#17p

There are a lot of things wrong in my life. Things that have lead up to this moment. Maybe my whole life has just been leading up to this moment. I always liked surprising people, I wonder if more people will be surprised I’ve done it, or more surprised it took me this long to do it.

I release air from my lungs, watching the bubbles float out of my mouth. I imagine that those little bubbles are pieces of me, lost little pieces that I’ll never get back--that I don’t want back. Or maybe they’re my soul. Don’t think it matters either way anymore, honestly.

I wonder if John Green wrote something like this. Probably not. Suicide is ugly, can’t romanticize that. Can’t make such an ugly thing beautiful, no matter how hard you try.

Or maybe it is. Maybe it’s supposed to be something fucking pretty. I mean, I get to fucking choose how I go, when I go. Fuck. I get to be God. I get to decide. I have my own fucking fate. I decide it for myself. I’m Frank fucking Sinatra, mate, I’m doing it my way.

I open my mouth for air and swallow in the water, making a small noise of protest, feeling the desperate need for ai--No. No. This isn’t what I’m going to think of when I die. I’m going to die a pompous twat.

La Poesie la dans la rue. Poetry is in the street. It’s all around us. Poetry is one of art’s most biased, untruthful, but raw type of art. It bears the soul of one and twists around the truth until the words you read are only the product of a biased mind with only one thing left: write what hurts. Not write the truth.

And readers don’t want the truth; we want what we want to read.

I wanted to be loved. I wanted to be cared for and understood. I wanted art to enrich me with the beauty it promised me when I was a young lad. I wanted what was promised. I wanted to be happy.

I just...I just wanted to be fucking happy. I couldn’t even do that. I couldn’t keep my best mates, couldn’t get the girl. I couldn’t be the person I always wanted to fucking be. I don’t know who I am anymore. I fucking lied to my best mate and pushed him away, for what? For a fucking Letter? For a writer that doesn’t exist--that can’t exist? I did this all for nothing. I am nothing.

I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask to be born, and neither did my mother, really. She didn’t want me. That’s why she tried throwing herself from a fucking building. I don’t want me. That’s why I’m in here, swallowing dirty bathwater as I struggle to keep breathing.

I choke under the water a bit, releasing air only to swallow in the dirty bathtub water. They say it’s peaceful when you drown, just like falling asleep. Too bad they lied.

I start to properly choke, coughing and fighting against the water, swallowing more down. That’s when the fear kicks in, that’s when I realize something I had been fighting against all along: I don’t want to fucking die.

My eyes snap open and I sit up in the water, gagging and spitting up the water. My hands shake and I struggle to climb out of the tub, crawling out of the bathroom and grabbing my phone from the bed.

I’m still gasping for air, struggling to breathe and trembling so hard I can barely even click on what I need to on my phone. It rings and rings and I wait for George to answer but he never does.

“George,” I choke out. “Please, mate. Listen to me. I’m--I’m fucking sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ve been keeping shit from you and pushing you away. And--listen, man. Misery loves company but I love you more than that and I didn’t wanna drag you down into my shit.’

“It’s not drugs. Fuck. I wish it was. At least it’d make more fucking sense then this crap. It’s that fucking Letter, mate. It’s--it’s like driving me insane. I had to leave to find them--I had to. I’m--I’m here in this little town just trying to find them and I couldn’t and it doesn’t make sense anymore. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.’

“George, please. Please. Listen to me. I’m--I just tried to drown myself. Me. I tried to kill myself cause everything--everything right now is fucking wrong. It’s all fucking wrong. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I don’--mate I don’t want this anymore. I--I have to cancel the rest of the tour, I can’t go on like this. I can’t fucking think straight. My head’s gone, mate. I’m fucking gone. I think I’ve gone mad. I just--I need you to forgive me. You’re my best friend and I’m a piece of shit but you’re all that I have and I’m sorry for being such a shitty friend. I’m so sorry,” I cry into the phone, pulling it away from my face.

The screen shines bright when I look down at it, finding it to be flashing a called dropped. My body unwinds and relaxes down against the bed in defeat, my spilled guts still falling from me slowly, only now I don't have my safety net. I don't have the person who always puts me back together. I'm so alone. It's like it's New Years again except this time The Letter can't help me either. Nothing can.

I make a face down at my phone, eyes squinting as I struggle to read what I'm typing out through the blurred, wet vision.

It’s just one email I need to send to my manager. Just one.

‘I can’t continue the tour. I’m sorry.’

