Punk Rock - h.s au

III - Harry.

III - Harry

I keep getting this falling sensation. When I'm half asleep at night, millions of thoughts running through my mind it all just goes blank and I feel as though I'm falling hundreds, if not, thousands of feet but I wake myself up properly and stop it all. Stop what could've been me imagining my own death. I've imagined many things happening to myself but my death is one thing I'll prevent if I can as the one thing I am scared of is death. Being dead is unthinkable and there's no telling what could happen, will I still be able to think, dream, hear? Who knows and when I'm dead, well, I won't even know.

My granddad, may he rest in peace, always told me that when I feel like I'm falling, it's me, scaring myself out of a thought I didn't realize I was approaching. I've believed that ever since I was a boy.

Pulling myself from my depressing my mind, I continue to sprawl random lyrics in my notebook. We're one song off finishing our new album but I'm just not inspired. Thankfully, I have time. A couple months since most the album has been done a while.

"Harry?" My bass guitarist- Sara's voice sounds behind my locked door "Is everything okay?"

"I'm fucking amazing" I say crazily "Just fine!" I laugh louder.

God, I'm going out of my mind here. I need something to keep me sane, keep my mind where it should be and I'm getting the feeling that some random hoe from the club and too much alcohol won't help me through this one.

I slam my notebook closed and stand to my feet. I peel my leather jacket and white top from my torso before struggling off my tight, black jeans. I grab a probably already used towel and stumble across the messy floor of my bedroom and into the bathroom. Once stripped completely and am laying in the warm waters of my previously ran bath, I watch as the painted on tattoos fade to hardly visable smudges and the water blackens. I have tattoos, yes. But apparently I need more, to uphold my image.

I need this mysterious bad boy image while having the punk look too. In all honesty, I have that image without all the fake tattoos. My manager says that the tattoos make it seem like I have something to cover up but really, they don't. I wouldn't mind this many tattoos but these are all so black and meaningless plus I don't want anything I'll regret one day.

Getting out of the bath I admire my clean, yet still inked skin, before drying and changing into my previous clothing. I slip on my red converse - to add a bit of colour, I need that sometimes - before styling my hair into it's usual do. I look at my pale face, make-up free and clean. It's times where I'm not forced into a tight leather outfit and caked in make up when I feel free and myself again. When I'm on stage, performing, that's when I feel open as if nothing can hurt me, all my problems flying out in the open being cheered away by a crowd of people that may or may not relate but understand me either way, that's when I'm open and now is when I'm me.

Leaving the spacious two-floored house that I share with my bass guitarist, Sara, I make my way down the gritted pathway, I avoided the patches of snow; not wanting to ruin my converse, though I do have many pairs and can afford a thousand more pairs if I wanted,  that's just not how my mother raised me. I deal with what I have and when that is ruined then I shall replace it but I'm no longer sure if she was talking about shoes or clothes. Mysterious woman my mother is, I guess that's where I get it from.

I walk down that street as usual. The street where the cafe is, the cafe where she still works. I take a seat at the bus stop opposite the small coffee shop. It's Wednesday, 8 pm, she's working tonight although she'll be getting off soon, her boyfriend will come and pick her up, they'll get into his crappy car and my chest will ache but for now, I'll watch. Watch as she laughs at something her co-worker says, watch as she spills a little coffee onto her hands and awkwardly wipes it away with her apron, watch as she serves customers and is happy. At least one of us is happy.

This seems weird, I know but it's my way of grieving and weirdly it works. I cannot see her closely but I see her and that matters to me. 

A crappy, 90's vauxhall pulls up outside the shop. The run down car is his weird hipster view on "vintage," but really the car is a load of shit and makes an awful sound when it drives. Her face lights up when she sees him. She hurriedly hangs up her apron and runs toward him and he takes her in his arms. 

Angrily, I stand and storm away. Away from my past until tomorrow, when I'll come back and regret not trying. As I'm walking down the whitening pathway, I notice the flecks of snow dampening my heated, rage face. Not paying attention to what I'm doing, I bump into something, or rather someone. A high pitch squeak emits from her lips as she tumbles to the ground.

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