(no subject)
Title: That Time When I Made An Easy Bake Oven
Author: Jesse AKA blind_by_fear
Pairing: Mike Pritchard/Billie Joe Armstrong
Fandom: Green Day
Disclaimer: -checks everywhere, even the kitchen sink-...-still doesn't own anything-
Summary: That had been the only way to "control me": as my father put it.
Chapter: Prologue
Note: I haven't written in a while, m'sorry...this is my first attempt at chaptering something, and this is just a taste, other chapters will be longer and more in-depth.Promise. No slash yet >.<
Last thing I remembered was a baseball bat connecting with my skull like a tractor trailer ramming into a car and killing all it’s occupants. That had been the only way to “control me”: as my father put it. Now I was in a van, a dark navy-ish black color is the only thing I can see from the specks of light around the obvious blindfold. I tried to shift but the binds held me standing upright throughout the bumpy ride. I heard other muttering, but I kept quiet a while, trying to understand the string of weird words. Someone pipes up, a hoarse voice, asking where we are and where we’re going. It sounds almost smooth to me though, a sort of comfort, though I don’t know from whom the speech came from.
This is gonna be a long ride…
A voice answered the other guys, don’t get me wrong, it could have been a girl, how was I to know or judge, but it sounded to me like a guys voice. Possibly even around my age. Of course I’m fifteen right now, so that leaves about a million people it could be. The answer: “A clinic.” A clinic for what, you ask? A clinic for people who are lost and just need to find they’re way… or you could also call it a mental institution, purgatory, or a place for the mentally unstable. Except, I’m not. They wouldn’t believe it if I told them this though. Everybody says they’re fine, they won’t accept that there is something that’s totally wrong. That’s what they say. The boy doesn’t speak again for the rest of the ride, leaving me to listen to mumblings, mutterings, and the uncomfortable bindings and blindfold covering my sweating form as we inch our way through windy back roads to reach the building in which we are being imprisoned in. And that’s just the life I was going to live until I proved the doctors otherwise. Me, Mike Pritchard trying to prove something wrong that was written in his health papers.
You’ve got to be kidding me…
Author: Jesse AKA blind_by_fear
Pairing: Mike Pritchard/Billie Joe Armstrong
Fandom: Green Day
Disclaimer: -checks everywhere, even the kitchen sink-...-still doesn't own anything-
Summary: That had been the only way to "control me": as my father put it.
Chapter: Prologue
Note: I haven't written in a while, m'sorry...this is my first attempt at chaptering something, and this is just a taste, other chapters will be longer and more in-depth.Promise. No slash yet >.<
Last thing I remembered was a baseball bat connecting with my skull like a tractor trailer ramming into a car and killing all it’s occupants. That had been the only way to “control me”: as my father put it. Now I was in a van, a dark navy-ish black color is the only thing I can see from the specks of light around the obvious blindfold. I tried to shift but the binds held me standing upright throughout the bumpy ride. I heard other muttering, but I kept quiet a while, trying to understand the string of weird words. Someone pipes up, a hoarse voice, asking where we are and where we’re going. It sounds almost smooth to me though, a sort of comfort, though I don’t know from whom the speech came from.
This is gonna be a long ride…
A voice answered the other guys, don’t get me wrong, it could have been a girl, how was I to know or judge, but it sounded to me like a guys voice. Possibly even around my age. Of course I’m fifteen right now, so that leaves about a million people it could be. The answer: “A clinic.” A clinic for what, you ask? A clinic for people who are lost and just need to find they’re way… or you could also call it a mental institution, purgatory, or a place for the mentally unstable. Except, I’m not. They wouldn’t believe it if I told them this though. Everybody says they’re fine, they won’t accept that there is something that’s totally wrong. That’s what they say. The boy doesn’t speak again for the rest of the ride, leaving me to listen to mumblings, mutterings, and the uncomfortable bindings and blindfold covering my sweating form as we inch our way through windy back roads to reach the building in which we are being imprisoned in. And that’s just the life I was going to live until I proved the doctors otherwise. Me, Mike Pritchard trying to prove something wrong that was written in his health papers.
You’ve got to be kidding me…