And just like that, in two simple sentences, it’s over. No fancy wording, no jokes on you shit. It's fucking over until I say it isn’t. But it’s over. Done. No more tours. No more false hope. No more potential writers. It’s finished.

And the 1975 might be too.

Frankie Avalon said that I’d find love at the bottom of the sea. I claimed I’d find it in the city. Guess we were both wrong ‘cos I didn’t find shit.

.............................................

There’s a loud pounding at the door. It’s a little bit desperate, a little annoying. But it stops as soon as the door opens and my fist drops from the wood as I stare at Mrs. Susan’s face, hair up in rollers like in the old movies. She looks me up and down, taking in my sopping wet appearance with shock and confusion.

“Hi, Mrs. Susan, do you have any extra towels? I don’t have anymore towels,” I say, shivering and dripping onto the floor before her.

“I--yeah, let me go get you some,” she says and hurries back into her room and I stand there and tremble from the cold.

She comes back after a few moments with a few folded towels and hands them over. “You alright?” She asks.

“I’m--I’ll be ok,” I admit and I take the towels from her. “Thank you. Sorry about the mess. And about waking you up.”

I turn and walk away without another word or waiting for her to talk.

.................................................

There’s a giant mess that greets me the next morning. Glass pieces all down the floor and some stuck inside the wall. The sticky spill around that same area sticks to the bottom of my bare feet as I make my way to the slightly flooded bathroom. And, of course, there’s the biggest mess of all; one that I’m not sure I can fix: me.

I pick up the glass carefully, placing it into a bag and then throwing that one out before I move to wipe up all of the dried up booze. It’s a process to clean everything up, but I manage. The bathroom is the worst one, having to clean up the floor that’s under water.

When it’s all done, I get back into the bed, hiding under the covers. Mrs. S knocks on the door a few times, announcing that breakfast is ready. Our ritual.

“I’m not hungry,” I reply to her, I'm depressed not fucking rude.

“Alright, dear, I’ll leave it out for you!”

I don't reply and she doesn’t bother me again. I stay in bed and refuse to move. It’s like that for the next few days, she tries to get me to eat but all I accept from her are drinks and that’s it. I don’t bathe or shave or eat. Just....lay there in silence, wallowing in self loathing.

This is what depression looks like. Not like those glamorized fantasies people post all over the fucking internet. It’s not having a smoke on a fucking roof and writing sad poetry. It’s not screaming your lungs out on a cliff. It’s not pretty. It’s ugly. It’s not supposed to be fucking pretty.

It’s not being able to move from the bed, not caring about the smell or the mess or the hunger. Everything is too much and not being able to deal with it. It’s feeling numb to the point that you want to slowly fade into nothing.

It’s not even having the strength to do the things you know would pull you from this. I’m drowning, again, and I’m scared I won’t be able to sit up from the water this time. I’m too far in the depths of my mind for that. I think I’m lost for good.

Where is my mind?

.........................................................

When you spend enough time in your head, you realize how dark and how scary of a place it is. It connects you to people and it can also keep you from people. It can make you sane or insane. I think I'm at the border of the two, flirting with the line that separates it. See, in the state of mind I'm in, I think I get how the world works. I think I understand everything.

Reality is a tangible thing. It means it’s been proven it exists, it’s tangible by either sight or smell or touch or science. Its juxtaposition is something that can’t exist.

But if it’s been created, even in the mind, doesn’t that mean it’s alive in someway? Doesn’t that make it tangible? Doesn’t that mean that just because other’s can’t see it, but you can even in your brain, doesn’t that make everything real? And--and the juxtaposition to that is that if you stop believing, stop giving power to something, it makes it imaginary. If I hide long enough, people will forget me and I’ll slowly rot in this room. But only if I forget myself too. I can’t think of me anymore.

To disappear I have to be nothing.

I am nothing.

The thought has me smiling without feeling anything, really. I sit on the floor, leaning against the bed as I stare out into nothing. There’s this giant hole head, but I’m too scared to look at the mirror to check.

I think my brain’s run out on me again, just gone and left just like it's always had before. I wonder where it’s gone to hide this time.

.......................................

I wake up when a loud crash startles me awake. My eyes snap open and I look around, sleep heavy and disoriented. Sunlight pours into my room for the first time in days, I sit up slowly and glare at it. The curtain thing just fell right off.

My body moves of its own accord, limbs feeling like lead as I move to put it up again but it’s been broken clean off. I sigh and I move to go to the bathroom. I need a new curtain rod. Damnit. I shower slowly, cleaning off days’ worth of grime off my body before I get out and change into fresh clothes. I feel...clean. Not quite as heavy as before.

