Dear Blue Eyes,
I guess I just have to face it. Guys like you just don't exist. I've burned holes in the soles of my feet just roaming, looking for you. It's all been kind of bleak and gray, this journey, but I always feel like there's a light there at the end of the road. A bright colorful light with flashes of pink and green and blue. Blue for your eyes. There's a lot of blue there at the end. Like walking into a world sculpted of sapphire.
I've been pulling away from people lately. From my family, from school, friends. Audrey. I've been pulling away from her the most. I don't think she's noticed yet, what with her vanity and such, but in due time. Here's hoping. Because if she doesn't realize that we're growing apart, I think I'd feel a great deal worse than if she did.
It'll be a funny thing to explain, you know, when people start to wonder about my distance. It'll be funny to tell them all about you. About how you're always there in the back of my mind, suckling at my thoughts like a leech.
Maybe I should tell them how I chase you, that'd be fun. Tell them how your morning dew eyes lead me to the ends of the earth and drop me right off the edge. Tell them how I love it. Love how you've got me falling.
They'll ask me how I met you, I'll say "In a dream." They'll laugh at this, "Hopeless romantic," they'll call me. They'll have no idea that "in a dream" was exactly the setting. They won't get it. They'll never get it.
Last night I got to hear your voice. It was nothing but the word, "No," but it held the weight of the entire human language. "No," is what you said when I asked your name. It's fine I guess. Since you're only a figment of my imagination I guess your name is whatever I want it to be. Maybe Paul. You look like a Paul.
Well, I have to go. High school awaits. I can't wait to close my eyes tonight. Since I can only really see you when they aren't open.
All grammatical and spelling errors are not intentional. This work is a part of a series of unfinished, unedited stories. I apologize in advance.
"Brendon, get down here!"
The dark haired boy rubs his face into the red fabric of his pillowcase. "if I don't answer, she'll go away." He thinks to himself. Half of him knows he's pretty much fucking himself in the ass if he doesn't go see what his mother wants. The other half already knows what she wants and really has no intention of "getting down there."
A comforting yet disturbingly foreboding silence fills the two story Summerlin home and the boy shuts his chocolate eyes tight. He wants to sleep some more. That's all. Just a coupl-
"Brendon Boyd Urie, get your behind down these stairs before I send your father up at you!"
Brendon groans so loudly he is nearly positive his mother hears him. "Fucking kidding me," he grumbles to himself as he pulls himself into a sitting postition. He stretches skinny white arms above his head, mouth open twice as wide as normal in a yawn that ends up sounding a lot like an amature porno.
"Brendon, you've got ten seconds to-"
"I'm coming, Jesus!" Brendon doesn't realize what he's said until well after he's made his way down the the stairs but judging by his mother's face, he knows he's already fucked up. Royaly.
"What were you doing up there, Brendon?" The older woman ask her son. She has curly auburn hair to her shoulders and tired hazel eyes. Brendon looks more like his father in the face. He has his mother's hips though. Oh joy.
"Was trying to sleep." Brendon waves a hand vaguely as he walks over to the center island to sit. His mother stares at the back of his pigeon's nest of hair for what feels like ten minutes. It really was no more than a couple seconds.
"You've been sleeping a lot lately." She notes off-handedly. "Are you feeling sick?"
Brendon shrugs. "I'm feeling tired." He reaches for the orange juice carton, tipping the contents into the one empty glass on the counter. "If being tired means I'm sick then, yeah, I might be dying a little." Brendon isn't being serious but of course, of-fucking-course, his father decides to come in at that exact moment. What is his life?
"Young man, that is not something you joke around about. You cherish the time you've been given on this earth and you don't dare make wise cracks about it, do you understand?" Boyd is being remarkably dickish for 8 AM and Brendon is really tempted to say as much but he just nods like he gives a damn. Which he doesn't. Obviously.
A couple of minutes pass. Sweet, quiet minutes and then there's Kara. Brendon sometimes wonders how, of all of his siblings, Kara is the only one that hasn't gotten her own place. She's 24 for christ's sakes. Shouldn't she be getting married to a nice Morman stock broker and knocked up to high hell by now?
"Morning mom, daddy." Kara kisses both her parents and continues to the refridgerator.
"Kara, say hello to your brother." Brendon's mother says from her place at the stove but Brendon is already up and heading for his room to get dressed. No need to wait for Kara to say her meaningless hellos. That'll be ten whole second Brendon will never get back.
"Brendon, where are-"
"Mom, I'm gonna be late. If I'm taking the bus I need to leave right now." And then he disappears upstairs before his mother can chide him any further.
Not that it would've made a fuck of a difference either way.
Brendon's room can only be described as an angsty-semi-artistic-musical-fortress. Or at least that's what Brendon thinks it would be called. His father calls it a pig's nest. And Brendon would agree except for how pigs do not live in nests. And FY-fucking-I, Brendon's room is an impressionable work of art sculpted over the years with mementos (old soda cans, tennis shoes and potato chip bags) from his youth. Given that his youth was age 0-15 and 16 counts as adulthood.
Fuck you, this is Brendon's world and that's how things are.
The boy scavenges around the bedroom until he pulls out yesterday's jeans and a red t-shirt that he has worn a few times but doesn't yet reek of B.O. Brendon has standards, he does. Just...not right now. He finds his black converse and some holey socks underneath his bed and calls it quits. No one will be looking at his fucking clothes at Palo Verde. Not when Brendon has the face of an angel, ass of a model and is dating a cheerleader. Yeah, no one cares about his choice in clothing.
He picks up his favorite pink hoodie-- which for the record had been white. But Kara, that whore, threw her red bra in with his laundry resulting in a pink hoodie and several pairs of pepto hued boxer-briefs-- and pulls it over his shirt before hurrying to the bathroom across the hall to do something with his hair.
Brendon brushes his teeth frantically because it's kind of his least favorite part of the morning. He always gags and it's just really displeasing and slimy and gross. He puts an illogical amount of gel in his hair, shaping up the left side into a kind of porcupine thing and letting his bang hide half his face. It's how Pete Wentz is wearing his hair so it's automatically the coolest style in the world. He figures he looks average to passable at best and grabs his bag before heading downstairs. His father is already gone as is Kara. No surprise there. No one ever asks Brendon if he wants a ride. It's always "I have to be at work in ten minutes, Brendon. I don't have time." But he has time to drive Kara halfway across town to the mall. It's bullshit and Brendon knows it.
"I left you breakfast on the stove, sweetie." His mother is in the living room flipping through the news stations when Brendon makes it down and into the foyer. He looks over to the stove and...great. Sausage and eggs. Brendon has told his parents half a million times he's a vegetarian. Yet and still they punish him with this shit.
"No, I'm good. I'll grab an apple or something at school." He hollers masking his irritation with false cheerfulness. He doesn't get a response and he doesn't expect one.
Just another day in the Urie household. Another day of being Brendon.
Really, it's wonderful.