song for the section:
After my long, torturous hours in the shower of beating myself up, I headed to bed without a second thought. The crying did not cease as long as I was conscious. You'd think it would eventually stop, that the main reason I was in such dismay was because I was tired. I wished that was the reason. But the pain- the pain I was feeling was deep and numb, an indescribable feeling that chipped away at me the longer it lingered.
I must've fallen asleep eventually, but I was later jolted awake by the familiar noise of the creak of the door, footsteps, and quiet voices kept low- the four guys arriving home from the bar. The footsteps moving throughout different parts of the house kept my blind senses occupied as I tried to drift off into a dream less sleep again.
Sometime through the night, I could distantly hear my door creak open slowly, the jingle of car keys. I assumed it was Joe checking on me. I could not sleep for the rest of the night, however, paralyzed from worry that he would find out how I had spent my evening, tearing up my skin for the sake of addiction and release. My dry fingers grazed over the rough, ripped gauze wrapped around my arm, sodden with blood that I prayed didn't stain the sheets.
•••
The next morning was plagued with silence. Patrick and I were the last to wake, leaving us in awkward silence at the breakfast table. His wandering orbs avoided mine behind his thick glasses, reflecting the light fixture hanging from the ceiling. I thought he was never going to say anything, that he was going to leave this agonizing silence to build up to an insurmountable level, but he eventually he spoke timidly, "Did you have fun last night?"
"Yes," I blurted out without any consideration. "I like that bar."
"Yeah, it's pretty nice. Taylor and I go every weekend." There it was. The murder of the conversation. As little as the mention of her name was enough to create a thickening lump in my throat, the urge to cry growing by the second.
"Yep.." I managed to croak, my throat dry despite the water I had been drinking, the glass gripped so tight that the color was pulled away from my knuckles.
He took a long sip from his mug of coffee and sighed, frowning at his phone that lay buzzing softly on the table. "Oh, excuse me." He lifted the phone to his ear whilst stepping outside swiftly, leaving the door slightly ajar.
"Hey, babe," he answered, smiling. "I'm at home right now. Yeah, I'll come over. Now? Okay." My heart slowly migrated to my stomach, my spirits falling. Jealously flooded through me, along with worry. Patrick just seemed too.... innocent for her. She didn't seem to be his type at all.
Patrick hung up the phone, a smile plastered to his face, stepping inside as he tried to contain it. I was seating at the table, pretending to text on my phone to charade my eavesdropping.
"Hey, I'm going out. I think everyone else is in the basement if you need anything..." he said as he threw on his black cardigan, stretching the dark fabric over his wrists and gently setting his signature black fedora on his neatly combed hair.
"See you..." I muttered, but not before he had scurried out to his car. I blew out an exasperated puff of air and picked at the peeling black polish on my nails that had been painted a week before.
The roar of laughter from the basement rang into the kitchen, as it was right above. My conscience told me to join them, to socialize, but the dominant half of me just wanted to be on my own. It felt almost ironic. I had promised myself, back in Florida, that I would make an effort to be social once I came to L.A. Nothing seemed to change. so, during a time like this, I knew exactly what would make me feel better- music.
I sat on the porch for several hours playing the numerous songs and thoughts that zoomed in and out of my mind, not even minding the neighbors that happened to be watching. In the middle of what must have been the seventh song, Six Feet Under The Stars by All Time Low, Patrick's Mercedes pulled into the driveway.
"Hey!" he greeted me in a jolly sing-song voice, swinging his keys in the air with a metallic swish.
"Hey," I greeted him, strumming slowly on the guitar strings.
"Sorry if I interrupted you," he apologized, scratching the back of his head.
"Oh, don't worry about it," I said, dodging the thoughts that questioned why he was breathless and his hair was completely messy under his fedora. "How's Taylor?" Not that I cared or anything. It may have sounded selfish, but I only asked so that I would be the first to know if something bad had happened between them.
"Good, good..." he smiled, tossing his keys into the air once more before heading inside. I stared distantly at the ground, my eyes not targeting any object in particular. Setting down my guitar gently on the rough pavement of the sidewalk, I slowly rolled up my sleeves revealing the fresh wounds on my arms, now uncomfortably sticky from dried blood. I gently traced my fingers over the jagged surface, awestruck that I actually did this. The guilt was overwhelming. It definitely wasn't worth it, but my opinion on that matter is constantly changing.
"Can I take you out to lunch?" Patrick materialized from behind me, and I snapped around.
"R-really?"
"Yeah. It's on me."
I was shocked. Was this real? "Yeah! Sounds.... nice..." I agreed nonchalantly, rolling down my sleeves casually.
"Sweet. How's Red Lobster sound?"
"Never been. But I like seafood." He chuckled and smoothed his bangs over his forehead. I tucked my guitar inside its case before grabbing my purse and meeting Patrick inside his car. On the ride over we listened to Twenty One Pilots' latest album. Even though the two of us were just going out as friends, it made me happy that we were able to hang out. I was sure Taylor would never allow it.
Over a lunch of crispy cheese biscuits and fresh fried seafood, Patrick and I discussed our favorite bands, how his got together, and told me the long story of how they grew to fame.
"There's actually a YouTube video," he told me as I popped a bite of shrimp in my mouth,"that tells the history of Fall Out Boy. I'm in it. It's pretty funny."
I chuckled. "I'll check it out." I reached for my phone but Patrick abruptly stopped me.
"Um, I have to tell you something.." My eyes boggled. Is he going to ask me out? Is this actually happening right now?
He hesitated for a moment, his eyes darting around the room.
"I-"
"You've been signed..... by FUELED BY RAMEN!" he yelled, slamming his hands on the table.
"Are you serious?"
"Yes! We recorded your session the other day in the studio. Pete showed it to the head guy, and he loved you! He wants to sign a record contract with you A-S-A-P!"
"Oh my god, I'm speechless!" I said excitedly, my feet stomping on the floor, unable to keep still. "Patrick, I owe you my life. Thank you."
He smiled warmly. "Hey, don't thank me, it was all Pete."
"Yeah, but he couldn't have done it without you. So, thank you."
I was literally about to get up and hug him. I really was. But not before the devil herself appeared behind Patrick, her eyes reduced to cold slits. Shit.
"What the fuck?" she screeched at Patrick, her fists balled at her sides. "What is this?!"
"Oh, Tay, I, uh..... I was just taking Melanie out to celebrate her new recording contract.... As friends!" Patrick stammered, his voice shaking. He was terrified. To be honest, I would be too. I was.
"How many time have I told you to stay away from this bitch? I don't like her!"
My mouth hung open it disbelief.
Patrick didn't not move. He slowly turned his head to face her and whipped off his glasses. "What did you just say?"
Taylor's lip trembled with anger. You could practically see the steam rising off of her head. "Are you really gonna make me repeat myself?" she growled. "Did I fucking stutter, Patrick Stump?"
The attention of the whole restaurant had congregated toward our table, and I could feel blood rushing to my head, my heart throbbing violently. Don't have a panic attack, I told myself. Please, don't.
"Taylor," Patrick hissed through gritted teeth. "You're making a scene."
"We are done, Patrick!" Taylor screamed, tearing off his glasses and throwing them on the ground, a sickening crush rising from the floor as she flattened them beneath her pumps. Patrick stared at his crushed glasses in dismay. Then, she turned to me. "And YOU! I'd better not be seeing you around. You'll regret this. You'll regret all of this."
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- liesl