My steps are silent as I walk downstairs and towards the kitchen, clearing my throat a few times before I talk, “Mrs. S? My curtain rod broke,” I say softly, voice gravelly from inuse.

“Did it? Oh dear. I have to buy a new one. Would you mind getting it for me, Matthew?” She asks. “I’m making us breakfast. Let me get my purse.”

She walks slow. Slower than usual and I just want to get this over with. “Don’t worry about it. I got it. I’ll be back.”

I don’t wait for her reply before I’m out of the door. My eyes flutter in distaste at the brightness of the outdoors. I hear birds chirping and children laughing and I scowl at all of it and make my way down to the store, passing by a little Sainsbury Local.

I walk around the corner and go into the shops, looking for one curtain rod. I pick a random one before heading down the aisle when a girl turns the corner and runs right into me. We whisper quick apologies and I make my way to pay and head back to the B&B

Mrs. S’s breakfast is all prepared by the time I get back and she corners me into taking a seat and having breakfast with her. I don’t notice how hungry I am until she fixes me up a second plate of food.  

“Slow down. You’ll make yourself sick, Matthew.”

“I’m already sick.”

“You too, huh?” She murmurs.

I glance up at her but I don’t press on for more. She didn’t elaborate for a reason.

“Matthew, would you head down to Sainsbury and grab me a few things for me, darling?” She asks me, sliding me more bacon from the pan.

“You play dirty, this was a bribe, wasn’t it?” I ask her and smirk a bit as she pretends she didn’t hear a word I said.

“My list is on the counter. Also. You have a late fee on your movie.”

“Shit.”

“Get to it.”

I finish the bacon before I head out again. It’s been exactly a week since.....the incident. In those days I’ve gotten several angry voicemails from the band (minus one) and one lengthy email from my manager. I’ve responded to none. There’s no point. They know what I want and I’m not going to change my mind on it.

I sigh and face the world once more, ignoring the road to the video store. What’s another few quid for a late fee, right?

.....................................

There’s something off about today, I can already feel it. There’s no annoying knock on my door for breakfast this morning, which I'm grateful and disappointed at all in one. It’s not so bad having someone come wake you up so you can eat their breakfast that they’ve cooked for just you and be kept company.

I make my way out of the room and downstairs, padding down the hallway as quietly as possible. She didn’t wake me up but there’s a little note on the table with very swirly, hard to read writing:

My Dearest Matthew,

Forgive the lack of breakfast this morning, I have a doctor’s appointment that I had to go to. I promise to make it up to you, sweet boy. Do feel better. Feel free to take more towels; they’re in the cabinet downstairs.

-- Mrs. S.

My lips turn up in a small, grateful grin. She thought to tell me where she was. How thoughtful. I pocket the little note and go outside, eyes squinting from the brightness of the sun. How strange to think I almost gave this up nights ago.

My feet keep me going despite the temporary blindness, moving along the pavement and heading off to get breakfast, breaking my routine for the second time here. It’s weird, heading into one of the restaurants so early to get their breakfast. They even think it’s weird. And they’re blunt about it, asking the questions before I can even get a greeting in

“Haven’t seen you in a while. Thought you ran out on us,” The waitress, Jas, asks me as she pours me a cup of coffee.

“Can’t scare me away that easily,” I reply around a mouthful of the warm drink.

“Where’d you go?”

“Just stayed in my room.”

“Need to talk about it?”

“I’d rather not,” I say bluntly. She nods and keeps on, not offended or taking it personally.

“Trish, slide this boy some of your pancakes,” she says and I look up from the bar area to see Trish wink at me before heading to the back.

I chuckle around the coffee and shake my head. This is nice. Not searching for the writer--taking a break on that...heartbreak. It’s what I needed.

After the breakfast I just leave, leaving behind a few extra pounds for Jas but I don’t stay to say goodbye, I don’t want to stick around much longer. The writer was right about this place though, the wi fi here does suck. Best place to have it is down at a little coffee shop on the corner.

I have to reply to my manager, just keep him updated that I’m alive and I’m not insane. Well. I’m--ok. I have to let him know I’m still alive. And with my phone, I can see all of the texts and missed calls, but I just notice that there’s one person who hasn’t tried to contact me. Just one. George.

I would reply to George if he ever messaged me. There’s nothing on that end. I try not to let the lack of communication bother me, but it still makes something unpleasant settle down in the pit of my stomach.

I’ve never been good at endings and I hope this isn’t one now. George....he’s my best mate. And like a good best mate, I decide to keep ignoring him. Because I’m fucking trash.

