❝The truth may hurt, but fooling yourself will enslave you.❞
-Charles F. Glassman
✕✕✕✕✕
My therapist once said that, often, self-destructive behaviors, including my tendencies to isolate myself and purposely focus on things that make me unhappy, come from a source of anxiety. This anxiety can be caused by the feelings of being overwhelmed, whether physically or mentally.
Where I am right now, I would certainly consider myself overwhelmed. Everything is blaring lights and deafening noises, accompanied by a thumping pain in my head. Nausea, thick and sickening, works its way through my body like a needle and thread.
It's the similar feelings I have when I flashback to the crash. But this isn't a nightmare. It's only a high school football game.
After a long and tiring spirit week, it all culminates here: Daniel F. Coleridge Memorial Stadium, a.k.a. The Ridge. The center of all that is good and holy in my hometown, according to my peers. Tonight, the Ashdown Jackals are playing their archrivals, the Mt. Abraham Eagles, and the crowd is absolutely electric. Under the lights, things are warm and exciting and alive.
The new quarterback, CJ Sykes, pitches the ball, and it soars across the turf before Trevor Jolie catches it and barrels into the endzone, successfully grabbing a touchdown for the Jackals. The student section goes wild, and the band launches into a vibrant, horn-filled rendition of "Seven Nation Army".
The smell of gravy fries, sweat, and cheap cologne permeates my senses, no matter how hard I try to block it out. It's the shitty perfume of teenagers being teenagers and small towns being small towns, a scent I know better than anything.
I used to go to every football game. I'd sit in the student section with Veronica, go wild when Macy did a stunt with the cheerleaders, and cheer ruthlessly for the Jackals. More than anything, I'd scream Will's name, and he'd look in my direction as he ran across the field, and we'd lock eyes just like we did in those treehouses so long ago.
There was never any sadness, never any misery, never any thought of the end. Our biggest worry wasn't dying or living alone forever or any of the other myriad of anxieties I contemplate now. No, our main concern was the possibility of losing. Will tended to worry about losing a lot. But, and by nothing short of a miracle, Ashdown had won almost every game since freshman year.
I remember the last state championship as clear as ice. It was December, and Will was the quarterback, so of course, he felt like everything was on him. Before we left for the game, I sat on his unmade queen bed, blue and grey blankets strewn around me, while Will paced back and forth. He had his hands around his neck, and he kept looking up at the off-white ceiling as if he was waiting on a sign from God that everything would be okay.
"If I fail this, Lila..." he shook his head. "This is the 3rd year in a row. Back to back to back. If I fail this, nobody's ever going to forgive me."
"I will," I'd said. "And so will everyone else. You've already brought them to victory twice. And besides, this isn't just about you. There's 44 other guys who are wholly responsible as well."
I felt the floorboards creak below me as I came up to Will, taking his hands and putting my head against his. His tan skin was warm, his hands tight with unease, but as I smiled at him, they slowly relaxed. "You are going to be amazing. You always are. And I'm always right about this kind of stuff, so you have nothing to worry about."
Before either of us could even chuckle, the Nyquists' huge Great Pyrenees, Blue, ran into the room and tackled us to the floor in a mix of fur and slobber. We laughed and Blue somehow smiled and everything seemed okay. Slightly stressful, but... okay.
It's funny how insignificant little moments of joy are until you don't have any at all.
In the end, he threw the pass that won the game. Like something out of a Disney Channel movie, after they left the field, he got bombarded with people.
Sure, high school football isn't as popular in Vermont as it is in places like Texas or Pennsylvania, but it's not like there's maple syrup tournaments or varsity snowboarding teams. We've been forced to latch on to football, adopting it as our own and playing it like it was all we cared to play, and that care was evident in the sheer happiness on everyone's faces.
Yet... in the midst of the crowd just off of the field, the local sports anchors and adoring fans, Will ran straight to me, picking me up and spinning me around with a grin on his face.
