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Post by Pete Wentz on Apr 20, 2007 10:13:00 GMT -5
[/b] Pete muttered to himself. He wanted Brodie to be alright, but he wasn't going to impose her on his band. If she was drunk and on drugs she would not be allowed into their tour bus. Pete wasn't going to burden his band with her anymore, especially not if she was on drugs. Pete looked at his face in the mirror - he brushed aside some hair to have a look at the bruises and cuts on his head. His arm hurt badly still, and he couldn't understand how, having been driving at about sixty miles per hour, and then crashing into the tree how William and him hadn't been killed on impact. He didn't dwell on that too much though. Pete walked back to the couch in the tour bus and sat down again. He sighed, really having nothing to do, his Sidekick had been totalled in the crash. In some ways Pete didn't even blame whoever had tampered with the car earlier in order to cut the brakes. It was things like this that made you realize the important things in life. Despite all this Pete still felt that guilt, the guilt that he had very nearly killed one of his friends. The guilt that his band were now unable to play and that their fans would be upset, and the guilt that his band were unable to play still all because Pete had been speeding down that fucking road. That he had convinced William to come with him. That he had convinced himself that Brodie had taken his pills to kill herself. In his rush to stop her doing whatever she planned to do Pete seemed to have overlooked that his pills had been on the arm of the couch, and that they had been moved earlier by someone and that Brodie hadn't gone to do anything sinister. All this could have been avoided if he had just looked around better and ignored that fleeting feeling that Brodie had gone to do something stupid. Not everyone was as stupid as Pete seemed to think they were. But now... He knew Brodie was back on the drugs. Everything he had done had meant nothing. Sitting in that Graveyard convincing her to drop the pills by telling her everything about him not seemed utterly useless.[/color][/size][/blockquote][/ul]
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Post by Patrick Stump on Apr 21, 2007 12:22:30 GMT -5
I WOULD BE LYING IF I TOLD YOU THINGS WOULD NEVER GET ROUGH ALL THIS CLICHE MOTIVATION IT COULD NEVER BE ENOUGH
The back of the tour bus, by himself... or so he thought he was by himself. No, in fact, he hadn't known that Pete didn't leave with Joe and Andy. Patrick hadn't left the bus ever since the medics had brought him here, which he didn't have much of memory of. An acoustic sat on his lap and he gently pulled the guitar strap over his head, adjusting it's length, then shifting it's position on his shoulder. A black case sat next to him, in the little corner of the bus that he'd retreated to, holding his silver Gibson. He hadn't said anything that had happened, he didn't want to talk about it. He hadn't even said anything to the medics, he just hid whenever they came by to talk to him. He closed his eyes and rubbed them, shoving his glasses back up on his nose before grabbing one of his yellow picks. He stared down at the piece of plastic, carefully tumbling it in his palm for a minute before gripping it and plucking a few strings. He did this repetitively, hitting a string, hesitating, then changing to a different note and hitting a different string. Slowly he reached up and gingerly twisted one of the knobs, then hit the string again, and nodded with content. He paused, listening quietly, thinking he'd heard a voice- then shrugged and began playing. A very familiar tune, yes, the tab to So Sick.
It was... odd.. He didn't sing to it. Patrick just sat there and played, staring down at the guitar as he changed frets, his strumming pattern slowing and speeding up at times, and he shook his head with distaste. They weren't able to play on stage. In a confusing sense, he liked it, but at the same time he didn't. He wanted to make the fans happy, get up on the stage- the words of each song coming straight back to them as the four of them performed. But he didn't want the attention- he didn't want people staring at him, asking him why he had a bruise and cuts on his face.. What had happened. He stopped playing for a moment and just stared at his guitar, losing himself in a bit of thought. He shook his head again and started the song over, singing to himself this time. It wasn't very loud, no where near as loud as he usually was. He'd been completely out of it for the most part, pretending- smiling- laughing- when he was around Joe, Andy, and Pete- putting on a show that he was all right. He still got dizzy at times, suffering from excruciating headaches in the morning when he woke up- that is, if he even slept at all.
