Maybe. Maybe... Maybe.......
Title: Maybe. Maybe... Maybe.......
Fandom: N/A
Rating: There might be cursing....
Disclaimer: Mine. Mine. MINE! (Mentions of posters belong to Kerrang!, Top 40 and MTV belong to themselves)
A/N: I wrote this yesterday. If you know me over at fayellen you might have seen the post. This is kinda me, just... switched. If that makes sense.
I might post somthing else I've been working on later, something in fandom, but for now have this :T
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He plods upstairs crying the entire time.
He goes into his room, ignoring the light switch even thought it's dark outside and the blind and curtains are shut. Only the light thought the crack in the door and the small plug in night light illuminate his room.
He slides down the wall until he's sitting on the floor with his back against the radiatior and his arms around his knees. He ignores the tears that fall, covering his face with his hands.
After a minute or two he stands up and walks, with his chin up and a determination in his red eyes that are still leaking salt water, towards a Blink-182 poster he got at a concert on the opposite wall. He stands on his bed to reach the top corner easier and pulls it down. He pulls down the other eight places, one for each crease in the poster, where the blu-tack has fixed the poster to the wall. The poster rips in a couple of places but he doesn't care. He hasn't for a while.
When he's done he throws the poster to the floor. He doesn't rip it, or crumple it, or destroy it in anyway, just abandons it.
He goes around his room, removing various posters from his walls. For a guy who loves music they're aren't that many up. A couple more Blink ones, two Green Day ones, a Foo Fighters, a Red Hot Chili Peppers and a Fall Out Boy one are all.
He never 'hurts' the poster. Not on purpose, but they are only paper and if it rips, he didn't mean it. He just throws it to the floor.
He feels a little bit calmer, a little bit more composed each time a poster comes down.
He also removes the noticeboard with a few pieces of paper pushed into the metal holders, and weirdly, the Neighborhoods album booklet, in it. He places that on his bed. He removes the Dr Suess themed mirror he made in woodwork class when he was 12, that gets lain on top of the chest of drawers it hung above. The calendar that came with a music magazine, and features a different band for every month (currently it's Bring Me The Horizon), gets taken off it's hook on the side of the wardrobe. Even the generic print of Times Square his mother put up, the few random notes, signs and certificates come down.
It feels nice. Looking around and seeing empty walls. Peaceful. Like he pulled a bit of himself down with each poster. It feels nice. Not looking up and seeing bandmembers living the life he wants so badly.
He expected it to hurt. He expected to feel empty. With no identity. But he likes the emptiness. He likes the anonymity.
He walks over to the light switch next to the door, above the radiator, and flicks it on. He blinks a few times in the glare from the bulb hanging from the ceiling
He notices a couple of blobs of blu-tack he missed, so he takes them down and rolls them into a ball.
He laughs. A short, sharp sound that surprises him. It feels good. He laughs again.
He thinks he must look like a crazy person. Standing laughing in a room with bare walls, a pile of ripped-from-magazine posters at his feet, red stained eyes and a dripping nose set in a tear-stained face.
He sighs and goes over to the chest of drawers that double as a dresser. He lifts up the mirror he took down and finds his tube of ChapStick. He looks up to the place on the wall where the mirror used to hang. He scoffs, shakes his head with a lazy smile on his face when he realises the mirror's not there.
He walks the few paces to the full length mirror on his wardrobe and assesses the damage.
He smooths his nearly shoulder length hair with his hands, brushing his fringe off of his face, a gesture he has to do a hundred times a day. He wipes his eyes, getting rid of the few remaining tears that are brimming and the dampness the previous ones left behind. He finds the roll of tissue he keeps in his room and wipes his nose. He pulls the ChapStick from his pajama pant pocket and rubs it over his lips. He puts the tube back on the chest of drawers/dresser.
He goes back to the mirror and tugs down the old jumper that he wore to bed last night. He didn't have anywhere to go, so he didn't bother getting out of the clothes he wore to bed. Simple.
He tries on a smile. It doesn't look right, so he goes back to the neutral expression he was wearing. One of the corners of his mouth pulls up. Nope. That doesn't look right either.
He turns back to his room, sighs and nods to himself, pleased with the bare painted walls his room now shows him.
He moves the noticeboard from his bed to on top of the pile of posters in the middle of the floor. He'll clean it up in the morning. Or maybe he won't.
He makes his bed that he abandoned that morning. The covers will get crumpled in the night, so there's probably not much point in making his bed, but he doesn't like trying to get to sleep under rumpled covers. He walks back over to the light switch and flicks it off.
He ignores his bedside lamp and the book he was reading before sleeping last night and gets under the covers on his freshly made bed.
He knows it's early, he can still hear his parents watching television downstairs, but he's been crying for the better part of five hours and that really takes it out of him, so all he wants to do is sleep, no matter what time it is.
He thinks about how weird it is not having nearly 40 pairs of eyes watching him from every angle. It's also good. Because, honestly, it's kind of creepy having dudes who are 10+ years older than him watching him sleep, change and do whatever else he does when alone in his room.
He tries to get himself comfortable under the blankets, sighs, rolls onto his right side, sticks his left arm out, pulls it back in, sticks it out again, wriggles down so that his feet are nearly sticking out of the covers, but he can't settle.
He moves his body so that his right arm is across his stomach, his head is nearly on his right shoulder, his left arm is out of the covers, holding onto the blanket beside his cheek.
He sighs and drifts off to another night of dreams that make no sense and make him wonder what his subconscious picks up on.
Maybe in the morning his world perception will have changed.
Maybe he'll still hate the Top 40 and MTV for ruining music.
Maybe he'll still hope there's someone out there who thinks he's worth their time.
Maybe his parents won't turn every conversation or arguement back to what they want him to do.
Maybe school will make more sense.
Maybe life will make more sense.
Maybe... Maybe... Maybe.......