You Can't Erase The Poet's Fate [-1-]
You Can't Erase The Poet's Fate
Chapter: Prologue and Chapter One
Author: Me. 'Rah.
Rating: R (17+?)
Paring: Rydon
POV: Brendon
Summary: Fragments of a rollercoaster of a relationship. Our narrator is somewhat unstable.
Discliamer: As real as Mahlo's hair colour. (bright blue)
Author's Note: A miserable account of miserable events leading to a miserable end. Some violence, some sex, allusions to rape, murder etc.
((I made a God out of blood, not superiority. I killed the king of deceit, now I sleep in Anarchy.))
Have you ever been in love?
Really?
Have you ever been consumed by the scent of another person? Have you ever been so enthralled by their eyes that not another thing in the world could draw you from the solitude and dissonance provoked by a single glance? Have you cried yourself to sleep every night for 3 years? Have you ever locked yourself in your bedroom, only to emerge a week later, half starved, soiled, and desperate - simply because you cannot have the thing which you crave most? Have you ever had a friend burst into your apartment at three in the morning and reach you just in time to stop you chopping off the fingers of your left hand with a vegetable guillotine?
Have you been committed to hospital in a catatonic state?
Have you ever killed for the person you love?
Have you ever had a lover die, right in front of your eyes?
Were you the one to provide them with the dosage that affected their demise?
If not, then no, you have never been in love - at least not the way that I was in love. And it was the greatest love of all.
Lend me your ears, and I will tell you the story of my love, of my lover - for I have little time left in this cruel world, and I can think of no better way to spend those final days than recounting not only the steps that have lead me here, but the reasons behind my actions. I was never given the chance to tell him, the one I lost, how much he meant to me. I never expressed my emotion in all its entirety, and for that I am truly regretful, but I choose to share this will you now, because it was I that facilitated his decay, and so it is my duty to blaze his name across the horizon.
If I play my cards right, it may just be that the entire world will fall to their knees and weep, will ache as I ache, and will forever remember the story of George Ryan Ross.
Most people begin their stories with an explanation, and who am I to defy the dictate of literature, be it fictional or not?
My name is Brendon Urie, I am 26 years old, and I am suffering HIV.
You will never understand my burden. You will never understand my agony. You will never know my mind. I am an island unto myself, and I have been for a very long time.
But perceive, if you will, if you can, the torture of a cold steel bench beneath your shaking form, the quiet, sympathetic eyes of a doctor, and the weight of a small glass bottle in your fist as you are told the quantity of clear liquid within it that will render both you, and your beloved, cadavers unto the night.
Do not halt here, if the words I opine cause you harm, for though it is not meant to disturb one’s disposition, it is meant to make you feel. You will not regret the venture of my tale, you will be altered, and you will grieve, and you will learn from my mistakes, as I have had no time to.
I suppose the message which I desire to convey most, and should hope that you infer from my ramblings, is that no matter the distance between you and the one you love, never, ever allow yourself to forget what they mean to you.
London - June 3rd 1996
The midnight streets of London are not a fair place to wander, when one is only 15 and cursed with more of a musical than violent spirit. Danger seems to lurk in every shadow, and the indistinct wail of far off sirens is more than enough to send shivers down one’s vertebrae. The malevolent glare of chameleon dealers is a source of constant unrest, and one begins to wish that the knife they had recently purchased was still tucked safely in the tongue of one’s oh-so-fashionable Doc Martins.
But one is a fool to attempt to cross the threshold to their abodes at such an unruly hour without some idea of the city’s shady temperament.
I knew too well the risks at which I had placed myself, but wandered still, with the determination than can only be born of youthful arrogance, and the belief that it will never happen to me. I was navigating those alleys for a reason, and that purpose was to admit myself to the home of a friend from school. We had arranged my arrival many days ago, when the sun had still hung heavy in the sky, and the scents of spring’s beginning had not yet given way to the age-old musk of petrol and piss. He promised me the company of some particularly attractive young women, and as much cask wine as I could stomach.