"We won," he murmured, his eyes alight. "We won, baby!"
I laughed, giddy in the moment. "You won. I just told you so."
"You were right. You're always right."
My laughter grew and I smiled against his lips as he turned his head down and kissed me. And that's where the brittle memory shatters.
Will's dead. The Ashdown Jackals are just some podunk high school football team. Veronica's a bitch, Macy's busy cheerleading, and Kat, although decidedly nicer to me since our lunchtime adventure on Monday, has a life - she's laughing and smiling with her soccer friends at the top most row of the student section.
And besides, would I really want to hang out with her - or anyone, really, besides Will? Once Will died, I've started to see things like football games and spirit days as weak facades, a way to make our school - and world - seem happy and bright and alive when it really had the soul of a corpse.
How could I bring myself to do such cheerful things when I knew it was a lie? And how could I do everything Will once loved when he's never going to be able to do them again?
So why am I here? Good question.
It just so happens that O'Rourke's - Ashdown's very own knock-off ACE hardware store - is right across the street from the stadium. And it just so happens that the light above my bed, the center of the plastic galaxy of my childhood, burnt out earlier in the day. And it just so happens we were out of lightbulbs.
Small town hardware stores at night are a strange place. Dim lighting, settling sawdust, potential weapons everywhere you look. As I traversed the narrow aisles, I felt like I was the last girl in Ashdown, raiding for tools to survive the zombie apocalypse. This theory was supported by the fact that nobody else was in the store while I was there, aside from the clerk, who had a receding hairline and looked at me like I was a cold slab of raw meat.
After I left, I felt myself being drawn towards the sight of floodlights and cold aluminum bleachers. I wandered across the street, leaving my car to sit lonely next to O'Rourke's. I thought I'd only be standing here, outside the fence behind the concession stand, for a few moments. In reality, I don't know how long I've been watching. My eyes have started to tear up from a lack of blinking.
I'm cold, really cold, and I can't tell if it's just psychological or if Winter's really taking a bite out of football season. I know I should probably get back in my car, go home, and perhaps spend the night laying on my bed listening to the In The Heights soundtrack, but I can't bring myself to peel away from the edge of my past.
These are the self-destructive behaviors Dr. Pavone was talking about, something in the back of my mind thinks. You're going to freeze out here and you won't even notice or care.
A long breeze whistles through, making my ink-black hair blow to the side. And then, just like in the car on Monday, I realize I'm no longer alone. I don't hear him, don't see him, but I can feel his chilling presence, like he's sucking the life right out of me.
How funny, then, that the most alive I've ever felt since Will died is at places he takes me.
From the corner of my eye, I see Mor, leaning against the rusty wire fence, that devil-may-care attitude visible in his crossed arms and slouching shoulders.
At first, he's looking away from me, but slowly he turns to peer at me straight in the eye. He's dripping in shadows, like he took a dip in the Black Lagoon and forgot to towel off.
I can't help myself from taking a sharp breath. My nausea clears within an instant, but my heart takes a glaring turn, beating so hard I'm worried it'll burst right out of my chest.
"Hello, Lila," he says, for once greeting me in a somewhat normal way.
"Hello, Mor."
"You seem melancholy."
"Yeah, PTSD can do that to a person." I unlatch myself from the sight of the game to to turn towards him. "And so can re-watching the hobby and passion of your dead boyfriend."
"Then don't watch." He cocks his head and says me curiously, "I'm surprised you came all this way just to stare longingly and not actually go in."
"I didn't," I hiss. "I went out to get lightbulbs and just decided to stop by. Besides, the only other choice was to sit at home and watch telenovelas with my mom."
"And your sister?"
"She's here. With her soccer friends."
"Your friend... Macy?" He sounds tired. I know he's only aware of Macy because of that god-forsaken file, but I still feel vaguely uncomfortable that he knows who she is.
