PerfectionDefinition [AndrewBiersack]

I sat alone outside the venue, tracing my finger along the tattoo on the inside of my wrist. Tracing the swirling black marks. It was something I did when I was nervous, although I was never really sure why.

The cold air pierced my pale skin, making it seem even more so in the dim light of the overcast day. I couldn't feel my fingers, but I didn't really care. It didn't really matter all that much.

Being a guitarist, I was used to aching fingers and bleeding hands, especially in the wintertime, like it was now.

I pulled out a cigarette from my pocket, lighting it, the small flame the only kind of heat I could maintain in this damn weather.

"What are you doing out here?" I heard beside me. I didn't look up. I knew who it was.

"Sitting. Waiting for you." I said bitterly, taking a long drag from the cigarette then dangling it in my long fingers, the smoke pouring from my lips.

"You could've waited inside."

I shrugged. "Yeah. I guess." I replied.

I heard him sigh, sitting down beside me on the cold concrete.

I looked over at him, pushing some hair from my face and staring into the dark eyes of my long time friend, Ronnie Radke.

He looked back at me, shaking his head. He pushed some of his dark hair from his features as well, his dark eyes tracing me like a hawk.

"What the hell do you want, Radke?" I asked, a little harsher than I meant to. He didn't seem surprised though, which I wouldn't have been either.

He shrugged. "For you to be happy I guess."

"I am happy. Now piss off or take me home." I said, taking another drag and letting the toxic smoke fall from my dry lips. I was being a bitch, but I didn't really care.

He sighed, shaking his head and standing up, extending a hand.

I ignored it, standing on my own, my weak bones, weary from running and exercise, weak from my lack of nutrient value, creaking as I moved.

Ronnie noticed, wincing a little. "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked, and I nodded.

"I'm fine."

He nodded, but I don't think he believed me. I wouldn't have either to be honest. I tossed the smoke to the ground, stamping it out with my foot and looking back up at the tall vocalist.

He sighed, shaking his head and we started towards the venue, a big dark place full of strange people that I never cared to meet. I barely even talked to my fans. I didn't really care though.

The media hated me. Practically everyone did.

Somehow, my best friend, the guy I hated more than anything, Ronnie, didn't. Odd huh?

I was lead guitarist for the band MethHead, a post hardcore punk screamo band. We were fairly popular, our fan base being mainly teenage kids and young adults in their twenties.

We were in France, performing at the 'Optimist, Pessimist, Realist' tour. I knew some French, but not enough to tell people to piss off and leave me alone.

I could barely walk five feet away without someone coming up to me and asking for an autograph.

I bet you're thinking, why the hell is she so damn bitter?

Well. That's none of your concern. You wouldn't get it anyway. It's not like it matters.

Speaking of French people, as I was about to light up another cigarette, a small teenage girl approached me with a nervous smile. She had long black hair, pink streaks filling the side. Her light eyes were hopeful. Hopes that would surely be crushed.

"Um... I'm a big fan of your band... Can I... Can I take a picture with you?" she asked timidly. I decided to not be so much a bitch today and nodded, forcing a small smile and going to stand beside her as her mom took a quick picture.

"Thank you!" the girl cheered, leaving with her mom. I nodded, and Ronnie looked a little surprised.

"Did you just take a picture with a fan...?" he asked, and I nodded. He seemed surprised. I would've been too.

I scratched my head. Half of my head was shaved, so the other side of my hair, which was dyed a dark red to match my personality, flowed in front my face lightly. I pushed it away, looking around.

Ronnie smiled slightly, following me. We finally reached the venue, entering through the small back door. It was warm inside, which I was happy about, considering all I was wearing was a black tank top beneath a leather jacket and some skinny jeans with a long chain running down the side.

My usual wardrobe. I shrugged off my jacket, pulling my guitar from the small rack that held my guitar, Sam's bass, and Nikk's guitar. They had already gotten the drum set ready, I knew. Speaking of drums, I could see our drummer, Daren, from the corner of my eye.

Our screamer, Tony, was on stage setting up. The venue didn't open for another ten minutes, but I was late. I was supposed to have been here half an hour ago. But it's not like it even mattered. They could set up without me.

I ran a finger down my tattoo in the inside of my wrist again, reaching up and touching my lip ring once, along with the nose ring I'd so painfully gotten. Something I did before each performance.

I strummed a few chords on my guitar, tuning it to its right place and tugging the strap over my neck. Ronnie sighed, shaking his head again before heading off to set up with his own band.

I looked up at his retreating figure. I considered thanking him, giving him some kind of recognition I was thankful for his help, but I didn't say anything. I opened my mouth to speak, but my thin lips closed again, feeling the sharp metal of my lip ring in my mouth.

"Yo! Where the hell have you been?" I heard behind me. I turned, seeing two faces. One being Andy Biersack, and the second being Jacky Vincent.

I rolled my eyes. "What the hell do you two want?" I asked with a scoff, looking back down at my guitar, fixing some of the strings.

We were touring with Falling In Reverse and Black Veil Brides. I didn't like people, and I especially hated Andy Biersack. Jacky was okay, but just because he was a friend of Radke, so he was a friend of mine.

I hated Andy because he was cocky and stubborn. His eyes always pierced into me like I was doing everything wrong. His lips always curled into that sadistic thin grin that I hated with everything I had.

He was virtually what irritation would have been if it had a face.

Andy sighed, but I could tell he was smirking. It's what he always did.

"We start the show in like, fifteen minutes. You were supposed to have been here already." he stated, and I scoffed.

"Like I give a damn."

I heard another sigh, this time it was Jacky. "Dude, just, be ready for the show, alright?"

I nodded, tugging on a thin string, seeing if it would break beneath my rough touch and playing. Score, it wouldn't at least for another two shows.

They nodded, leaving me alone. I watched their retreating figures, seeing Andy turning his head, looking at me with a sad stare.

Why the hell did everyone look at me like that? Like I was some lost cause. Like I was just some kid. Some druggie. Some...

Well... Maybe that's just what I was.

Maybe that's why I'd always had some kind of pull towards the vocalist. He was quiet. He never really said anything to anyone. Except me.

I shrugged as they walked off. I didn't care. Why the hell did I care about some guy?

I didn't. And it was going to stay like that.