His name was Michael, and he had the face of an angel cast from heaven - sharp features and finely sculpted lips, high cheekbones that when sallowed by drug usage gave him the appearance of a rather attractive rat (no, that is not contradictory). His skin was heavily scarred, and although I had never inquired as to the circumstance by which he acquired them, I had deduced that he had been unlucky enough to be showered by shards glass as a child. The fact that he still managed to maintain a weekly appearance at school surprised me. He entered those cast iron gates for the first time an intelligent, bright-eyed teenager. The teachers still asked themselves what changed, even years later, but they were obviously fools - nothing causes a man to loose his lust for knowledge like heartbreak.
He lived on the third floor of his particular apartment block, and being on the top level had full access to the roof. He usually escaped there when with friends, or simply did not wish to be found. When his mother answered the door she had a sombre expression on her face, and frowned a little, as if disconcerted by my appearance. She sighed as she admitted me, and said quietly so that I should only hear, “You’re too nice of a boy, Brendon, to get involved in the sort of antics my son gets up to. Don’t waste your life on the grey pleasures he seems so adamant about experiencing.” My lips curved into a sad smile, but I could not muster any words with which to reply, and so left her standing in the dim hallway, the long shadows only servicing to darken the purple creases beneath her weary eyes.
‘Took you long enough, Urie,” Michael smirked, raking his fingers through his auburn hair before extending them in greeting. “Salutations.”
“Hello,” I replied, receiving his informal handshake with more than a slight air of uncertainty. I only recognised one face among the small crowd gathered there, and it was Michael’s older brother, Seth, who was renowned within the school community as being the only student expelled for stabbing one of his peers. The pool of pity I had begun to gather for their mother swelled.
“Everyone, this is Brendon. He’s a bit of a geek, but he’s cool. Still trying to convince him to get his septum pierced, would be rate cool, but he’s a pussy. Brendon, this is everyone. Can’t be fucked introducing them all, but they’re friendly enough. Need anything - booze, a spare room, condom, whatever - just ask. Have a good night.” He slapped me on the back and departed, diving headlong into a flirtatious exchange with one particularly well-endowed blonde.
I must have stood there blushing and flustered for at least five minutes before I was approached. Still embarrassed by the uncouth induction, I was too timid to really launch into a proper conversation. He was petite, like myself, though smaller, and slimmer. I was astounded by the bony elegance of his thin wrists, but refused to comment on them, knowing that coming across as a fag was a very bad idea. He extended his hand to me, and I shook it gently. When had hand shaking suddenly become the preferred mode of welcoming? “Ryan,” he muttered, voice seeming hushed against the intoxicated raucous of our dissident companions.
“Brendon, but no doubt you already know that.”
“Yeah… Um… so, how do you know Michael?” I found his shy mannerism quite appealing, and smiled despite myself. He was dressed very simply beside me, in pinstripe drainpipes and a matt black teeshirt. I suddenly felt self-conscious in my ragged jeans, battered velvet jacket and scuffed Doc Martins. I was not part of any particular scene, and I suppose you could blame that on one of two things: either a complete disinterest in the segmentation of the youth, or a simple lack of money.
“School,” I replied, sounding far more confident that I felt. “You?”
“He’s my cousin,” Ryan replied, glancing towards the extroverted party host.
“You don’t sound too enthusiastic about the relation.”
He shrugged, a languid, graceful movement. I could feel my skin begin to prickle in attraction already. “He’s alright. Kind of, blunt, I guess. I’m not used to that.” We stood in silence for a further ten minutes before I really attempted to further the conversation.
“What are your thoughts on music?” I felt a little ashamed - so ready to judge him by his favourite bands. He shrugged again, and I unconsciously observed the muscle movement, curious as to the lucidity of it, the paradoxical ease and refinement he displayed - something most private school boys strove to convey, but never managed. His manner seemed too natural to be practiced.
“I, uh, I play guitar. I’m not very good at it, but I’m practicing. I started a band back home, but, that’s all over now. I like musicians like, um, Blink 182, that sort of thing.” With any other person I would have laughed, snorted contemptuously and stated, with some reserve, that bands like Blink 182 hardly deserved the label of music - but something in his softness caused me to refrain from affronting his choice in idols. “You?”