"She's a cheerleader." I nod in the direction of the squad, where Macy is halfway through a flying trick, her dress shimmering crimson. "She's a little busy."
Mor draws out a dramatic sigh. "You depress me," he says, "So sad and lonely and emotional. One could even say... emo."
I narrow my eyes, even though I know what's coming next. "What are you planning?"
My begrudging companion fishes in his pocket for a moment, then pulls out glasses I've never seen before, which he places upon his nose, as well as my bucket list. I stand up straight, though I already know what he's going to say. "Item #3. See a My Chemical Romance concert." He looks over his glasses at me. "And, correct me if I'm wrong about my vague knowledge of your... pop culture, but My Chemical Romance is an 'emo' band, right?"
"Right," I reply. "But I wrote that in 7th grade, and they broke up the year after. My emo phase is over."
It's the truth, honestly and completely. Although I used to be fruitlessly in love with the band, thinking they were the only adults who understood my malaise, after they broke up, I stopped being emo altogether. I cried for a few hours, first, but then I traded my band merch for sweaters and my misery for hope.
And somehow, I'm back to the misery once again.
"Huh." He doesn't seem to believe that last part. "So you wouldn't want to see them live?"
Mor removes his glasses and raises his eyebrows. He seems even more shadowy tonight, though that could just be in comparison to the harsh lights of the stadium. In the distance, the marching band has moved on to a rousing cover of "Despacito", which makes the student section go wild.
I may be over my emo phase, yet... I can't just pass up the opportunity to see my former favorite band live.
I would, I would, I would, the me inside of me sings in reply to Mor's question.
It's so hard to push it down. Here, I'm reminded of Will once again. What did everybody say to me at the funeral? He would've wanted you to be happy, Lila.
As always, Mor reaches out a bony hand. "Trust in me."
I stare at him for brief moment. These lights are too bright, the music too loud, the cheering too happy. I can't take it any longer. He's right - I am emo.
So I take his hand.
It's time to go back to middle school.
✕✕✕
Within a moment, Mor has teleported me into the middle of a crowd. But it's not just any crowd - it's a crowd of teenagers and young people, many dressed in all black and jeans that are way too tight, their hair hanging in their face in typical Scene fashion.
The sun is high in the sky, and in the distance, I can hear loud, rocky music, like something from an early 2000s teen movie.
I turn to Mor, who's shielding his eyes and squinting around curiously, and ask, "Where... are we?"
"Vans Warped Tour, 2005, a.k.a. the Summer of Like," he answers, dropping his hand. My heart skips a beat. "My Chemical Romance is soon to be taking the Bishop Stage."
The Summer of Like. I haven't heard that term in years, not since I'd moved on from The Emo Trinity. But, sure enough, I realize as I look closer that not a single person here is dressed like it's any later than 2009. We're in a world of angst and dark clothing.
"I fit right in here!" Mor says cheerily. "Notwithstanding my suit, I could pass as a local, for once!"
That was true. With his snow white hair and ashen skin, he could've even passed for a member of MCR during their Black Parade phase, albeit a year earlier. It unnerves me that he looks so similar to my former idols.
"Where is the stage they're at?" I ask. I'm kind of in a daze.
"I believe it's-"
Mor is interrupted by a girl not looking where she's walking, who bumps right into me. "Oh, shit, I'm so-" She starts, glancing up at me. Suddenly, her demeanor changes. "Ohmigod, you like MCR?"
She couldn't have been much younger than me, but she's dressed like I did in 7th grade, all shade and band shirts and choppy hair. Hers is dyed purple and slung across her face in such a fashion that I instantly wonder what her MySpace profile is.
She's looking at my shirt. I flicker my eyes down and see I've changed clothes, out of my obviously 2017 outfit into ripped skinny jeans and a t-shirt with the album cover for "Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge" on it.
"Uh, yeah!" I say, which is true to an extent. "Do you?"
"Of course! I was just on my way to go see them!" She gestures in the general direction behind me. "What's your favorite song?"