But if I stay busy enough, I can make up excuses as to why I haven’t reached out to him yet--why I haven’t apologized and explained everything. But only if I’m busy. So I head out again after I finish with the emails.

My mind knows my way around. Mostly. Only to the places I’ve dared to venture to, which all seem to stay on the same strip as the B&B is on. Everything is in shouting distance of each other, just like in the movies.

Being here, I’ve come to learn how someone could be so in love with this place, and hate it with a burning passion all at the same time. It’s so fucking easy to get trapped here. These patterns aren’t loud and noisy, they’re simple. They’re easy to get lost in and forever be stuck in them, the familiarity is its charm and its downfall.

The top of the door rings as I make my way inside, nodding at the person behind the counter without really looking.

“Morning! We’re having a half-off special for our valuable customers,” an unfamiliar voice says and I have to stop and look up.

An unfamiliar face matches up to the voice and I quirk my head a bit. “You’re not the other guy that works here,” I accuse.

The girl looks up from the papers on the counter and meets my eyes. She blinks a few times at me, a strange look crossing her features--her dark eyes looking over me a few times. “No. My mate was covering for me,” she explains slowly. She’s got a softness to her, all gentle with dark freckles dusting over her nose and cheeks. But the peroxide blonde cuts into that image, that and her eyes.

“Glad you’re back then.”

“Thanks,” she replies shortly and her eyes leave mine and go back to the papers on the counter.

Well. That’s the end of that conversation then. I make my way into the aisle of new movies looking through them again. I can’t stop glancing up at the new girl here, though.

“Where were you?” I ask and she glances up and makes a little humming noise in response. “Where were you? You said you needed to be covered for....” Oh god. I’m being nosy and blunt. What have these small town people done to me?

“Oh. I just--I kinda’ went off and did my own thing for a little bit. Cleared my head,” she replies easily enough.

I nod. “I feel that.”

“Yeah? Is that why you’re here? Lord knows it’s not cause of all of the fantastic tourist attractions we have here,” she replies sardonically.

I smirk. “Something like that,” I respond easily enough.

Her lips barely quirk up but her eyes light up. “You know you stick out like a sore thumb out here, right?”

“Yeah? Is it the hair?” Or is it the celebrity status?

She sighs and looks me up and down again. “It’s the all black. No one here wears all black for extended periods of time except if they're in mourning.”

“Maybe I am in mourning.”

“Are you?” She asks and it’s like she sees right through me now.

“A bit. It’s metaphorical, if anything,” I say and look down at the movies again, picking up a random one and pretending to show interest in it. “So you’ve heard of me?” I ask.

“What?” I look up again to see her confused face. “You said I wear black for extended periods of time. How would you know that if you just came back today?”

She smiles now, having been caught, “the people here aren’t exactly the quiet type.”

“Are you excluding yourself from the bunch?”

“I--listen, I just work at the video store.”

I nod again and chuckle. “So that’s a yes. You do exclude yourself.”

She doesn’t reply and I move to a different section now.

I can’t keep myself quiet though. “What’s your name, love?”

“Nia.”

Nia. Definitely not a bug. I try not to let the sudden wave of disappointment hit me too hard. What would the chances be though? Me meeting the writer after I tried---yeah. Stupid. It’s stupid.

“Well, what’s your name?” She asks, leaning on the counter now. “Can’t make me introduce myself only for you to not do it too. It’s rude.”

“Matty.”

She nods. There’s a lot of nodding going on. I figure it’s what new people do with each other, nod in agreeance as we tiptoe into new territory.

“Seriously, mate,” she laughs, shaking her head and her short blond curls cover her face now. “What are you doing here?” She asks.

“I’m--well, I’m here for a mate. Or. A kind of friend. Lover? I’m--it’s complicated,” I admit for the first time since I’ve gotten here.

She snorts at my response. “I took a break from this place because of complicated-friend-lovers,” she laughs. “Looking for or hiding from them?”

“I--both. Both, I guess,” I chuckle. “It’s complicated.”

“Well, head-to-toe black wearing, complicated love life Matty, what’re you planning on renting today?” She asks and I can’t help but grin widely at her.

There’s something about her--something that keeps me rooted to my spot and continue to talk. It makes me ask her about movies she likes and other random questions. It’s something that makes me put The Letter into the back of my mind, at least just for a little while.

...................................

The sun sets later here, I’m able to get home and go outside for a bit, enjoy the warm rays before it slowly goes down and hides behind the trees in the yard. I balance the laptop on my legs as I stare at a nearly blank screen, deciding what I want to write.