“I play cello, piano, other instruments. I like lots of bands, lots of artists, but most of all I love classical music. Dvořák, for example.”
I was taken aback by his whispered response, a claim to adore the 2nd movement, the miserable largo, of his illustrious New World Symphony.
The night wore on, a grey velvet blanket upon the smouldering rise of the cityscape. We stationed ourselves in the corner, backs pressed against the cool sandstone balustrade, sharing a slow discourse, our little fortress of ideas being penetrated by nothing save the chatter of Michael’s friends, and the restrained wail of Robert Smith, voicing his resignation with the emotion filled lyrics, “I will never been clean again” and his tremor filled tones floated upwards, amidst a perpetual spiral of smoke emanating from the buts of cinnamon scented cigarettes, to dissipate in the heavens like a wraith.
“You don’t sound like you’re from around here,” I observed.
“I’m not. I’m from Vegas.”
“Vegas, as in America Vegas?”
“That’s the one. The only?” He sounded genuinely confused, and I imagined that the dramatic cultural transition between Vegas and London had probably bowled him over, causing severe disorientation. I thought that if I were in his position the difference in accents would be enough to make simple dialogue a chore.
“Wow. Here on holiday?”
“Nope. My parents divorced, and well, I guess they just couldn’t handle having me around when they were trying to sort things out. I have a lot of brothers and sisters that they have to take care of, and I suppose I was the easiest to deport…” he trailed off, a melancholy expression taking his pretty features.
“Here to stay?”
“Yeah. At least I think so. There were no definitive plans made, and I think that Michael’s mom - Joanne? - has custodianship of me now.”
I smiled for a moment, then looked him directly in the eye, with something of an air of mischief. “Good, because I can tell that we are going to be very good friends.”
Looking back on that night, I am tempted to place much emphasis on our interaction, on the atmosphere, on some premonitory signs of what was to become of us. But in truth, paths seem to only be traceable backwards, not forwards. I would be giving that conversation undue meaning, undue depths. I am content to say only that it was the beginning of my life-long partnership with the most beautiful creature in all existence.
Chapter: Prologue and Chapter One
Author: Me. 'Rah.
Rating: R (17+?)
Paring: Rydon
POV: Brendon
Summary: Fragments of a rollercoaster of a relationship. Our narrator is somewhat unstable.
Discliamer: As real as Mahlo's hair colour. (bright blue)
Author's Note: A miserable account of miserable events leading to a miserable end. Some violence, some sex, allusions to rape, murder etc.
((I made a God out of blood, not superiority. I killed the king of deceit, now I sleep in Anarchy.))
Have you ever been in love?
Really?
Have you ever been consumed by the scent of another person? Have you ever been so enthralled by their eyes that not another thing in the world could draw you from the solitude and dissonance provoked by a single glance? Have you cried yourself to sleep every night for 3 years? Have you ever locked yourself in your bedroom, only to emerge a week later, half starved, soiled, and desperate - simply because you cannot have the thing which you crave most? Have you ever had a friend burst into your apartment at three in the morning and reach you just in time to stop you chopping off the fingers of your left hand with a vegetable guillotine?
Have you been committed to hospital in a catatonic state?
Have you ever killed for the person you love?
Have you ever had a lover die, right in front of your eyes?
Were you the one to provide them with the dosage that affected their demise?
If not, then no, you have never been in love - at least not the way that I was in love. And it was the greatest love of all.
Lend me your ears, and I will tell you the story of my love, of my lover - for I have little time left in this cruel world, and I can think of no better way to spend those final days than recounting not only the steps that have lead me here, but the reasons behind my actions. I was never given the chance to tell him, the one I lost, how much he meant to me. I never expressed my emotion in all its entirety, and for that I am truly regretful, but I choose to share this will you now, because it was I that facilitated his decay, and so it is my duty to blaze his name across the horizon.
If I play my cards right, it may just be that the entire world will fall to their knees and weep, will ache as I ache, and will forever remember the story of George Ryan Ross.
Most people begin their stories with an explanation, and who am I to defy the dictate of literature, be it fictional or not?