"Oh, that's easy!," I exclaim, which is also true. "Hel-"
"-Ena?!" She finishes for me. "Same! It's so sweet and emotional. I hope they perform it today!"
Sweet and emotional is one way to put it. Like many of the songs of its time, "Helena (So Long and Goodnight)", the third single off of My Chemical Romance's second studio album, is a woeful, angry ballad about death. I loved it in middle school because I felt a connection - it reminded me of my dad. Now, it reminds me of someone much different.
"Yeah, totally," I say. The girl seems to think I'm just another festival-goer, as she grins and continues making conversation.
"My name's Erika, by the way. Are you here by yourself?"
It's then that I realize: Mor's gone. He's nowhere to be seen. He left me to my own devices in the midst of 2005, but I suppose that's to be expected.
"Uh, yeah," I partially lie. "And my name's Lila."
"Ooh, that's pretty!" Erika exclaims. "I'm here alone too. Well, not alone, my mom's here, because I didn't exactly have any friends to come with. We drove here all the way from Western Vermont."
I have no idea where "here" is, but I perk up. "I'm from Western Vermont as well! A little town called Ashdown, to be exact."
Her deep blue eyes, rimmed with black eyeliner, widen. "Oh. My. God. That's where I'm from! How have I never seen you before?!"
Well, what are the chances?
"Uh... I'm homeschooled?" I lie.
Before Erika has a chance to react, a guitar strums in the distance, and I can hear the raspy voice of Gerard Way.
"Oh, shit, they're starting!" Erika exclaims. "C'mon!"
She takes my hand in hers, which is lined with rubber wristbands advertising bands long broken up by 2017, and pulls me through the crowd, towards the stage. I do nothing to stop it. I'm giddy. My inner emo has come out in full force and there is no blocking it.
In, I enter, to a world of skinny jeans and studded belts and eyeliner and MP3 players, and I'm not sure I ever want to leave.
✕✕✕
Somehow, we're able to shove ourselves to the front, passing everyone from scene kids to goths to skaters with hair down to their shoulders. From here, we're so close that I can see the bags under Gerard's eyes. At one point, he looks at Erika and I, and the both of us squeal and jump and nearly faint. Meanwhile, my favorite - the guitarist, Frank - is strumming away to my right. They start the set off with "I'm Not Okay (I Promise)", a rousing number that gets the whole crowd pumping their fists.
I learn Erika's a sophomore, around 15, and aiming to become a music journalist after she graduates. More than anything, she desires to get out of Ashdown, a sentiment I share deeply. She tells me all this in between songs, and her verbiage - as well as her obliviousness to anything I have to say - reminds me of Macy.
Macy never liked my bands, nor did Veronica or Kat. All three of them tended to tease me about it, Kat more ruthlessly, Macy more apologetically, Veronica more pretentiously. Perhaps the only person that never judged my taste in music, whether during my emo phase or any other time, was Will. But that's also to be expected, right? Of course it's the dead person that cared about me most.
After the fourth song, Erika turns to me and asks, "Which member's your favorite?"
"Frank," I answer. I didn't always love Frank Iero, but he became my favorite after a few months of listening to the band. This was most likely because out of all the members, he was the one Kat made fun of the most, because he shared a first name with Will's dad. I think I took him on as my favorite just to spite her.
My mind flashes to an image of Frank Nyquist, and his wife, Brooke, and the dog, Blue, and Will. It was a family picture they took when Will and I were in 8th grade; it's sat on their mantel in their living room ever since. At least, it was there the last time I was at the Nyquist household - the day of the funeral.
I haven't spoken a single word to Will's parents since the funeral. I haven't seen them anywhere and besides, even if I did see them, what would I say? I'm sorry for your loss is too insipid. It is my loss, too.
"Hey," Erika elbows me. "I don't know what you're daydreaming about, but Gerard just said this is their final song! I swear to god, if it isn't Helena, I'm gonna sue Warped Tour."
