Twenty Øne Piløts Øne-Shøts

Blurryface

I close my eyes, but my brain is going way too fast for me to get to sleep. My eyes force their way open even as my body wants to slip into numbness.

I watch the black surface of the bunk above me. It's sometimes hard to sleep on the tour bus. There's just the empty sound of the bus driving, and the occasional horn. The bus turns and slows down and speeds up, but there's no way to see where we're going. We could be driving into oblivion.

Now look where my thoughts are taking me. This is what happens when I'm not doing anything. I consider grabbing my phone to distract myself, but that will definitely keep me from falling asleep. Why can't I just fall asleep normally? Jenna always helps me fall asleep. It's something about her smell, her breathing, her presence that just makes everything easy.

Now I want Jenna here.

I sigh and roll onto my side. I can hear Josh snoring. It's a good thing he's asleep. Or maybe not. Sometimes we would talk each other to sleep.

That's another thing. Jenna's voice can lull me to sleep. She could just talk about the weather or colors, and I would drift away.

But she's not here right now, I tell myself. And it won't help wishing for her.

Sometimes stress causes insomnia. Maybe I'm stressed about the show we have tomorrow. Maybe it's Blurryface making me doubt myself and question my abilities. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

I roll onto my stomach, resting my head on my folded arms. I stare at the wall in front of me. I feel kind of confined, so I roll to face outward. The blankets start strangling me. My heartbeat increases as I try to untwist them. In a panic, I hit my head on the ceiling above me. Frustrated, I roll out of bed, letting the blankets fall to the floor. I sigh, then shiver.

I'm not going to get to sleep. Maybe exhaustion will give me some rest before tomorrow's show. I make my way out of the "bedroom," losing my balance as the bus turns a corner. I grab my phone from where it's charging. 1:28. I glare at the phone.

I text Jenna.

"Hey." I wait for a response. I don't know how long I stare at the screen. There are a bunch of little dots. I wonder how many there are. When I check the time again, fifteen minutes have passed. Does she look at her phone? Is she ever going to text me back?

After twenty minutes, I finally see a text. "Hey, sorry I'm kind of busy right now."

I text back. "Can't you just talk to me?" I just need to feel like she's with me somehow.

"Sorry, I'm with some friends. Is anything wrong?"

"I can't sleep."

"Aww. I wish I was there."

"Me too." I stare at my phone in anticipation, but she doesn't text back. She read the text, but didn't respond. She couldn't even say bye? Why did she even text back in the first place? "Hello?" I text.

Five minutes later, she responds. "Hello. Do you need something?"

"Yeah, can you text me back?" I say immediately, getting a little annoyed.

A few minutes later, another text appears. "I told you I'm kind of busy right now."

"You can't spare five minutes to talk to the husband you haven't seen in eight weeks." It's only five minutes. Why can't she wait just five tiny minutes for me?

Ironically, I have to wait five minutes for her. "Tyler, I'm sorry. I'm busy. And we facetimed yesterday."

I roll my eyes, though she can't see. "I need you to text me right now." The text is read, and she doesn't reply. After a minute, I text, "Jenna."

"Tyler, I'm busy. Why can't you be patient?"

"Why can't you spare a couple minutes for me?" I type back angrily.

She reads the message and doesn't respond, leaving me to stare at my screen alone in a tour bus. With an exasperated sigh, I drop the phone beside me.

Maybe I'm too angry. I'm probably just too tired. But she shouldn't just ignore me like that. She should at least make me feel better, right? What is more important to her than me? Am I being too self-centered? Probably. I don't know.

My brain wants to float onto a cloud, but my eyes want to stay wide open. I start pacing in the small space. Something pulls me faster and faster. My hands twitch at my sides, pulling at my pants. Two steps one way, two steps back.

I could probably be asleep right now if Jenna had just talked to me for five minutes. We could have talked about anything. Stars, Taco Bell, clothes, grass. But she didn't have time for me. Me. Her husband. What was she doing that was more important than me?

Part of me wants to lash out at something. I kind of want to punch a wall.

My nails dig into my palms instead. I bring my hand up to my face to look at it. I notice some black paint still on my knuckles from the last show.

Blurryface.

He's the reason I'm thinking these thoughts. I let him in. I let him take control.

I know I'm weaker at night, when it's dark and silent. When I'm tired.

I shouldn't be mad at Jenna. I should be mad at myself.

I walk to the sink and grab some soap. I scrub my knuckles until the black is gone.

"Let the water wash away everything that you've become." Blasphemy plays in my head. That was so long ago.

I dry my hands, then reach for my phone. I text Jenna. "I'm sorry."

A few minutes later, she texts back. "I forgive you. I love you."

"I love you too."

"Sweet dreams."

"Thanks."

I put my phone down and walk back to bed.

***

I don't know what this is. I just started writing.