Crash & Burn || Roadtrip Tv

t e n - m i k e y

Mikey shuffled around the restaurant, dragging his feet along the floor as he took multiple orders and waited multiple tables, zipping back and forth between the kitchen and main restaurant. His wrists itched menacingly, but he managed to push the niggling and recurring feeling to the back of his mind.

"Hi, I'm Mikey and I'm going to be taking care of you today, what can I get you?" He asked the group of mid teenage girls that were sat around a table, his voice bland and emotionless.

He looked up from his notepad to look at each of them, their jaws dropping open as they saw his face. Fuck. He mentally cursed to himself. They recognised him. They were roadies. Mikey inhaled deeply, preparing himself for the ambush. He hoped that they'd take into consideration what happened and not say anything to him.

"Oh my god Mikey! Can we get a picture please? We love Roadtrip!" One of the girls blabbed irrespectively, going on to her snapchat.

Mikey had planned out in his head what he'd say to them in response: he'd politely tell them that he wouldn't take any photos and that Roadtrip were no longer a band. He'd say how he and the other boys would appreciate if they minded their own business.

However, that plan severely backfired, his world crashing around him again. He hadn't heard anything about Roadtrip in a long while, he hadn't watched the TV, hadn't been on social media, hadn't replied to any messages or calls from anyone regarding the situation. And after not hearing about his old band in a few months, it set something off in him.

His hands began shaking violently, his throat quickly growing dry. He stood there in front of the girls who were sat waiting for his reply. He didn't even want to attempt to speak, knowing that it'd be no use. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, ricocheting in his rib cage, his breathing erratic and unstable. The small notepad and pen that he held in either hand fell from them, landing on the floor just by his feet. Mikey could see the girls mouths moving as they spoke, but he couldn't make out what they were saying, all he could hear was the screams. The screams that came from him, Andy, Jack, and Brooklyn. The screams for Rye to wake up, the screams for Rye to be okay, the screams for Rye to stop bleeding. The scream that came from Brooklyn on that evening:

"RYE WATCH OUT!"

That's all he could hear, those three words from Brooklyn, the screams from himself and the other boys, the words from the doctor: "I'm sorry.", the cries at the funeral. All of it. That was all he could hear.

"I-I'm sorry." He whispered, too scared to speak any louder. He turned away from the girls, ripping his apron off, throwing it to the ground. He stormed towards the front door of the restaurant, needing to get out of that place. He was overwhelmed. He couldn't be in there any longer.

"Mikey! You can't leave now, your shift hasn't finished yet!" He heard the snooty voice of his stuck up boss shouting after him. He didn't care about her. He knew he was going to be fired after pulling this stunt, but he didn't care. He needed to get home. He needed to get away from everything. He needed to be by himself.

Mikey arrived at his block of flats after a twenty minute or so drive, pulling into a free parking space and shutting off his old and beaten up car. He walked slowly up the several flights of stairs before he reached flat number 29. He shoved the key into the lock, turning it to the right until he heard the usual click, indicating that the door was now unlocked.

He walked in, shrugging off his coat and kicking off shoes, just leaving them discarded on the front mat before the door. He made a beeline for the bathroom, pushing open the door and falling through it, slamming the door behind him.

Just as the door closed, Mikey felt the waiting tears finally spill from his steel, blue eyes. He pressed his back against the door, sliding slowly down it until he was sat on the floor with his knees pulled up to his chest. He reached across the tiny bathroom, pulling open one of the small bottom drawers, pulling out a razor.

He shattered it with ease, after all the time he'd been using one, he had grown into an expert. He picked up one of the broken pieces, holding above his painfully itching wrist. He didn't even hesitate to slice the cool metal across his already scarred skin, relief washing over him as the tears continued to roll down his face.

He repeated this action again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again, the blood seeping from the wounds and trickling around his wrist. A loud and suffocated sob bubbled past his lips, tears streaming from his eyes.

This was how Mikey spent his days, everyday.

He'd wake up,

Go to work,

Work his shit,

Come home,

Slice his wrists open,

And cry.

He'd cry.

And he'd cry.

And he'd cry, until he began to feel faint or dizzy.

He'd then wrap up his wounds, tightly tying up a bandage and gauze so he didn't lose too much blood.

But he'd be crying whilst doing all this as well.

And he'd continue to cry and sob and bleed into his bandages until he fell asleep, passing out asleep tiredly against the cold tiled floor of his bathroom or with his head back against the closed door.

Rye's death had messed with Mikey's head, completely fucking him up for the rest of his life.

Rye was Mikey's best friend. His rock. His anchor.

Rye was the one person that had supported him after his mother had killed herself. When they met when the two of them were only 15, Rye had found a lightness within Mikey, a lightness that only he could see. Everyone else he knew- the orphanage worker and other kids- couldn't see it. They had lost all sense of hope for Mikey. They believed that he was too far out to the sea of depression to be brought back in to shore.

Over a short period of time, everyone had began to see an improvement in Mikey. He spent his days with Rye, often staying round overnight at Rye's home- his family welcoming him in with open arms. Rye, apart from Blair, was the only one that knew about Mikey's nightmarish past and self-harming. Whilst still living in the flat, when Roadtrip was still alive and well, Mikey would often have relapses where he'd not be able to cope, and he'd just have to do it again. He couldn't help it. It was something that helped him to cope with his emotions and thoughts and feelings. And Rye was the only one who knew about it. After meeting Rye, Mikey's self-harming had reduced massively, no longer doing it as often.

But now that Rye was gone, so was Mikey's rock. His support machine. His will to live. All of that was gone.

And now it was just Michael Patrick Cobban all by himself.

His rock: dead.

His best friend: dead.

His anchor: dead.

His life support: dead.

His band: dead.

Himself: metaphorically dead.