your eyes. Although I must say that it looks far more fetching on your sister, Jack."

"Ha, ha," Jack replied sarcastically. She was thankful for the low light covering her face.

"Well," Ev said, looking behind him and then back at her. "Would your sister care to accompany me to the river?"

"Sure," she said as Jack said, "Not a chance." She turned and glared at him with all the malice she could muster. He rolled his eyes at her.

"Glad to see you trust your best friend," Ev said with another flash of his teeth, totally unphased. "I gotta go change this song. Screamo gives me a headache." He smirked at me once more. "I hope to speak with you again, Miss Ellie." He turned and disappeared into the huge crowd.

Ellie punched Jack in the bicep as hard as she could.

"Hey!" he protested. "I didn't do anything!"

"Stop treating me like a little sister!" she hissed under her breath. "I can handle myself."

"With Everett?" He laughed. "Not a chance."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nobody can handle themselves with Everett." He looked at her very seriously. "Believe me, if you get caught up with him, you'll just regret it later."

"Don't tell me what to do," she said hotly. "I get enough of it at school. I don't need it from you too."

He looked at her with his head tilted slightly to the side, as if debating whether or not to tell her an interesting piece of information. He opened his mouth, closed it, and shrugged. "Alright, have it your way. All I ask is an 'I told you so' when you figure it out."

She just narrowed her eyes.

"Remember, sis, I brought you here to make you feel better. Ev's throwing this party to make everyone feel a little better. Just don't-"

"Do anything stupid," she finished. "Yeah, I know."

He grinned and turned to a group of guys huddling together, watching two kids wrestle.

She left and walked toward the river. Her dress fluttered a little in the breeze. She kicked off her shoes and waded into the water.

She wondered why Jack was so popular. To her, he seemed no different than anyone else. Maybe he was kind of good-looking, but that was being generous.

The song changed right in the middle of a guitar solo, morphing into the intro to an old Fall Out Boy song. Somebody lifted Everett up on his shoulders, who raised his fists in the air like he had just conquered an army and cheered. His shout was echoed by nearly everyone else there.

She looked around and  searched for other sophomores, but it was all seniors and a few juniors. She only knew a few people there, and they were all preoccupied with other people and conversations. There was a wooden swing a few yards away overlooking a wider part of the river. She walked over to it and sat down on the slat of wood.

It was quieter there, away from the madness, and it gave her time to think. She found her mind drifting, wondering why Peterson hated her so much. Maybe he hated her because he had hated her brother. But then, why did he hate Jack? Jack was always a favorite for his laid back attitude combined with his intelligence. What was so bad about him in Peterson's mind? 

She remembered her father always talking about Eric Peterson, his friend from highschool. They'd been friends though. She couldn't riddle it out.

Whatever her dad's opinion of the man was, she hated him. How many times had he threatened her chances of getting into that college course creative writing class a year early, the only thing that actually kept her going to school? How many times had he told her that one word to her brother meant certain expulsion?

She couldn't count.

Ellie swung back and forth slightly, her feet just barely brushing the blades of grass below her toes.

"You look lonely."

She turned so fast her neck cracked, and she nearly fell off the swing. A girl stood behind her in a dark band shirt and skinny jeans. Ellie recognized her vaguely from seeing her in the hallway between classes.

Ellie didn't reply, but the girl lay down in the grass next to her anyway, cross legged and staring into the water wistfully.

"What's your name?" the girl asked.

"Ellie," she answered. "You?"

"Clarissa," she replied. "Short for Clarissa. What's Ellie short for?"

"Ellie."

She smiled distantly and skipped a stone. "It's much quieter over here," Clarissa stated. It didn't sound like she was trying to make conversation. She just said it as a simple, pure fact.

"I don't think it's quieter over here, I think it's louder over there."

Clarissa smiled at the treeline on the opposite shore.

Ellie must have fallen asleep after hours of conversation with Clarissa, because she when she woke up, she was in somebody's arms feeling herself be carried through the woods.

In the haze of her mind, she felt like a six year old girl again, being carried by her dad from the car into the house. As she became more aware, she realized that her dad definitely wasn't there, he was six feet under fifty miles outside town.