My name is Brendon Urie, I am 26 years old, and I am suffering HIV.
You will never understand my burden. You will never understand my agony. You will never know my mind. I am an island unto myself, and I have been for a very long time.
But perceive, if you will, if you can, the torture of a cold steel bench beneath your shaking form, the quiet, sympathetic eyes of a doctor, and the weight of a small glass bottle in your fist as you are told the quantity of clear liquid within it that will render both you, and your beloved, cadavers unto the night.
Do not halt here, if the words I opine cause you harm, for though it is not meant to disturb one’s disposition, it is meant to make you feel. You will not regret the venture of my tale, you will be altered, and you will grieve, and you will learn from my mistakes, as I have had no time to.
I suppose the message which I desire to convey most, and should hope that you infer from my ramblings, is that no matter the distance between you and the one you love, never, ever allow yourself to forget what they mean to you.
London - June 3rd 1996
The midnight streets of London are not a fair place to wander, when one is only 15 and cursed with more of a musical than violent spirit. Danger seems to lurk in every shadow, and the indistinct wail of far off sirens is more than enough to send shivers down one’s vertebrae. The malevolent glare of chameleon dealers is a source of constant unrest, and one begins to wish that the knife they had recently purchased was still tucked safely in the tongue of one’s oh-so-fashionable Doc Martins.
But one is a fool to attempt to cross the threshold to their abodes at such an unruly hour without some idea of the city’s shady temperament.
I knew too well the risks at which I had placed myself, but wandered still, with the determination than can only be born of youthful arrogance, and the belief that it will never happen to me. I was navigating those alleys for a reason, and that purpose was to admit myself to the home of a friend from school. We had arranged my arrival many days ago, when the sun had still hung heavy in the sky, and the scents of spring’s beginning had not yet given way to the age-old musk of petrol and piss. He promised me the company of some particularly attractive young women, and as much cask wine as I could stomach.
His name was Michael, and he had the face of an angel cast from heaven - sharp features and finely sculpted lips, high cheekbones that when sallowed by drug usage gave him the appearance of a rather attractive rat (no, that is not contradictory). His skin was heavily scarred, and although I had never inquired as to the circumstance by which he acquired them, I had deduced that he had been unlucky enough to be showered by shards glass as a child. The fact that he still managed to maintain a weekly appearance at school surprised me. He entered those cast iron gates for the first time an intelligent, bright-eyed teenager. The teachers still asked themselves what changed, even years later, but they were obviously fools - nothing causes a man to loose his lust for knowledge like heartbreak.
He lived on the third floor of his particular apartment block, and being on the top level had full access to the roof. He usually escaped there when with friends, or simply did not wish to be found. When his mother answered the door she had a sombre expression on her face, and frowned a little, as if disconcerted by my appearance. She sighed as she admitted me, and said quietly so that I should only hear, “You’re too nice of a boy, Brendon, to get involved in the sort of antics my son gets up to. Don’t waste your life on the grey pleasures he seems so adamant about experiencing.” My lips curved into a sad smile, but I could not muster any words with which to reply, and so left her standing in the dim hallway, the long shadows only servicing to darken the purple creases beneath her weary eyes.
‘Took you long enough, Urie,” Michael smirked, raking his fingers through his auburn hair before extending them in greeting. “Salutations.”
“Hello,” I replied, receiving his informal handshake with more than a slight air of uncertainty. I only recognised one face among the small crowd gathered there, and it was Michael’s older brother, Seth, who was renowned within the school community as being the only student expelled for stabbing one of his peers. The pool of pity I had begun to gather for their mother swelled.
“Everyone, this is Brendon. He’s a bit of a geek, but he’s cool. Still trying to convince him to get his septum pierced, would be rate cool, but he’s a pussy. Brendon, this is everyone. Can’t be fucked introducing them all, but they’re friendly enough. Need anything - booze, a spare room, condom, whatever - just ask. Have a good night.” He slapped me on the back and departed, diving headlong into a flirtatious exchange with one particularly well-endowed blonde.