I’m scowling at the screen when the back porch light comes on and I glance up and smile at Mrs. S, watching her come outside through the sliding screen door.

“Catching some rays out here?” She asks with a soft smile on her face.

“It was either that or spend more time in my room,” I laugh and put the laptop aside and stretch out. “Kind of feeling different today since my breakfast routine was ruined,” I joke lightly.

She laughs loudly and shakes her head as me.

“How’re you feeling? How’d the trip to the doctor go?” I ask curiously.

“Ah, well, you know. I’m not as young as I used to be, someone my age is lucky to be walking around and living alone without help.” I nod and look her over, noticing that she looks her age tonight. She looks tired, and sad. Not her usual lively self. “How about I order us take out?” I offer gently.

“I’d love to but this new medication makes me tired. You enjoy your night though,” she replies and retreats quietly, so unlike herself completely.

I get up and leave once I know she’s upstairs and ok. It only takes her until the next day before she’s herself again, and three more days pass here. Three days of patterns and people, but ignoring the one pattern I’m so desperate to keep up with again: reading The Letter. I tell myself it’s just a break, just a small break from it. I’m too fragile to handle more disappointment.

So, for the third night in a row, I make my way to the movie place, ignoring the folded up papers resting in my suitcase now, and return another movie, quickly moving to go inside to the food place beside of it, getting my food to go. I’m on my way back past the movie place when I see familiar peroxide blonde hair with cigarette smoke in her wake.

I speed up a bit, catching up to her easily and tapping her shoulder. “Mind if I bum one from you? Mrs. S hates when I smoke near her house.”

Nia turns and smiles, her upper lip bumping into the septum ring right above it. “She’s very particular, that one, but she’s got good intentions” she laughs a bit and reaches into her big sweater to grab her pack and pull it out, offering the lot to me.

I chuckle and take one from her, reaching for a lighter in my own pockets that isn’t there. She reaches down again and grabs one, offering it up to me. There’s a little pickle on it and I light up and hand it back.

“Nice lighter.”

“It’s an inside joke with me and my friend,” she says lightly.

I nod and blow smoke out and there’s a pregnant, awkward pause between us both as we smoke against the movie building.

“So why h--

“Do you guys ever--

We both say at the same time, cutting ourselves off with awkward laughter.

“Let’s try this again,” she laughs and takes a slow drag of her cigarette before speaking, “how’s the town been treating you?”

“The same as it always has.”

“Yeah, doesn't change much here, honestly.”

I laugh a little humorlessly at that, moving to lean against the side of the building right next to her. “That’s not so bad, though, is it? At least not here, I reckon. This town wasn't built to handle constant change.”

She shakes her head, looking out into the street distantly. “No. Reckon you’re right on that one.”

There’s silence between us then, not quite comfortable but not terribly awkward. It just is. We smoke without speaking and once she’s done with hers, she doesn’t move to go inside yet.

“Do you--do you ever feel trapped?” She asks, her voice so low I strain to hear her.

I glance over at her before looking away to answer. “Yeah,” I reply honestly. “But not in places, usually. I feel trapped in--in like my body-my skin. Sometimes it feels like my soul is just so desperate and itching to get out, I can feel it scratching at my skin, ya know?”

She nods. “I know what you mean.”

“What about you?”

“I feel trapped here. It's like every time I leave, I just end up coming back here with no other place to go. It's been driving me mad.”

“Maybe you should get in your car and just start driving. Keep going straight until you know you can't see this town if you turn around and then just keep on going until this place is just a sad memory of who you once were.”

“Is that what you did? Just drove until you got here?”

“Not exactly. I picked this place.”

“Why would you ever?”

“There's...there's something here for me, I think. I hope.”

“Well i hope you find it, Matty.”

“Me too. And I hope one day you keep driving.”

She laughs at that. “Even if I keep driving, I'd still end up here. This place has like a spell on it or something--no matter how far you get, you always come back.”

“Maybe you're trapped in a snow globe.”

“A snow globe??”

“Hear me out: Maybe you’re trapped in a snowglobe. Like a giant one and you’re actually sitting on some giants desk,” I offer and look over at her.

She smirks up at me then before answering, “maybe I need someone to shake it up.”

I smirk back. “Maybe,” I agree and nod, putting out the cigarette. “I owe you one. You could come over to mine after you get off of here, can smoke more together.”

“I’ll think about it.” “Don’t think too hard about it,” I laugh and I walk away back to the B&B.

...............................

Mrs. S greets me back with a nice dinner, making me laugh a bit as I listen to her talk about the other older dames in town and how jealous they are that she has me for company, amongst other gossip about the town that I’ve come to know.

