My dad had already left by the time I gained enough motivation to go downstairs. Sweet. I went down to my keyboard and plugged it back in. Then I plinked out last night's melody, the words still burned in my mind. But this time I didn't stop the first time thoughts of Brendon surfaced in my mind. I kept going on with the song, even though I didn't really know what I was writing.
It's not so pleasant and it's not so conventional
It sure as hell ain't normal, but we deal, we deal
I stopped for a minute to frantically ransack the living room for my notebook and write it all down. It might not seem like much of a deep revelation, but that's just the way I think. In crazy metaphors and oddly obvious declarations like that one. My notebook was on top of the fridge.
I began the writing process. If I actually finished this one, it'd be the third one I'd ever written. I've done one called Time To Dance, and another one called London Beckoned Songs About Money Written By Machines.
You're a regular decorated emergency
Was this song about Brendon? I couldn't tell at that point. Usually the words just flow into my head and I don't realize I've written a political statement into them or something like that until I'm halfway through composing the melody or something like that.
I wish I was as good a lyricist as Pete Wentz. Hell, even Patrick Stump is a better writer than me. Patrick wrote Saturday when he was like seventeen. I'm eighteen and I couldn't write a song to match Saturday if my life depended on it. Sex.
Should I go now? I checked the clock above the oven. 10:30. Okay, sure. I put on pants and my coat and headed into the garage, where that thing I can kind of consider my car is stored.
Technically it's a car, but a more fitting title for it would be a fucking piece of junk. I got it for my sixteenth birthday, because that's not cliché at all, and it used to be my dad's. It'll have to do until I can save up enough money to buy a better one.
I put the key in the ignition and started the fucking piece of junk up. Driving. Yeah. That's a thing I do. I'm not very good at it, but the other drivers on the road just have to deal. I need to get to the only person I care about right now.
The hospital Brendon was at was a long way away, so I decided to turn the radio on. I prayed for some good music, but the radio DJs or whatever you call them have no taste whatsoever. I would've put in a CD, but I was already fifteen minutes away from my house and I'd forgotten to bring any. Forget the radio, I'll sing.
With the windows rolled up, so no one hears me singing to myself alone in the fucking piece of junk.
YOU ARE READING
Relax, Relapse (Ryden)
FanfictionTrigger warning: suicide Ryan blames himself. It's irrational and he knows it, but he does. In reality, there were a whole host of reasons, none of which were named Ryan Ross, but in his mind it's all his fault. If only he could have been there...
