static. the radio was just static. it filled his senses and his thoughts and his being. numbing and dulling, static was the only word that could portray the buzzing emptiness throughout his being. fizzy and bubbling, his blood hissed through his veins trying to burn out of him from the inside. his honey-gold flesh begged to be torn open, he wanted to know if it would be bleach-white bone or ruby-red tissue underneath it all.
he was pressed against some sort of soft material, vinyl or leather. he felt all wrong inside but didn't have the strength to do anything about it, instead just sitting in there. soft blue and yellow light illuminated his surroundings but the world was too blurry for him to notice.
he decided to close his eyes for a bit, just a temporary little nap. he was so tired. bones and skin too heavy, head dropping down towards his chest.
images flashed through his head. the warm embrace of a friend. the burn-itch of new ink. the smell of sweat in a too hot van. a head of curly hair. too many tattoos to count. these disjointed images didn't fit together but they made his lips twitch all the same.
he kept going over the same images over and over again. blue-green-gold eyes. hat adorned heads with tufts of red-gold hair. loose fitting jeans and ratty sneakers. soft lyrical whisperings from petal soft lips. his grin broaden, too wide and too final, almost manic.
he remembers his name. patrick is what he preferred to be called but he never hesitated to bring out every nickname. pattycakes, trick, and lunchbox were just the beginning. he remembers how patrick would stay up just sing him to sleep or how he would somehow make sense of the endless scratch of the pen against every surface. no judgmental looks were ever given when patrick was reading his words.
but he also remembers something else. he thinks back to every fight, every argument shared. countless screaming matches and the occasional fist fight, their tempers were quick. he knows that each well-placed insult stung and burned both men and he wished he could take it all back.
his presence hurt. he constantly hurt himself and others and he felt like he couldn't control it. it was a constant downward spiral, thoughts would invade his head and he would take them out on the people he cared most for. he was just a disease, another pretty face made to break other people.
he just wanted to be good. good enough for the people around him. they deserved better and he wasn't going to be better. the only thing he could do consistently was let others down. but he but on a shiny smile and cocky attitude to hide himself.
he made every stupid decision to stop himself from making an even worse one. sleep with every person possible? better than bleeding yourself dry. get fucked up on beer and xanax? better than another anxiety attack. every mistake was calculated to stop a worse one.
everything just piled up and he couldn't take it. reputation in tatters, everyone knew he was running on fumes, just the latest celebrity burnout. he'd rather be another statistic than a walking reminder of fame's cosquences. he had hit the rock bottom of rock bottom and he didn't give a shit anymore.
he just wanted to remember the good, when everything was about shitty bar crowds shouting their words back at them. pulling pranks in overheated vans and getting into trouble together. he didn't want too quiet tour buses with cameras and judgements. he didn't want the tabloid articles and harsh critic reviews. he wanted friendship and loyalty and patrick.
stolen kisses in the back of crowded venues. rutting against each other in dirty bathroom stalls. clinging and sweaty in the back of a beat-up bus. that's what he wanted back more than anything. he would promise anything to get that life back, to get his patrick back to him like that.
but everyone seems to have moved on and he's still stuck in the past. everyday he feels disjointed, detached from his own mind and body. floating above like a passenger, stuck.
he wanted out. these are all the thoughts that flit through his mind, as his eyelids flutter and his thoughts start to become incoherent.
blue and red lights flicker through the window. is his phone in his hand? did he talk to someone? he's too tired to notice. his head lolls and his eyelids are weighed. he just wants to let go.
somewhere far off, people are yelling. it sounds frantic and rushed but he doesn't know why they would sound like that. he's fine, he just wants to sleep a little longer. he barely registers the sounds and jolt of a door being pulled open, voices pleading, but he's not here.
static. there was just static.