She opened her eyes and looked up at an angular jaw and a set of sharp features. Her eyes opened wider, and she nearly had a heart attack.

"Oh good, she's awake," Everett said. It didn't sound like he was talking to her. "It's a good thing, my arms were getting tired."

He set her down on her feet and she scrambled back, confused and disoriented by drowsiness.

"Good," someone nearby said. "Means I don't have to carry her."

"Ha, ha." Everett said.

She rubbed her eyes. "Where... what..."

"Just taking you home love," Everett said.

"But... but I thought..."

"Jack asked me to take you home," said someone whose voice sounded familiar. One of Jack's friends. "I was too lazy to carry you."

"Then why not just wake me up?" she asked, finally forming a coherent sentence.

"Because," Everett answered, "I'm not in the habit of letting Harper lead sleepy girls off to their doom in the woods, and I don't really mind carrying you."

"Where's Jack?"

"Passed out on the riverbed. Had a little too much to drink is my guess."

She heaved a huge sigh. "I don't wanna just leave him there. Take me back."

They both looked at each other warily. "That might not be the best idea."

"Why not?" she asked.

"You aren't really allowed."

She stared at the two of them, her eyes shifting back and forth between the two of them. Her eyes narrowed and she crossed her arms in front of her chest. "You know what? I'm sick of people saying that to me. Take me back. I can handle myself."

Everett looked at Harper. She knew what they were thinking. They weren't going to let her go back.

She bolted.

"Hey!" she heard behind her, but she flew over the tree branches and didn't look back. She wasn't sure why she was running from them, except maybe to prove a point. Her feet barely touched the ground as she darted through the woods.

There were footfalls behind her, but she was faster. She broke into the clearing.

The music had stopped. It was strange to not hear the rock that she associated with the riverbed. She couldn't hear anything but some distant shouting. Groups of people milled around together, but they were stragglers. Everyone else had either gone home or was asleep on the ground.

Everett broke through the trees behind her, his eyes scanning the remaining teenagers. She ducked behind a group of girls and he didn't see her.

He turned and walked upstream silently, still looking for her. She went downstream, away from him, searching for her brother. 

There were so many people crashed on the ground. She was peering down at a group of boys using each other as pillows when she felt a hand on her arm.

She jumped and spun around, finding herself staring down a short senior she recognized from the football team. His eyes looked distant and she wondered if he was drunk. He smiled at her with no malice, but she felt her bones chill. A group of three other seniors, two boys and a girl, sauntered over, smiling amusedly. Ellie tried to yank her arm back and the boy threw her over his shoulder. The group of them carried her over their heads like she was crowd surfing. They were staggering towards the river, shouting happily.

"Hey!... Guys... STOP!" She screamed as she realized what they were doing. They just laughed louder and moved faster. She screamed, kicking and trying to get down.

Why hadn't she ever learned to swim? Stupid, stupid, stupid...

"One!" one of the boys yelled as they came to a stop right at the shore.

"LET ME DOWN!" she shouted. They didn't listen.

"Two!" he shouted. She felt their arms tense.

"STOP!"

"Three!"

She was airborne, surrounded by nothing but air.  Her eyes were wide in terror.

She hit the water.

The cold shocked her and she let out the air she had been holding. Her hair whipped in her face. She tumbled through the water, hitting her head on a rock at the bottom. She gasped for air that seemed to choke her, and then she remembered that it wasn’t air.

Water filled her.

Blackness.

There were gentle hands under her, and she was sure she was dead and being held by an angel.

She could breathe.

Ellie gasped for air, tears streaming down her cheeks and mixing with the water. She leaned into the angel's chest and spit out mouthfuls of water, coughing violently.

She opened her eyes and was met with a familiar view of a sharp jaw and shaggy blonde hair.

"Shhh.." he whispered as shetried to stop choking. "You're okay, I promise."

He sat down in the grass, still holding her to his chest. She cried into his shirt, not caring at all that she barely knew him. Shivers wracked her body and her teeth chattered.

