Collaborated Damage

Chapter Eight

Let's grow old together. Let's be unhappy forever, because there is no one else in this world that I'd rather be unhappy with. -Unknown.

Ever since I found out what Helen did to herself, I was even more cautious around her. She was starting to notice.

"Hey Blue, what's wrong?" She asked as she sat down next to me.

"Nothin'," I answered quickly. "How was school? I miss goin' with you."

She turned her head away from me. "It was okay."

 Just okay.

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Our first real concert with Deceitful Time was in a hot pub. The acoustics we horrible and everything smelled awful. Still, June and Donald and I found a way to enjoy it. It felt so right. Donald still looked like a total goofball, but a badass one. June was a girl you couldn't tell if she was pretty or ugly. I thought she was pretty.

Donald had shocks of red curls and freckled covered skin, which he claimed he was blessed with. He was a medium height clumsy guy who always said the wrong thing. And he was sure as hell in loved with the tall audacious June.

June had a high forehead and a big mouth. Her eyes were spaced a little wide but they were filled with a passion you only stumbled upon once in your life. Her teeth were crooked and her skin was a lovely coco color. 

And there I was. I had nothing special about me, other than the fact I had music. I was the dark lanky boy with a surprisingly raspy voice. I was the one who looked like I was on drugs (which admittedly happened a few times.) I was the one who was classified as the bad boy, since being quiet and broken made you that nowadays. 

Anyways; the concert was smelly, hot, and no one really listened to us. Until we got to that song. The one I wrote out of a desperate cry for help, one that wasn't coming from me. But a cry coming from everyone. 

When the crowd first heard it they all hushed real quickly. My voice was more softer unlike the rest of the screaming rage we had played. Then they began to listen to the words of a lost soul, begging for their love to not leave them. By the time the chorus hit, they were screaming and chanting for the unknown name to be louder; for more acknowledgement of sadness. 

 The song slowly progressed from soft begging to loud shouts of anger. My face heated up as I gripped the mic as if it was a life line. Sweat dripped down my back. I was telling the story of everyone. Of everyone's pain, of their hardship, of their survival. And that's what the crowd wanted, not some pop love song that held no value, but a hard rock song that shown light onto the hidden aspects of life. 

We became known then. Someone had video taped are song. Our song Mama. They uploaded it to Youtube and right away it was a top hit. June, Donald, and I were ecstatic. We were nobodies who just came together because of something so simple, yet meaningful as music, and there were were. People making copies of our songs. 

People wanted the truth. Even if it was delivered as a knife. 

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In the fall that I was moving into my college dorm, my mom began to cry. I didn't know what to do, she cried when she was painting, when she was drunk, when she was thinking of her past but never because of me. I always comforted her with a cup of tea and let her to herself.

But now here she was clinging onto me, begging me not to go.

"My baby, my baby!" She wailed into my hair, clutching me close to her chest.

I felt rigid, was she going to hurt me one last time? Did she know that I was never coming back? "Hey, Mom, it'll be alright."

"You won't come back," She whispered.