Dammit, Lila, I think. Why can't you ever stay focused on the present? I pull myself back from my "daydream", blinking a few times to let my eyes adjust to my surroundings.
"Heh," I half-laugh, trying to seem like I was just staring off into space. "I'll help. I'm not sure if you'll be able to find a lawyer, though."
Erika laughs, then turns her view towards the stage. I follow and watch Gerard saunter up to the microphone. It's 3 more seconds until the riff starts, and he's singing, and I feel the ground fall out from underneath me.
I can tell from the first note that it's "Helena", and slowly, my heart starts to break. I never thought it would feel this way to hear this song again. There's no specific memory or flashback associated with the instrumentals; this time, it's something different, a gaping hole tearing its way through my heart.
The crowd around me becomes strung out with emotion, singing along loudly. Erika is especially zealous, jumping up and down with the rhythm. And I stand there, stone-cold, because a song about death is a lot harder to listen to once you've stared death straight in the face. Figuratively and literally.
It's the crescendo of the verses, the sadness in Gerard Way's voice, that makes me melt away. But what gets me the most is the bridge, right before the final chorus:
Can you hear me?
Are you near me?
Can we pretend
We'll leave and then
We'll meet again
When both our cars collide...
Shit. I didn't want to interpolate my narrative with crappy emo music from the early 2000's. I didn't want to start crying in the middle of warped tour. But there they are: pain-wrought lyrics and warm, salty tears running down my face.
During the crash, that was how it happened. Will's truck and another truck collided. I'm surprised the lyric doesn't send me into a flashback; instead, it causes my emotions to flood like the lights above the football stadium. I roar through the the last chorus, jumping along with the crowd, feeling no shame.
When the song comes to a crashing close, Erika glances over at me, and her eyes widen.
"You're crying!" she yells above the crowd, as if I couldn't feel the tears myself.
I nod weakly.
She frowns, and, like before, takes my hand and deftly drags me through the crowd. We end up in an alley of tents and stages, decidedly empty compared to the rest of the lot, and Erika turns to me. "Are you all right?"
I wipe away the remnants of my sadness with the heel of my hand. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"Are you sure?" She cocks her violet head and stares at me in pity. "I mean, I love the band, don't get me wrong, but I don't think they're worth crying over. Unless, like, they broke up or something. Oh, God, then I'd be a wreck."
I chuckle unhappily at the irony lacing her words. "Yeah, yeah, you're right."
"I know I am," she says, reminding me way too much of the words I used to say to Will. "That's how I can tell that it wasn't just the band that made you cry."
So much for oblivious.
I breathe in deeply, my face tingling, my sinuses pressured. "Yeah. I just... um, associate that song with a person. Especially the bridge."
She stares at me as if she's waiting for me to continue. So I do.
"Three months ago, my boyfriend and I got into a car accident, and... he died. But obviously, I survived. And I guess the verse about the cars colliding just kinda hit home."
Her lapis eyes widen even further. "Oh my God. That's... terrible. I'm so sorry."
"It's fine," I say, though it's definitely not fine, not at all.
"No, it's not. Don't dismiss your own emotions like that. Despite what the preppies might say, it is okay to have feelings once in a while. They're what make us human."
The problem isn't the presence of feelings, it's that they overtake everything I do. But the light behind Erika's eyes and the thought behind her words make me want to underthink it. Sometimes, you just have to accept the comfort people give you, even if it doesn't make you feel any better.
She opens her arms wide and embraces me, like she's my second younger sister or underclassman best friend, despite being technically older than me. It's a strange feeling to know that even in an alternative music festival in 2005, I can find a friend, but I can't find one in my own hometown.
"For someone I just met under an hour ago," I say as we let go of each other, "We connect pretty well."
"Yeah," she grins. "We do. In fa-"
She's interrupted by voices - 3, no, 4, men, one monotone, one high, one low, and one nasally. I'd know those voices anywhere. How many nights had I stayed awake watching old, shaky interviews, ingraining the words in my mind, knowing they may not last forever?
