Peroxide (Peterick)

can I walk a dog with a twizzler

There is a certain numbness you experience once all is lost, once you're alone, once the shelves of your life have been twisted inside out in order to find an old relic that disappeared with the memory and hasn't returned since then, but we're arguably trying to ignite something out of the carnage.

Not me, though, or at least not now, with the ebony cloaks draped over me burdening any free will that I may or may not have possessed as I wait for Gerard to escort me to the funeral of someone who should've survived. He shouldn't deserve a funeral, be confined to materialism and to the grave, because in many ways he's still with us, but the people attending don't understand that concept, no matter how often I plead for them to get it through their dense minds that funerals are for the guilty and the non-believers.

Nevertheless, Gerard is requiring that I visit the funeral of my best friend, not his, and I know that he's not curdled by the same pain as I am, because he didn't retain that connection to Pete, but he must be sympathetic, though he's still knocking at my door at ten o'clock in the morning with a black tie prepared to strangle him — and then me — so maybe a few boundaries have been expanded, though I don't know in whose favor.

"Patrick, are you ready to go?" The man teeters on his feet, a bit nervous at what my reaction has in store for him and predicting that it'll be bitter.

"Not at all, but you're forcing me to attend, so whatever."

Gerard's posture curtsies in dejection, displeased by my stubbornness, the same stubbornness that got Pete killed. "I know this is difficult for you, but Pete would appreciate it."

"Pete is dead," I bluntly state. "He can't communicate with us."

"Well if he were here, he would love to see that you're honoring him."

"But he's not, so he wouldn't, and he doesn't need a funeral if he's here anyway, so what good does it do?"

Gerard stares at me blankly for a moment, invisibly sorting through what to do with me and my annoyingness, and a sigh collides with his windpipe. "Just try your best, yeah?"

I don't answer.

~~~~~

The disparity between the people at the funeral and my vision of the people at the funeral is astronomical. I had suspected Lindsey would be here, accompanied by Frank, Ryan, and Brendon, sometimes Dallon (it depended on my mood), but none of those people are currently present, and even Gerard has vanished from sight to join his friends.

Their figures are as stunning as ever, whisked in elegant dresses and suits, but their faces have been carved away, hollowed out to construct an array of skulls decked with indistinguishable features that convert the atmosphere to a ghastly grey and render me completely hopeless in finding what I need.

This funeral was a mistake, and I'm glad in saying that I had no part in its planning. That was Ryan, because I guess he just felt responsible for whatever happened to Pete, though it was entirely my fault (I just didn't own up to it because of the monstrous funeral to come), and because of his frantic repenting, he produced such a horror of an event that no one should really care about, and they don't, as their friend just died in the domesticated environment of the Caribou cottage when that's such a rarity, and they're all still so confused as to how that could've transpired instead of accepting that it did and that there's no solution to death, and there's no solution to a broken heart, either.

Though I can't comprehend why these people would suffer from a broken heart anyway, because they weren't as familiar with Pete as I was with him, and they recognized that, so early on they just left us two alone to do as we may with one another, and they just figured that we were so deeply in love that we drowned at the mere thought of each other. Because of that, they would have no part in our affairs, and they never delved into the majesties of Pete Wentz and all of his traits thoroughly enough to give a single fuck when he died.