It makes my heart ache for a second, though. Makes me wonder if The Writer did this too, knew the same people, talked to them. Did they get along with everyone or were they an outsider like me? Is that why I can’t find them--did they just leave to find where they belong? Did they leave me behind?

“Have you met anyone your age around here?” She asks like a mother would ask a child who's just started a new school.

I wouldn't know that from experience, though. All my mother ever asked me was to pass her her bottle and shut the door, and then I would have to pretend I couldn't her hear crying for hours on end. And then I would lie to kids at my school about where mummy is.

“I have,” I respond finally, shaking my head to get rid of those thoughts. I'm a grown man, now. I don't need my mother.

“Yeah? Who?”

“Oh. Some girl who works at the video store.”

“Which one? Nia or June Bug?”

My eyes widen at the last name and my heart races. June Bug. Bug.

The sudden silence and lack of response must alert Mrs. S to something, she coughs a bit and stares me down, not looking at me, per se. It’s more like she’s looking into me, trying to find a way to see into my brain. And when that fails, she simply just asks.

“What’re you thinking about, Matthew?”

The Letter. The Writer. George and how much of a shit friend I am. She can take her pick, honestly. It’s all things people don’t actually want to hear about, even if they really do care about you. Most people don’t actually care if you’re unwell. I’ve learned that the hard way.

But now I get to add on this June Bug person. Where is she? Is she coming back?

“Oh let’s not get into that, Mrs. S. My head’s full of dark sh--stuff. It’s like pandora’s box in there,” l wave off, I can't talk about this right now. I don't want to get my hopes up again just to have them get burned up again and take me with them down in the flames.

Lewis Carroll had it right: “how strange it is to be anything at all”. It is strange. To exist. To love. To wake up and be able to touch your face. But even stranger that you’ll never even know what your face really looks like.

It’s also strange to be in love with someone who you’ve never met, either. So maybe Carroll didn’t have it completely right. Maybe it’s not strange at all to be anything, maybe it’s strange to see the existences of others; to hold their souls in your hands without ever having spoken a word.

Quote me: how strange it is to love anything at all.

“Mate, that was sick,” George gushes, smiling over at me as we walk off stage for real this time. The encore was pretty sick, I can’t lie.

I could feel their energy and they could feel mine. It was something so beautiful and pure. I smile at him and nod. “Was wicked,” I agree. “My fucking skin is still tingling from all of it.”

“Yeah, mate. Maybe we should get some rest,” he says and I shake my head.

“Nah. M’gonna head outside for a bit.”

He looks over me and nods. “There’s probably people out there waiting for you.”

“Probably,” I agree and I grab a jacket and head outside, lighting up one of my fags and seeing the group of excited girls already waiting for me.

It’s funny. I hadn’t written anything for just me in a year. A whole year. A writer who only writes because they asked them to. Isn’t that strange? Sad?

My body hasn’t been right in years--been betraying me recently, slowly giving in to the decay of getting older and being an alcoholic. It’s gotten to the point that my throat gets so shot that every word I speak is a sharp razor I’m vomiting up. And my hands-God- my hands have had this persistent tremble--they're so cold. I'm just fucking so cold, not even dozens of fans or the promise of heat soon is enough to warm me up.

But tonight, tonight is not like any other night. Tonight I felt the buzz of this little town—I don't even know what the fuck it's called.

It's still cold outside, colder than I expected and there's a small group of fans. I expected more. Maybe people started losing hope, it's been so long since I've gone out to meet them. I head around them and onto the bus, grabbing The Letter from its shelter and shoving into a pocket before heading outside again.

They seem excited, maybe even....shocked when I come back.

“Matty!” One of the girls screams as soon as she spots me.

“Sh. Sh. Sh. No need to shout, love,” I say calmly and walk over to them.

They’re buzzing with excitement, their whole bodies matching my hands in the trembling. I wonder what it’s like to meet someone that you claim to love so deeply without really knowing anything about them. I almost envy them for those few moments.

The odd sound of a sniffle turns my attention from the louder ones to the one that’s quieter and subdued. Her eyes are shining and there’s a wet trail down her cheek, disappearing just under her jaw. She’s got a different look in her eye than the others.

I reach out for her and she comes easily, letting me wrap her up in an embrace. I don’t know why she’s crying. Maybe I’m her idol, or she’s overwhelmed cause I’m famous or some bullshit--or I remind her of her demons. Maybe my music’s helped her through them, I’ll never know. I won’t ask. I feel like it’s rude. But she doesn’t say anything and I hold her a bit tighter before I pull away and she smiles up at me.