Erika and I both whirl, and our wildest dreams are confirmed to be real. It's the band, My Chemical Romance, coming from backstage, two bodyguards at either side of them. The bassist, Mikey, is downing a bottle of water and frontman Gerard's raven hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, the heat intensified with their all black outfits and jackets. And the two guitarists - Ray and Frank, my favorite, are discussing some underground band performing later.
I feel like I'm floating. My skin grows hot, and suddenly, I can't quite tell where the ground is. Making a noise halfway between a gasp and a screech, Erika has a different reaction: she leaps to the balls of her feet and yells, "Oh my God!"
Gone is the serious, bleak mood we were in only seconds previous. Now, I feel my heart gaining its normal speed again, my tears drying up in the blazing sun. I know I can't let this emotion go so quickly, but this is My. Chemical. Romance. I surely can't let my everyday sadness overtake my chance to meet the Holy Ghost of my childhood.
Frank and Ray turn their heads, Mikey lowers his water, and a small smile appears on Gerard's face. Before any of them can say something, Erika exclaims, "You guys were a-ma-zing! We're really big fans!"
Instantly, Frank and Ray smile too. "Oh yeah?" Ray asks, his voice the high one, "What are your names?"
Mikey gives us a curious look, as if he's trying to decide if we're really fans or just wannabe groupies. I almost shrink back, but Erika grabs my arm and pulls me forward with her.
"I'm Erika," says Erika, which is obvious to me.
"And," I say, my voice scratchy, "my name's Lila."
I watch Frank mouth my name under his breath, turning it over, before saying, "Those are pretty names."
Frank Iero just said your name was pretty, Lila!! The fangirl part of me squeals.
Shut up, Lila!! The 17 year-old part of me shoots back.
On the outside I just say, "Thanks."
It's not a true expression of my emotions, but what am I supposed to say? Meeting my ex-favorite band does not erase my sadness over my boyfriend's death; my boyfriend's death does not erase my excitement over meeting my ex-favorite band. It's a Catch-22. Screwed if I do and screwed if I don't.
Oh well if I'm screwed. Sometimes you just have to appreciate the moment.
"Can we get a picture with you?" Erika inquires. "This is like, a dream come true."
"Sure," Gerard says, at the same time as Ray says, "Yeah!"
"Ah! Yay!" Erika fishes around in a Converse cross body bag I hadn't noticed she was carrying and pulls out a cobalt blue instant camera. She turns, and I follow her awkwardly, until it's the two of us and the band all facing the shadowy lens of the camera. The twin scents of sweat and angst permeate my senses, yet somehow I force a smile.
It's the same perfume of the stadium, but this is no football game.
After a moment, Erika has two pictures printing out of the camera. We look at them, and I try not to cringe at the stilted, yet joyful smiles on all of our faces.
She takes one and carefully places it in her bag; the other, she turns and gives to me.
"A memory," she says, "Unless you have a camera."
"No camera, just me." I take the picture, and feel the smile on my face grow. Sure, we all look awkward, but among the black outfits and shaggy hair, there's a heart there, pulsating in time with the beat of the drums by some other band on some other stage. "Thank you."
"Thank them!" Erika gestures wildly to My Chemical Romance while I stuff the picture in my pocket. To the band, she says, "Um, it was really nice to meet you, but I'm sure you have places to go, so um, thank you!!"
"Yeah, of course," Gerard says.
"Enjoy the rest of the tour!" adds Frank.
They all wave goodbye, except for Mikey, who nods at us with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Erika and I watch them go, taking another alley to avoid the main crowd, their bodyguards trailing behind them.
It's only a millisecond after they've disappeared from sight that Erika squeals, jumping up and down again as if she's a basketball bouncing on elastic energy.
