Tragically, Poetically, Dramatic

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{PSA: This is the sequel to my One-Shot "Don't Let Me." If you have NOT read "Don't Let Me," please do so. The main topics will be death, grieving and mentions of suicide. If any of that is triggering, do not read. Please stay safe. Survivor's Guilt is a serious affliction, and you're not alone. You're strong. And you will pull through.}

Start the song. It's 'Nothing Good Comes From Being Gone' by flatsound.

August 30, 2017

B//U//





As I drive to the cemetery, I have no idea what I'm actually doing with myself.

It's been almost a year since we lost Him. Since I lost Him. Since then, I've lost most other things as well. Sarah and I got a divorce. I couldn't handle the guilt that was eating away at me enough to be the husband she needed and deserved. The idea of not being able to save Him was enough to convince me that I couldn't keep Sarah safe either.

I stopped writing music. Well, not exactly stopped, but I wasn't writing anything that made sense. Everything I wrote was about Him; dark, edgy, angry, devastating stanzas tied together by the sheer hopelessness I felt at what had happened. Everything I wrote was composed of desperation, and I couldn't even force myself to write about anything else.

I started going to therapy again, as well as starting medication again. This time was different, though. It wasn't ADHD medication keeping me numb anymore, it was medicine for insomnia and for anxiety and to keep the night terrors at bay. I've had so many nightmares about Him, but somehow they seemed better than the reality of the entire situation. I barely have a tether on myself anymore, and of the many things that don't make sense, the worst is that I'm even still fucking alive.

I pull up to the wrought iron gates of Woodlawn Cemetery, my chest already knotting as tightly as it could while still allowing me to breathe as I shut off my car and climbed out. Nevada summers are always the worst, even with the storm clouds that were looming overhead – perfectly fitting for this moment. I didn't care to walk through the heat to get to where He was laid to rest, though, as long as I just made it there.

He would appreciate this. He was always a sucker for the tragically dramatic. I was dressed in black slacks and a black suit jacket with a white t-shirt, but I made sure to keep my Chucks on. I needed to be a little bit of myself. He'd appreciate that.

When I reached His headstone, the one I hadn't seen since He was buried a year ago, I stood still for a moment. Reading His headstone is something I don't think I'll ever become accustomed to. It felt unreal, almost.

George Ryan Ross III
Beloved Brother, Son, and Friend
August 30, 1986 – September 22, 2016

It was simple; straight to the point. He was anything but simple and straight to the point. He wouldn't appreciate this. For fuck's sake, the headstone should have something on it that at least portrayed who He was as a person. A poem from Edgar Allan Poe, a line from any Chuck Palahniuk novel, fucking something, not the basic stuff.

Eventually, I let out a stream of breath and sat on the grass in front of the polished, marble joke of a stone, setting down the box of trinkets I'd brought with me. I let myself sit in silence for a few more moments before breathing again.

"I don't know what I'm doing here," I said. I winced as I spoke. My voice didn't sound like my own. It sounded foreign, definitely not the voice that belonged to Brendon Urie. Maybe that was fitting, though. The Brendon Urie everyone came to know and love over the last twelve years died the day He did.

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