I must have stood there blushing and flustered for at least five minutes before I was approached. Still embarrassed by the uncouth induction, I was too timid to really launch into a proper conversation. He was petite, like myself, though smaller, and slimmer. I was astounded by the bony elegance of his thin wrists, but refused to comment on them, knowing that coming across as a fag was a very bad idea. He extended his hand to me, and I shook it gently. When had hand shaking suddenly become the preferred mode of welcoming? “Ryan,” he muttered, voice seeming hushed against the intoxicated raucous of our dissident companions.
“Brendon, but no doubt you already know that.”
“Yeah… Um… so, how do you know Michael?” I found his shy mannerism quite appealing, and smiled despite myself. He was dressed very simply beside me, in pinstripe drainpipes and a matt black teeshirt. I suddenly felt self-conscious in my ragged jeans, battered velvet jacket and scuffed Doc Martins. I was not part of any particular scene, and I suppose you could blame that on one of two things: either a complete disinterest in the segmentation of the youth, or a simple lack of money.
“School,” I replied, sounding far more confident that I felt. “You?”
“He’s my cousin,” Ryan replied, glancing towards the extroverted party host.
“You don’t sound too enthusiastic about the relation.”
He shrugged, a languid, graceful movement. I could feel my skin begin to prickle in attraction already. “He’s alright. Kind of, blunt, I guess. I’m not used to that.” We stood in silence for a further ten minutes before I really attempted to further the conversation.
“What are your thoughts on music?” I felt a little ashamed - so ready to judge him by his favourite bands. He shrugged again, and I unconsciously observed the muscle movement, curious as to the lucidity of it, the paradoxical ease and refinement he displayed - something most private school boys strove to convey, but never managed. His manner seemed too natural to be practiced.
“I, uh, I play guitar. I’m not very good at it, but I’m practicing. I started a band back home, but, that’s all over now. I like musicians like, um, Blink 182, that sort of thing.” With any other person I would have laughed, snorted contemptuously and stated, with some reserve, that bands like Blink 182 hardly deserved the label of music - but something in his softness caused me to refrain from affronting his choice in idols. “You?”
“I play cello, piano, other instruments. I like lots of bands, lots of artists, but most of all I love classical music. Dvořák, for example.”
I was taken aback by his whispered response, a claim to adore the 2nd movement, the miserable largo, of his illustrious New World Symphony.
The night wore on, a grey velvet blanket upon the smouldering rise of the cityscape. We stationed ourselves in the corner, backs pressed against the cool sandstone balustrade, sharing a slow discourse, our little fortress of ideas being penetrated by nothing save the chatter of Michael’s friends, and the restrained wail of Robert Smith, voicing his resignation with the emotion filled lyrics, “I will never been clean again” and his tremor filled tones floated upwards, amidst a perpetual spiral of smoke emanating from the buts of cinnamon scented cigarettes, to dissipate in the heavens like a wraith.
“You don’t sound like you’re from around here,” I observed.
“I’m not. I’m from Vegas.”
“Vegas, as in America Vegas?”
“That’s the one. The only?” He sounded genuinely confused, and I imagined that the dramatic cultural transition between Vegas and London had probably bowled him over, causing severe disorientation. I thought that if I were in his position the difference in accents would be enough to make simple dialogue a chore.
“Wow. Here on holiday?”
“Nope. My parents divorced, and well, I guess they just couldn’t handle having me around when they were trying to sort things out. I have a lot of brothers and sisters that they have to take care of, and I suppose I was the easiest to deport…” he trailed off, a melancholy expression taking his pretty features.
“Here to stay?”
“Yeah. At least I think so. There were no definitive plans made, and I think that Michael’s mom - Joanne? - has custodianship of me now.”
I smiled for a moment, then looked him directly in the eye, with something of an air of mischief. “Good, because I can tell that we are going to be very good friends.”
Looking back on that night, I am tempted to place much emphasis on our interaction, on the atmosphere, on some premonitory signs of what was to become of us. But in truth, paths seem to only be traceable backwards, not forwards. I would be giving that conversation undue meaning, undue depths. I am content to say only that it was the beginning of my life-long partnership with the most beautiful creature in all existence.