Yours Truly (Petekey)

II.

Written by musicalromantic

Peter Lewis Wentz

"The son of a tailor... Is that all I am ever to be known as?" I sigh wistfully. My boot knocks at the legs of the desk, and I stare longingly out of the window at the industrial town I've known all my life. I watch in disgust as smoke rises from the various rooftops of factories. I set my pen down harshly on the oak desk and turn in my chair toward my childhood friend, Patrick Stump awaiting his stinging reply.

"A dramatic tailor's son, Peter," Patrick replies, not disappointing me. To spite me even further, he refuses to look up from his book of poetry. He is sitting on the small bed that is one of the few things I can truly call my own. I sit at a desk my father finished using and passed to me as an eighteenth birthday present. "A dramatic tailor's son, yes. That is what you shall be known as... for as long as the world remembers you."

I scoff at his utter ridiculousness before spinning around and returning to my work. We had sat down just after dinner, enjoying the comfort of a familiar place. And we watched while the sun had set over England, casting its mysterious evening glow upon the land. Unfortunately, while Patrick had begun to enjoy himself with books of poems he had borrowed from me, I had not been as lucky while attempting to deepen my analysis for the ideas I had. I'd written a parchment and a half of ideas that I absolutely despised and deeply regretting writing now. All of it had turned to absolute rubbish as soon as it left the tip of my pen. I was writing my ideas on the English Parliament and how it was surely meant to be run. The way it was being run would certainly lead to a civil war. Neither Patrick nor my father approved of my writing, but how I'd longed and prayed for a war. I did not care if the war was protecting England from France or Prussia- even a civil conflict between England herself - a war was the thing I craved. It was the only way I would be elevated in my unfortunate social situation.

"The amusement in your voice does betray the fact that you seem annoyed by me," I tell him, smirking. "What is it you're reading now? Surely not Lord Byron again?" I give up for the moment and turn around to him where he still does not look to me. I give him a look of annoyance and he only readjusts his glasses.

"I was sure you would be delighted by the Romantic literary masters, Pete," he says, finally. "Do Byron and Wordsworth bore such a man of words as yourself?" His voice grows louder and more dramatic and I raise an eyebrow at his silliness. "And I am sure my dear Percy Shelley puts you to sleep!" Patrick sets his book down and gives me a small smirk.

"Your teasing is quite childish," I snap at him, turning around in my chair. "I adore them just as much as yourself, you know very well. You grabbed the copy of Don Juan from my night table, did you not?" I tell him. "You are reading Don Juan?" I check.

"What else?"

"Fair enough, my friend." I crumple up the piece of useless parchment and I toss it into the basket where several other of my failed writings lay in a small, discarded pile that I wish would disappear off the face of the beauty of the earth.

"If you love your poets so much, why do you not strive to be like them?" Patrick asks. "Why do you not write of the beloved countryside then?" Patrick notices my paper fall off the top of pile, and onto the ground. He turns back to me. "A world without machines? Why do you not praise the natural beauty of the world instead of writing of the dreaded government you hate so much? Why do you not curse the rotten beasts who dare lay their hands on and who destroy the beautiful planet we all live on?" Patrick continues to tease me and I sigh, standing up and stretching.