He sighed, taking a deep breath when the song was over. After thinking for a moment, he began to strum notes, repeating them and changing them, speeding up the strumming pattern or slowing it down. A little experimentation. "I'm so sick of love songs so sad and slow So why can't I turn off the radio?"
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Post by Pete Wentz on Apr 21, 2007 12:51:09 GMT -5
we must talk in every telephone get eaten off the web we must rip out all the epilogues in the books that we have read [/i], in every sense of the word. Pete sometimes wondered why the people around him were still around him. Why did he still have these people around him? These wonderful, empathetic people. The people who the media skipped over but Pete didn't. It was a wonder to him, as if he felt like he was being given far too many chances with all this. Yet, here he was, sitting on the floor of a tour bus in New York City listening to Patrick Stump play. Pete didn't even know if Patrick even knew he was there. [/color][/size][/blockquote][/ul] and in the face of every criminal strapped firmly to a chair we must stare, we must stare, we must stare
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Post by Patrick Stump on Apr 21, 2007 14:01:50 GMT -5
I COULD STAND HERE ALL NIGHT TRYING TO CONVINCE YOU BUT WHAT GOOD WOULD THAT DO?
With a sigh he pulled the guitar strap from around his neck, flinching as his finger brushed against the bandage by his right ear, causing him to drop the guitar with a rather unpleasant sound. It tumbled and landed beside him, half leaning against the Gibson's case. His hand trembled and he pushed himself off of the floor, swallowing hard. Patrick stood there for a moment, closing his eyes, and trying to keep himself steady. Slowly he made is way toward the front of the bus, pausing when he saw Pete sitting on the floor, a rather shocked expression coming over him as he stood there, but it quickly softened. He smiled, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. "Hey" His voice was quiet and he made his way past, opening the fridge and grabbing a water out of it. He opened it and took a drink, tightly twisting the cap on and squeezing the bottle in his hand. "I thought you went with Joe and Andy?" He was still fairly quiet as he came back, grabbing his acoustic and sitting on the floor, not quite so far from Pete.
There it just sat in his lap and he stared down at it, the black guitar strap tangled around the neck of the guitar. He glanced up, opening his mouth to speak, but thought better against it and reverted his gaze back down to the guitar. Ironically, Patrick felt quite sorry for Pete, considering the fact that he knew Pete would love to be on stage right now- or messing around in the Clandestine tent. As for Patrick, he really didn't mind being in the tour bus so much... Yeah it was nice to get out at times, but for the most part, he didn't exactly mind crawling in to his little hermit shell and staying there for a while. If it wasn't for Pete, he probably wouldn't ever leave at all. He rested his hands on the body of the guitar, his left palm on top of the strings, his right on the pick guard. "Feeling any better, today?" A pretty stupid question, but he figured he'd ask anyway. They were both in bad shape, both aching, both in physical agony. Patrick hadn't seen Brodie ever since the incident, and for one reason or another, he was worried about her. He hadn't really bothered talking to anyone since that night, becoming quite dazed and a bit out of it. He knew something had happened to Pete, a car crash or the sort, if he'd heard right.. But honestly, he wasn't sure. Patrick glanced up at Pete before pulling his hat down a bit, tucking his head toward his chest in a bit of shame.
