This Song Saved My Life (All Time Low Fanfiction)

"I was broken, I was chokin', I was lost, this song saved my life. I was bleeding, stopped believing, could've died, this song saved my life..."

The words of Simple Plan spoke true to me for the millionth time in my life. I sang along softly, remembering that I was in a library and would be punished for singing along to my iPhone. I wasn't even supposed to have an phone or an iPod, much less than both of them rolled into one. Suddenly I felt someone slip into the seat next to me, and saw my best friend Connor opening a book. "Hey," he said, taking a notebook from his black backpack. I smiled a little bit, then returned to scrolling down my list of songs that I had on my phone, five hundred in total. "You can go back to the room if you want. I'll be there in a little while," he said. I smiled this time, a true smile.

"Okay. Thanks, Con," I replied, packing up my books and laptop and walking out of the library, signing out and walking away from the building, heading slightly to the left across the courtyard and to the dorm building. Upon opening the door, I saw several couples swapping spit, some kids messing with thier hair, and the other normal stuff you might see at a school for juvenile delinquents.

And before you ask, no, I'm not a delinquent. I'm completely innocent. Two years ago, I lost my brother to suicide. After he died, I started cutting and drinking, convinced that it would stop my pain. Some people thought I murdered him, when I would never do that. I was accused of it by the court, as he hadn't left a suicide letter. But he had - I had just taken it. John was all that I had, and here I was, being accused of murdering my brother when I was only thirteen years old. So my parents put me into therapy, which didn't help. It made the pain worse, and they eventually sent me to a mental hospital. As you can probably tell, I had a breakdown and ended up nearly murdering the doctor that wanted to give me some anti-depressants. So my parents packed me up and sent me to the Memphis school for Juvenile Delinquents, and here I am a year later. Still suffering from silent, yet deadly pain. Did I mention that my parents didn't talk to me, and whenever we did they always ended up hanging up on me, saying that I took advantage of my brother's death to commit crimes?

I sighed as I reached my room, unlocked it, and walked over to my dresser. There I pulled out my favorite My Chemical Romance t-shirt and red skinny jeans, pulling them on under my brother's hoodie. It sounds wierd to people when they ask me where I got my hoodie, and I say that it was my brother's. But when I tell them that he's dead they think it's the cutest thing in the world. But honestly, the life that he left behind is what keeps me alive - literally. All of his friends, most of whom are almost out of college now, are the only ones who care enough to check up on me, asking how much I've been cutting and how deep, how much I've been drinking, how many times I've come close to killing myself to end it all.

No one cares, which is exactly how I got into this situation. This situation being a three-month 'healing' process with an organization called TWLOHA - To Write Love on her Arms. We would be paired up with a band that they chose, bands who have members that have helped save the lives of people like me, and we would be going on a mini-tour with them. My assigned band, I had never heard of. Well, I haven't listened to them. I've heard of them, but haven't really listened to their music. Luckily Connor was put in the same group I was in.

Connor was at the school for a completely different reason. He had been abused since he was five years old, and killed his father for nearly murdering his sister, who was about six or seven then. The court decided that he was a maniac and a killer, and accused him of trying to murder his sister along with murdering his dad, and as his mom was missing people thought that he had murdered her too. So they sent him here, and he ended up being picked to be in the 'healing' program with TWLOHA as well.

I laid on my bed, tracing the scars on my arms. Not that I'm blaming himself, but if John hadn't been so selfish and thought about what he was going to do before he had killed himself, I wouldn't be here. Then again, if he had told me that he was going to kill himself I probably would have ended it with him, and my parents would have had one less than just John. I wish I was dead. But here, the best chance I have of being dead is being trampled by the others who actually are delinquents.