"I know," he whispered. "I know. It's okay."

It took an infinite amount of time for her to collect herself. He set her down in the grass, stood up, and helped her to her feet.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "It wasn't the best idea."

Ellie managed a weak laugh just as Harper strode through the trees at a leisurely walk and spotted them.

"What happened?!" he yelled, finally breaking into a jog. Blood dripped down her forehead and onto her shirt.

She leaned heavily on Everett so she didn't collapse. She wanted to vomit, but she forced it down.

"Harper," Ev said. "Go find Jack."

He just cupped his hands over his mouth and screamed, "PAGING JACK RIVERS!" Ellie cringed, her head throbbing.

It was surprisingly easy. Jack ran down from upstream, his eyes still laughing at some unknown joke. He saw Harper and then his eyes wandered to Everett.

Then to me.

His face froze, fear crossing his features.

He sprinted the rest of the way. "Ellie! Are you okay?!" She didn’t answer, too cold and tired and deadened to move. She swooned and Ev put his arm around her waist to keep her standing. She didn’t even think of it romantically. He was just holding her up.

"Is anyone going to explain what happened?" Jack yelled at the three of us.

"Your sister just nearly drowned," Everett said harshly. There was an edge to his voice. "I told you it was a bad idea to stay and have Harper bring her home."

Jack glared at him and reached out.

Ellie felt her brother pull roughly on her wrist. "We're going home, and you're gonna explain what the hell happened." He tugged when she didn't expect him to and she stumbled forward, her shaky knees almost giving out.

"Dude," Everett said, his voice cold. "She went through a lot just now. Take it easy."

"Don't tell me how to treat my sister." He tugged again, probably to make a point, and she stumbled and fell, almost retching. Her eyes filled with tears and her brother's expression softened. "I'm sorry, Ellie," he said quietly. "Let's go home."

She stood up shakily and her brother pulled her onto his back for a piggyback ride.

"Wait."

Everett took her hand from around Jack's neck and scribbled something on it. Then he smiled a little and earned another glare from Jack.

Sleep came too easily. She just felt the swaying motions of his strides, and her breathing slowed, and her eyes closed, and she was no longer there.

She groggily opened her eyes as he opened the screen door, but then everything fell back into place, and sleep came again.

She didn’t remember coming up the stairs, but she was alone in her room, almost asleep, lying on top of the old quilt instead of under it. Her wet dress was in a heap on the floor and she didn’t have the energy to pick it up.

Again, she drifted.

Her clock read four thirty six. She still hadn’t finished the essay, and the thought of it kept waking her up.

Her mind was too tired for this. She would think about it in the morning.

Five thirty seven and she still hadn’t finished it.

Six twenty. Still crumpled on the floor.

Seven ten.

Seven seventeen.

She wasn’t going to do it. Let the bastard give her an F. She’d deal with the consequences.

Her bus left at seven twenty. She left without even bothering to pick up her half finished essay. It sat on the floor of her room, still crumpled and ruined. She just took her copy of the assignment so that she could hand it in and watch his mouth drop open in horror at the profanity. She wanted him to see just how much she cared.

Her throat was on fire all morning and every movement hurt. A couple people stared at the cut on her forehead, but her reputation was stronger than their curiosity, and all of them looked away as soon as she shot them a glare.

She saw the writing on the back of her hand during second period while she was searching for a binder. For a second, she didn't remember why it was there, but seeing the unfamiliar handwriting jarred her memory.

He had thin, blocky print in all capitals that was so small it was hard to read.

She made it out quickly enough though.

It was his phone number.

And underneath it said:

"Call me. 

-Everett Peterson."

Fourteen Seconds

Warning: The following is a work of fiction. Any similarities to people, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This story contains violence and graphic descriptions of drugs/drug addiction. Discretion is advised.

I'm not sure what keeps me in this room.

Nothing is really forcing me to stay. Everything is telling me to leave. But I can’t force myself up, off the couch, and I can’t escape.

I tell myself it’s because they’ll know where I’m going. They’ll know that I’m going to get more.

I don’t really think they’d stop me, though.