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Post by Pete Wentz on Apr 21, 2007 15:42:49 GMT -5
we must take all of the medicines too expensive now to sell set fire to the preacher who is promising us hell [/b] Pete said, speaking up for the first time in a while after Patrick asked how he was feeling. "You?" Pete asked. He could hardly bear to look at Patrick right now, because it reminded him so much of what he should have prevented. Pete looked at the water bottle and took the lip off, drinking a sip and then putting the lid back on. What he had drunk from it hardly made a difference to the water level it had been at when he first got it out of the fridge. In fact, Pete hadn't even eaten for a while. It wasn't really anything unusual, but he hadn't eaten and hardly drank. He probably wouldn't even finish the bottle of water in his hand right now. He knew he shouldn't be feeling like this, and he should be trying to feel a little less dispondent toward Patrick but right now Pete couldn't manage it. Right now he wanted to be locked away by himself so he couldn't invade and infect anyone else's life. He was like a disease, contagiously infecting people's lives who came into contact with him, destroying them and totally making them worse. He hadn't even been able to help Brodie, and he'd tried so hard and yet nothing...[/color][/size][/blockquote][/ul] and in the ear of every anarchist that sleeps but doesn’t dream we must sing, we must sing, we must sing
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Post by Patrick Stump on Apr 21, 2007 16:18:14 GMT -5
I THINK I'VE FOUND MY NEW ADDICTION TONIGHT THE PHONE CALL, LEFT ME PARALYZED FROM THE WAIST DOWN
Eyes locked on the guitar strings, he twanged them, a hallow sound echoing in the silence of the tour bus. He looked up at Pete when he replied to Patrick's question, a "Hnn" escaped his chest and he glanced down, trying to avoid the echo of his own question. He could've gone off about how much he felt like shit, how every time he stands up he has to grab something before he falls over, but he just shrugged. He bit his lip and began plucking the strings, hitting them one at a time, the notes melding together into their own sound. He glanced up at Pete, staring for a moment before looking back down to his own fingers on the strings. He knew Pete was worried about things, he knew Pete blamed himself for so much, Patrick knew all this by now. Whether Pete knew that Patrick knew this or not, he really wasn't sure, but how could you think he didn't?
"I punched him." It wasn't quite like Patrick was lying. That was a true fact, he had punched the guy, but it wasn't quite right in the sequence, but Pete didn't need to know that yet. He looked up at Pete again, staring directly at him this time. "I punched the guy, and then he hit me." He said it quite blatantly, but glanced down in a bit of shame, and stared at his guitar. He still, honestly, couldn't believe that he had punched him. He felt the contact of his hand, his knuckles had ached for quite a while afterward, where he'd hit the other person, he really wasn't sure. Patrick gazed down at his fingers, continuing to pluck the strings, not in any specific pattern, but still with the right timing. Each new note was joined into the mix went the last began to fade, never hitting the same two strings one right after another. It was a strange little thing, ugly, but adding a bit of life to the atmosphere, rather than their dead silence of the tour bus.
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Post by Pete Wentz on Apr 21, 2007 16:36:25 GMT -5
it’ll go like this: while my mother waters plants my father loads his guns [/b] Pete said, shaking his head, the small smile still playing on his lips. He looked at the bottle, shutting his eyes for a second, but every time he went to do so he got that vivid image of watching the car burst into flames, William still inside of it. He couldn't will his body to sleep, even when he had taken sleeping pills to try and force his body into some sort of unnatural slumber, he still managed to keep himself awake. "I should have been there," Pete said, speaking up again. "You shouldn't have been there alone with Brodie, Patrick... I should have been there, I should have gotten there quicker..." Pete said, looking at the bottle again. He wished he was at home so he could lock himself in his room right now, but he wasn't in a hotel, and he couldn't lock any doors in the tour bus. He couldn't escape being around everyone else, and they couldn't escape him. "I shouldn't have made William get in that car... I shouldn't have fucking made him come with me!" Pete said, showing another emotion now - hostility. Anger. At no one but himself. "I made him get in that car! I didn't give him a choice! Of course he was going to listen to me because he was my friend!" Pete growled. "It's my fault. It's my fucking fault!" Pete cried, standing up as the water bottle fell over and he made his way back to the main area of the tour bus, unable to leave, unable to go anywhere. He felt so trapped inside the walls, like they were a prison for him. He wanted to go out but then it would cause people to talk, and staying in would do the same simply because Pete was usually a very personable person who like going out. [/color][/size][/blockquote][/ul] he says death will give us back to god just like this setting sun is returned to this lonesome ocean
