Leopold

3 | September 7th

3 | September 7th

"I get it. The things you hope for the most are the things that destroy you in the end." - David Levithan

I could handle the sobbing, the whining, the family-wide mourning started on Guin’s request. I could endure the long nights, the endless stream of tissues and chocolate and compliments, forfeiting my reading time in order to provide a shoulder to cry on.

The punk rock, however, needed to end.

It started two days after the break-up, the Velvet Underground slowly seeping from the crack in her door. After dinner, it escalated to a four-hour-long loop of “Baby I Love You” by the Ramones, before reaching the climax at two in the morning with a painful rendition of The Sex Pistols’ “God Save the Queen.”

As the music culminated at deafening levels, Guin’s scratchy voice began to sing – or, more accurately, shout – completely out of tune, every note echoing the pain I never wanted her to feel.

I clenched my pillow tighter, hoping that, finally, I would be able to drift off. The guitar solo seemed to be winding down, which was nothing short of a miracle. I heaved out a giant sigh of relief, wondering, not for the first time, if my parents were silently enduring this most recent torture the same way I was.

Just as the song began to end, it picked right up again, from the beginning, Guin’s voice finding the familiar words.

“Make it stop,” I mumbled, a prayer that went unanswered.

“God save the queen, the fascist regime!”

I gritted my teeth, bracing myself for the sudden clash of drums.

“God save the queen, she ain’t no human being!”

Caught with a sudden wave of frustration, I catapulted my legs over the side of the bed.

“Don't be told what you want, don't be told what you n-n-need!”

Now, I hesitated. Her half-screeched lyrics were now perforated with sobs, something so lonely and so private that the thought of seeing her, absorbed in the lyrics of an angry song, made my whole body tense.

“Oh God save history, G-God save your mad parade! Oh Lord – Oh Lord - God have mercy, a-a-a-all crimes are paid!”

Guin wailed in unison with the lead singer, her voice cracking at the highest note, and, finally, I decided that I had had enough. Before I could over think anything, I grabbed the nearest book off the dresser, stuffing my feet into a long-abandoned pair of heavy, wool socks.

Careful to be as quiet as possible, I made my way into the hallway, past my parents’ door, and down the stairs. It wasn’t like they could hear me – I could barely hear myself think – but it made me feel somewhat less guilty for escaping in my sister’s time of need.

You could still feel the endless vibration of the thumping brass in the kitchen, the living room, and the garage, so I grabbed my keys, crossing across the dark driveway to my car.