Everything is too bright, like a hospital room or a warehouse. The lights are fluorescent, the walls are white, the polished marble floor glints painfully, reflecting the coldness of the room.

For your convenience, Mr. Thatcher.

I sit on the bed, half naked, my heart pounding. I need something. There's a familiar buzz in my ears and my hands are shaking. I need something.

I want to rummage through the drawers over by the door, but I know I won't find anything. Nothing I want.

There's a knock on the door. A nasally female voice calls in, "Half hour, Mr. Thatcher."

I don't give a reply. I don't think she was expecting one. My nerve endings are on fire.

I need something. I need to feel it pumping through my veins. I need the high, need to feel my senses leave me. I need to abandon my mind before I see that crowd. My spine tingles, making me shudder.

My hands nervously clench and unclench. This room is too cold. I never like dressing rooms. I'd rather just be out there with Caleb and Tom and Jay.

Another knock. I want to scream at them to go away.

The door opens and Tom walks in uninvited. I consider yelling at him, but my thoughts are nervous and quick and pounding, synchronized with my rabbit heartbeats, and it wouldn't end the way I'd like it to.

"Twenty five till our set," he says, "and you still look like hell."

I run my fingers through my hair. "Give me something." I don’t need to specify. He knows me well enough.

He raises his eyebrows. "Man, you'll be dead by the end of the night. Is the heroin even out of your system yet?" My jittery silence is answer enough. "I didn't think so. You're gonna get a high off the crowd in just a couple minutes. There isn't even any need to take more."

I lunge at him, catching a fistful of his shirt. “There’s always a need,” I hiss, but the words sound different outside my mouth rather than in, and he grimaces. I meant for them to sound poetic, like my lyrics in the journals that I spend my life poring over. They just sound sick and twisted.

He just lets his upper eyelids droop into a disinterested gaze and stands there calmly, because he knows that I want him to fight me.

I shove him away from me in disgust. I pace back and forth in the sterile looking room, feeling cramped. "I need it, Tom. I don't even care what it is. I just need something."

He crosses his arms. "And I need Rita to call me back. Neither of us are gonna get what we need, Collin."

I throw myself down on the couch, my body shaking. "Later, then," I say in a voice that is meant to sound submissive, but ends up sounding like a challenge. Words don’t come easily to me when I’m craving. That’s why I need the high.  

A rap on the door. "Five minutes, Mr. Thatcher."

Tom calls back, "Get Caleb and Jay!"

There is the sound of scurrying outside the door and knocking down the hall.

I clench my fists and give him a look that I use whenever someone tries to get in my way, which isn’t frequently. "I need it."

"No," Tom says firmly, and then I remember that that look doesn’t work on him. If had it I would have remembered. "You're doing this show without it."

I shake my head. I won't make it. I know damn well I won’t make it.

Tom drags me off the couch and uses his right hand to tousle my hair, trying to make me look less like a homeless person. "Alright," he says. "You're good."

"I'm not good," I reply, but he's not listening to me; he's walking out the door to meet up with the guys.

I follow out of habit, still not wearing a shirt. Backstage, everything buzzes louder. I can hear the roar of the crowd as if through a tunnel... Fourteen Seconds... Fourteen Seconds...

I stare anxiously at nothing. Caleb stomps on my toes impossibly hard, making my foot smart and briefly bringing me to reality. He looks at me like he knows exactly what I'm thinking and doesn't like it at all.

We run out on stage.

The buzz inside my head merges with the roar of the crowd, and for a second, I can't feel my bones and I think that maybe, just maybe, I really don't need it after all.

Jay picks out his intro to our opening, Fighter, and then I feel myself floating and I smile, feeding off the sound of thousands and thousands of people chanting my name.

My voice comes out of me the way water falls down a waterfall, loud and destructive. They sing it back to me, this mass of people who I have never known and who think that they know me.

"United by our hatred,

Divided my our fear,

Tonight, we fight,

Because the future is for grieving..."

I sound otherworldly. My hands have stopped shaking. I feel drunk on fame once again. I try out a shaky grin and the cheers reach a fever pitch. I close my eyes, breathing out the last words of the song.