“Don’t cry, love. You’re too pretty to cry,” I say gently and pat her cheek a bit awkwardly before letting my hand fall down from her face to grab the pen being offered to me to sign something.

“Life’s too short to drink crappy coffee and boy--

“I didn’t even say that, I swear,” I laugh and shake my head. “I don’t even know what that means. Like. Who--tumblr loves making shit up.”

“Yeah it does,” she agrees with a soft laugh.

“What made you come out tonight?” One of the girls asks.

I smile at her a bit and shrug, “just wanted to, I guess,” I reply, handing back one of the things I’ve signed.

“You're different.”

My eyebrows furrow and I look up to see the girl who had been crying, staring at her in confusion.

“I—I saw you perform a few months ago in a different venue, like, hours away. You came out but I was too scared to talk to you. You were different then,” she explains.

I can’t even respond to her for a few seconds, unsure how to, really. “When’d you see me perform?”

“Late November,” she responds.

Is...could it... “you saw me perform in November?”

“Yeah. I was so scared to talk to you, you’ve no idea. But I got my friend to give you the thing I had been dying to give you.”

“What's your name, Love?” I ask her, heart racing now.

“Beatrice. My friends call me Bee for short.”

Bee. Bees are bugs.

“Beatrice is a lovely name, Bee,” I compliment and she laughs. “What did you give me?” Please. Please. God. One chance to prove you’re there, old man. One. Give me the one thing I want.

“Oh, I’ve got a picture of it.”

I nod and lean in and she shows me a lovely picture that she drew of the band. I try not to let it hurt as much. It was a long shot, anyways. Who meets their soulmate at an impromptu meet and greet behind a music venue? God, Healy, you’re becoming stupid.

“Thanks for coming out girls,” I say lightly and wave as I walk off. I take out another fag and light up, walking away and down the road.

What do I even know? What do I know about The Writer? Not their name, or face, or anything.

But I do know it takes thirty-four steps to get from the artsy mural to the post office, they said so. They said they'd counted. Their town is small and picturesque, but like pictures, it never changes--it only ever withers down, refusing ever to be saved. Not even the changing times can change the way they think so they stay judgmental bigots.

And the Writer says that the lady at the library loves purple. She loves it so much, she wears it everyday.

I know they absolutely love and hate this town, hates how it is but loves it cause that's all they know. I know that they love and hate me. Hate me because I get a chance to escape from everything....and they love me. They love me. I can feel it. They don't love me in the way that others have before, where they see me as a broken hero. They love me for what I really am—or they could. They call me out on my shit, they do it all the time in The Letter.

I breathe in the smoke deep into my lungs, holding it there longer than usual before blowing it out. I know I could love them like they want to be loved, like they deserve. I sigh and take another hit from the fag.

But they could be anyone in this world. I don't know what they look like, I don't know if I'll like their nose. Maybe their nose is funny. Maybe they're nothing like I want in person. Maybe they're everything. It makes my heart ache and long for someone I don't know and for a place I'll never find. Maybe they're not even real.

La poesie est dans la rue. Poetry is in the street. Sometimes I think to myself how powerful that statement is and I always go back to that mural, knowing I can’t do that. But....but I do other things. I write. Poetry is in the street and not just in the mural......

That thought has me leaning against a building and smoking silently for a few minutes. I stomp out the rest of the cigarette and lean away from the building, looking back at it. Post office. A small post office in a little picturesque town.

I smile a bit, and to humor myself I turn around to look at where I was walking. No mural. Of course there wouldn't be one. I didn’t even get my hopes up for that one.

But then I turn my head to look in front of me again to smoke. The wind picks up and nips at my skin, drying out my lips to the point of pain. I reach into my pocket to grab the little chapstick when the top page of The Letter falls from my pocket and flies away in the angry wind.

“Stupid thing,” I grumble and run across the road and my chapstick follows suit, falling from my pocket and rolling under a dumpster. “You are not that important. I am not getting under there to get you. Freeze,” I tell it angrily before turning my attention to the lonely piece of paper, going over to pick it up gingerly. It’s when I’m standing back up again that I see it.

It knocks my breath away for a second cause right here in front of me is a giant mural on the side of the building, right across the post office.

About thirty four small steps to get to this spot if I counted. Which I do. Going back and forth several times to make sure.

Thirty four.

I think your music has helped me see that--helped me realize how much writing can affect someone. Yours has affected me so deeply, but I thank you for that because you’ve ignited this spark in me again, rekindled the dwindled and struggling little flame.