"Holy shit! I can't believe that just happened!" Her smile shifts into a grimace. "I'm sorry it interrupted my condolences, though."
"It's fine. I've, um, gotten enough pity over the months."
Pity doesn't do a thing. Pity doesn't bring Will back, it doesn't assuage my emotions, it doesn't even feel real 99% of the time.
"Still." Erika pushes a few strands of straightened hair out of her face, causing the rest of her locks to fall onto her back. "If it... if it makes you feel any better, my dad passed away about a year ago. He was in a car crash, too."
It doesn't make me feel better, because now I just feel bad for her.
"Oh, God, I'm so sorry," I say, though I should know better than anyone that sorrys hardly lighten the grief.
Grief's a sisyphean task, like carrying a giant boulder on your back and somebody simply saying, "Oh man, that's a real big boulder! Good luck with that!" before going on their merry way. You can acknowledge things are bad all you want, but only doing something to help can make things good again.
"That's why I got into this kind of music in the first place, anyway," she spreads her arms wide, showing off the bracelets lining her pale arms. "I used to listen to normal shit, like, The Black Eyed Peas and Britney Spears and stuff. But I just feel... understood by MCR, you know? Like they understand my pain."
If I'd heard this in 2017, I would've brushed it off as one of the most cliche things I'd ever heard. But this is 2005, and there's no need for me to be pretentious anymore. As if Erika can read my mind, she continues, "Sure, I get weird looks from the kids at school. All the other girls think I'm dramatic and self-centered. But I'm not going to do things that make my grief worse. I'm going to live life on my own terms, do what makes me relatively happy. It's what my dad would've wanted."
"Yeah."
Perhaps, if my heart was meant to go on, à la Celine Dion, I could be like this someday. Sad, but hopeful, emboldened by the thought of Will watching over me and encouraging every step I take.
But I have hardly any steps left to take. Soon, I'm going to die, and perhaps join Will again, and none of this will really matter.
Still, something rings true in Erika's words. I realize I have to mindfully try to stop my self-destructive behaviors. For once, among these emos and punks and skaters, I don't have to do things that make me unhappy. I don't have to fake appreciation for high school football or pretend I'm not bothered by the destruction of the music program. I can just enjoy the moment and be honest with myself.
"We're all sad here, Lila," my new friend says, "And that's what brings us together."
Far above, dark clouds pass in front of the sun, shading the lot in torrential shadows. Thunder rumbles, like a stampede of stallions running in the sky. I hear a few people grumble and yell, "Boo!"
Erika grits her teeth. "Dammit. My mom said it was supposed to rain today, and I dismissed her." She turns towards what I'm assuming is the direction of wherever her mom is, and yells, "Sorry mom!"
I don't know where my own ride is, if I can call him that, and I don't know how much longer I'll be here for. The deal was a My Chemical Romance concert, but who knows who else is here? More bands I once loved, or will love if I only hear them play?
"Hey, I don't know where you were planning to go next," Erika says, "But I think Fall Out Boy is playing here in a few minutes. Do you wanna see them?"
"I'd love that," I say, and it's the truth.
✕✕✕✕✕
A/N: YESTERDAY WAS MY BIRTHDAY!!! :)
In other news, I think I'm going to start updating on Sundays instead of Fridays. Also, I changed my username, so that's a thing.
But y'know what's funny? On Thursday, they announced that the 2018 Vans Warped Tour would be the last. I just think it's ironic that I'm publishing this chapter - a chapter about Warped Tour - this week. Still, R.I.P greensecondsofpanic and Warped Tour.
Seriously, though, somebody actually did die recently - Soundcloud star and rapper Lil Peep. Not much of a rap fan myself, but his girlfriend, Arzaylea Rodriguez, means a lot to me. I hope she's doing much better than Lila's doing. Rest in Peace, Lil Peep :(
Have a magical day, everyone. Yes, all 2 of you. Positive vibes, stay awesome.
xoxo, Athena
✕✕✕✕✕