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Post by Patrick Stump on Apr 22, 2007 8:18:40 GMT -5
WE SEE THE BILLBOARD GIRL THE ONE DEVOTED TO RITUAL STANDING IN THE RAIN HOLDING ALL OF HER PAIN INSIDE
Patrick just stared at Pete, blank expression, his fingers rested on the guitar strings as the last note died in the air. He sneered and stood up, dropping the guitar on to the floor. Eyebrows furrowed and he watched as Pete retreated to the front of the bus, and Patrick just stood there, eyes locked on Pete. "No..." His voice was quiet for a moment, but it didn't last very long. "You wanna know what happened Pete?' He followed Pete up toward the front of the bus, annoyance and frustration overtaking his expression. "Do you really want to know what happened? Do you?!" He was practically screaming, a rather uncharacteristic thing for Patrick to do- especially at his best friend... Especially at Pete. Normally he would've just sat there and took what Pete had to say, listening to every word, taking it all in without saying a word. Because thats just what Patrick did. He listened. He cared. He was forgiving. Now, he was just at the point of breaking, perhaps from locking himself in the tour bus for so long, or maybe just the entire dramatic situation, either way, he couldn't take anymore.
"Do you really want to know what FUCKING HAPPENED?!" The volume in his tone jumped, staring Pete directly in the face. "He punched me, then I hit him- he hit me again" He was practically screaming at this point, a water bottle in hand. "Okay, so she hit him first. I COULDN'T JUST FUCKING STAND THERE." Taking a deep breath, he rubbed his forehead, then pulled his hat back down. "IT'S NOT YOUR FUCKING FAULT. ACCIDENTS FUCKING HAPPEN. PEOPLE MAKE MISTAKES, THATS WHAT FUCKING HAPPENS." He turned, chucking the water bottle at the wall, not even bothering to look at it after it slammed on the floor, bounced a few times, and rolled until it was still. "I'm done, I'm fucking done." Done with what? He didn't know, but whatever it was, he was sick and tired of it. Carelessly he threw his hands in the air, making his way back to the bunks. He slammed the door, the only door separating him and Pete, a door that suddenly seemed so thick... Suddenly so poisonous. He sat on his bunk, elbows digging into his knees, his head pressed into his hands. Slowly he pulled his hat off, messy hair falling into his eyes. He stared at it for a moment, sneering, and whipping it across the room, closing his eyes so that he couldn't watch it slump on the floor. "GOD DAMMIT." He was still yelling, and he covered his face with his hands, his entire body trembling.
He hadn't been this upset since... Well... Since what had happened in 2005. Sure they all had little arguments with each other, but Patrick never screamed, he didn't yell, half the time he didn't really swear that much. But now, he'd just twisted things out of hand, all because of something idiotic that he had done. He could've stopped the entire thing from happening- he could've just ignored her and gone to the Clandestine tent like he had planned. But no, he acted like a scape goat for her, because for that split second when her manager was screaming at her- he felt horrible, as if he'd been the one getting yelled at. He could've just walked away.
you can't blame yourself for everything. accidents happen.
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Post by Pete Wentz on Apr 22, 2007 9:24:09 GMT -5
and then they splashed into the deep blue sea it was a wonderful splash [/i] going to cry. He just didn't know what was going on right now. What was Patrick 'done' with? Being Pete's friend? The band? What? Pete could only presume that Patrick was done with the band, that was what it sounded like at least. Pete got up again, drawing the hood up on his hoodie and he walked to the door that Patrick had previously slammed. He opened his mouth as if to say something, leaning against the door for a moment before he decided not to. Instead he walked to the door of the tour bus, pushing it open and walking out, slamming the door hard behind him. There. Now they were both done. [/color][/size][/blockquote][/ul] we must blend into the choir sing as static with the whole we must memorize nine numbers and deny we have a soul
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