See I thought it had been lost forever, just like the mural’s artist is lost forever. They painted that mural in the middle of the night, feeling just as trapped and lonely as I was.Takes exactly 34 steps to get to it. I know. I’ve counted more times than I’d like to admit. It’s comforting to know someone in this world feels the same way about you.

Imagine stumbling upon it one day, this giant tree mural on the side of this building with shaky writing on top of it that just reads “I climbed the tree to see the world” and if you can fucking scale a building, I suggest doing it. I do it all the time. Well this building, to be exact.

I like to stand exactly where this artist stood, staring out at the little town that has drained and taken a lot from me. I stand here and I pretend I’m brave enough to just let go and jump. I don’t mean that literally--well. Maybe I do. But not right now-- maybe not off the building, but jump into the unknown. To leave and start over. To finally be free.

See I like to pretend I’m the artist with nothing left to lose except my mind.

I get to it, after recounting the fifth time, and my eyes widen, breath picking up as I stare at the massive artwork on the building. It’s a large tree. Actually large isn’t the correct word, it’s not enough. The tree covers practically the whole side of the building, with the words written off to the side.

The writer has been here. They’ve been here loads of times, climbed this same fucking tree.

My hands shake as I try to get a grip, noticing that there’s a simple way to get up there. It’s almost as if it was purposefully made to be able to be climbed. So I climb all the way to the top and notice that a bit of the leaves and stuff go up to the ledge and end in a semi-circle, looking vaguely like an open spot for a seat on the ledge, as if you’re sitting at the top of the tree.

I take the spot and look out and, yeah. Here it is. There’s the whole little town right below me, sleeping silently and so unaware of anything. My Writer must be out there too.

My teeth chatter in the cold and I hold on desperately to the ledge. It’s so dark out there, so quiet--so different than what I’m used to. The noise in London or on tour is deafening, suffocating. Here, the silence is haunting but calming. I see why the Writer would love this place.

“I climbed it. Like you said I should. I fucking did it,” I whisper. “I did it.”

I did it like the others have before me. First the artist, then the writer, now finally the musician.  So similar, yet so different. It’s almost like looking through a looking glass.

Every little thought that I’ve had comes pouring back in as I sit here, of all of the similarities me and The Writer share, the unspoken words shared between us, their soul that I keep tucked away at all times--hidden from everyone because it’s mine to guard and keep safe. I’ve felt crazy. I’ve felt so fucking alone. But here, here is where we’ve all come and shared the same experience. We’re all one in the same; we’re just sad, lonely people looking for love.

.....I held on to his fingertips, and he mine. Desperate to not let go and lose each other. We held on until the very last second, until my eyes finally found his again. That’s when I knew what this was, and the truth shot me straight through the chest: I couldn’t love him--I couldn’t fall in love with him.

And oblivion seems a lot nicer when you’re riding in the back of a van with friends, even if you’re still bleeding out from the gunshot wound. It’s a beautiful way to go, though. Surrounded by those you love. Even if I’m hurt and dying slowly, I get to have all of them.

But that’s what Robbers is. That’s what your music is. It’s a declaration of love, it’s growing up with friends you can’t imagine life without, it’s a juxtaposition to the archaic views of growing up. It’s fucking up. It’s knowing the world is a really fucking nasty place that will rip you to shreds and let you die slowly and painfully, but it’s just nice having pretty eyes full of love to stare into as you die.

It’s not being afraid. Taking what you can get, being with the other person and being with your friends. It’s knowing nothing else on earth really fucking matters. This love isn’t all or nothing.

It’s all AND nothing. All I’ve got is the love I give and get, but nothing else. This world is a trap and the only escape is love. It’s fucking oblivion, like I’ve been saying all along. Love is oblivion, oblivion is nothing, and nothing is your escape.

The only way out of this maze is going straight fucking through it, forget the lines, forget the rules. Go straight through and go out with a fucking bang with the people that matter, right? That’s why you don’t care about what people think of your band, or of your music, or of being famous and popular. You didn’t do this for them. You did this for you....

I don’t know how long I stay up there, honestly. It could’ve been seconds or years, but time was irrelevant then. All that mattered was The Letter. I was sitting where The Letter had been inspired from, it’s origin. Something in me settles with that new knowledge.

The climb back down from the tree to the ground is silent, I’m subdued when I return to the bus and everyone’s been waiting for me, already asking me where I got myself into. I can’t reply to them, I don’t.

My brain is on overdrive, the need to get down what’s in my head onto something tangible is too great to have a petty conversation like that. The Writer needs a response, they need my reply. I need to give it to them.....