death's seen a double bed » joetrick

[3] The Ghost of You

[April 2002]

One thing people over-stereotipicalize is how depression manifests. It's not all about cutting yourself and wearing black or being emo (which is definitely not the real meaning of it). Sometimes is self-destruction, other times is just... hidden. Under a fake smile that doesn't look fake. Under the over enjoyment of yourself and desperate trying to have someone to talk to. Under countless sleeping pills taken in the hopes that you'll finally drift into a calming stage of comfort again.

And when you don't even expect it to hit, the demons are being released of their leash.

Pete was one of those insensitive bitches that believed in that stereotype. He just lived his life like he was the king of the world, God himself (if he even existed). Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the Third was, for sure, a twat.

I was forced awake in the middle of the night when I heard the sound of glass breaking in my dream. My nightmare, actually. The best dream I've had lately was that I'll join my friends on the other side. Maybe even take the chains to my grave.

My pillow was wet again. Whoever decided to break a vessel was coming closer to my room, so I threw it on the floor. Didn't want anyone to see that I had been crying earlier for like two hours straight.

But I didn't realize that the person that broke in was already in my room. I turned on the lights and covered my eyes for a moment, feeling like they were going to burn from the sudden luminosity change.

"Holy shit, what happened to you, dude?" a guy asked. He had a familiar voice, though I couldn't associate it to anyone close to me at that very moment. "Have you been crying?"

I removed my hand from my eyes and finally saw who was the man that broke into my home.

Pete was blinking rapidly, pointing at the visibly wet pillow on the floor. I gave him a short look, not having any idea if I should explain that to him or if it was completely worthless. I ran a hand across my eyes and took a long breath, shifting through the sheets.

"What are you doing here, Peter?" I asked him tiredly, almost too harsh.

"Peter? Wow, man, when did we get so official-"

"Pete, what are you doing here?" I asked again, this time without holding back my slight increase of anger.

"I was bored. And I knew that you weren't yourself lately so I thought I could get you drunk and make you feel better."

I felt the corners of my lips involuntarily turning up. So he still did care.

He closed the window behind him and pulled out an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels and two plastic glasses out of his backpack.

"So you're going on the strong ones."

"Strong ones for strong men, Joe."

A few glasses later, I knew that tomorrow I'll be a zombie. But I felt really good. At least for a moment in the last months, I felt right.

Pete was just ranting about popular bands in Chicago and was clearly jealous. He told me about everything that happened at home, with his mom and his plan of moving somewhere else, to build his own "cave". We were talking again, like two close friends. We were acting exactly the same as we did before everything happened.

But then the bomb was planted.

"Joe, care to explain to me why were you crying? Please don't tell me that you're crying over your boyfriend," he said with a little grin taped to his face.

Fuck it. Fuck every single thing I said earlier. He didn't care. He didn't give a fuck. Pete Wentz only wanted to make sure that I could still continue his fucking band. That I was still fucking sane enough to keep the group stable and prevent the disband.

I looked at him dead in the eye, waiting for Pete to drop that smile.

"You serious, dude?" Pete said after a few moments. "You're crying over that emo lil' shit? Why? He's gone, mate, you can't do anything about tha-"

My palm slammed on his cheek. Pete's eyes widened so much that it looked like his dirtish brown things will pop out.

"Get out."

"What? You're really serious? Why are you-"

"Get the fuck out!" I yelled, throwing the glass and his backpack on the window. "Why are you here? To make me feel bad that I loved someone and that I'm sad that they died? I feel bad enough already, Pete. Just leave."

"But-"

"Leave before I throw out the goddamn window."

Pete's jaw dropped, and he let his arms fall on his body. With a swift move, he spit in his hand and run it across my wall. Then he jumped out the window and ran to his bike, pedaling away.

I fell back on my bed and burried my head in the pillow, liberating a queued scream in it. Hot tears appeared on my face again as I repeatedly hit the wall with my fists. I punched it, many times. Harder and harder, until I felt like my whole body went numb.

I shouldn't have done it. Maybe he had good intentions. Maybe he really wanted to cheer me up. Maybe he was trying to be my friend again, after he let me push him away. I mean, he was Pete Wentz, he could say some awfully misplaced things sometimes, but...

What the fuck happened to me? What happened to the optimistic, emotionally stable Joe? It has been replaced by this monstruosity. I losing control, drowing in the spiralling vortex of insanity. My hands dropped to my sides and I fell on the bed again, not being able to inhale anything.

"Joseph."

I turned my head around, expecting to see my parents. I was seeing the worst already. Psychiatrists. Anti-depressants. Pity I did not need.

But it wasn't them. It wasn't actually anyone.

It was him.

It was Patrick.