"Feel me."

I turn and smile at Tom, my feet in a fighting stance, my hands gripping the mic like a lifeline.

The high wears off too quickly.

Halfway through the set, we do an acoustic. I hate acoustics. They’re slow and soft and you can’t scream to them. Or, that is, most people can’t. I have a habit of doing whatever I want.

The crowd goes quiet and my voice comes out of me, harder than it should be in such a slow song. I don’t really care all that much. I can feel the energy in the room, but it’s distant, not enough.

The crowd goes silent.

I feel my body shaking again, my heart pounding in my head. Everything hurts.

Then a single person, somewhere in the back of the crowd, says my name.

I’m not sure why it happens, but in the middle of this slow, melodic song that my voice is making painful, they start quietly saying my name. Not Fourteen Seconds. Collin.

It keeps growing in volume as more people join in the chant, all their eyes trained on my swaying body. I’m so confused. I just want some…

There’s a collective gasp from the crowd as I collapse, my whole being violently shaking. I don’t believe in souls. But if I did, my soul would be crying. I don’t believe in God. But if I did, he is clearly punishing me.

And then,

I

Forget

The

Words.

They keep playing the song without me, but the crowd has stilled and stares at me silently. I can feel the audience holding their breaths.

I don't move. I need that drug.

I push myself off the ground and stumble off backstage.

I feel like I should be worried about the rest of Fourteen Seconds back there, alone on the stage in front of the crowd. But my vision is tunneling and it doesn't matter.

I feel physically ill. I drag myself to the bathroom, and with no dignity whatsoever, kneel in front of the toilet and puke my guts out.

Everything is ringing again.

I hate this.

My burning desire crescendos and morphs into loathing. If I had a gun...

The thought startles me. I feel my stomach violently lurch, and I try to hold down its contents.

What did I do to deserve this? This endless suffering, this constant agony… what?

I don’t so much hear as feel footsteps outside the bathroom door. There’s a knock and I don’t reply. The person tries the handle and finds it locked.

A voice calls down the hallway, “I think he’s in here!”

I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve this.

If I had a gun…

Who would I take? If I had a gun… that guy in the hoodie at our very first gig, back in Pasadena, who’d first given it to me?

No. Something felt wrong about that.

If I had a gun…

My father, who always detested me for my fame?

I couldn’t do that.

If I had a gun…

Maybe I would take Jessica Montclaire, the first and last human being I ever cared about.

I wasn’t a murderer. I might hate her for the rest of my life, but I could never kill her.

Me.

The thought comes unbidden, making my stomach twist again. It snares my thoughts in its noose.

Would I do it?

Of course I would.

But could I do it?

That was much harder to answer. Could I actually take myself?

You'd be better off dead.

There’s so much you haven’t done.

There’s no point anymore.

They’d never forgive you.

I am suddenly very thankful that I don’t actually have a handgun lying next to me, because I truly don’t know what I’d do with it.

I vomit again.

They have picked the lock on the bathroom door.

My manager storms into the room, his face red. His nose scrunches up when he’s angry, I notice weakly.

I am lying down and I don’t remember lying down.

His face changes drastically when he sees the vomit. “Oh,” he says.

I grin at him, not really showing my teeth, but baring them. “Expecting someone else?” I ask.

“Yes,” he answers, surveying the room. “Yes I was.”

He was expecting to see me in here getting high. But no. No, this was far worse.

A security guard comes in and throws me over his back. I couldn’t care less.

“You’re going to rehab, Collin,” my manager says. “We’re getting you help.”

If I had a gun...

Welcome :)

Welcome to my blog, fellow human.
I'm just here to empty the contents of my head and share them with the internet. I hope you are here to read my ramblings.
I do have a tendency to ramble.
My only request is that you don't attempt to use the stories I write to classify me as a person. I tend to write about people much worse off than I am, so please do not think that I am anything like most of my characters. In fact, the plot lines of these stories are completely fictional.
I hope you have as much fun reading my writing as I have writing it. :)