Chapter 13: Restless Heart Syndrome

(2706 words)

I sighed as I walked through my damp smelling, dreadful and dreary dark hallway, heading toward my room. My heavy, purposeless steps echoed off those walls in a depressingly muffled way. Finally, I reached the end of the hall -- and thus, my old bedroom.

Why did Tré break up with me?

For the same reasons that I would have broken up with me.

It was the riot, the sheer number of those who had died -- it was that, plain and simple. He felt like he couldn't believe me anymore, not after what I'd done, after what I'd been the cause of. I could barely trust myself, for that matter. I still didn't know whether it was rational, however, considering the fact that he said he'd be with me through it all. How rational was Tré, and how rational was I?

I sighed and flopped down on my old, creaky, lonely bed. It felt colder and emptier more than ever now, as my only blanket was the sickening knowledge that Tré was not only a text message away. I felt so lonely and isolated now, as seconds trickled by like slow raindrops pattering on a window in April. It was simply unbearable, to be so alone now. And this was just the first stage of grief -- denial, pretending that it never happened, that we were still a couple, that we were the unstoppable Christian and Gloria, the resistance leaders Gloria and Christian.

Of course, as I stated, this stage was called denial. I was just playing make believe, hoping that if I thought it hard enough, that it would become real. That is a reasonable enough belief to hold, honestly, but I knew it wouldn't work on me, for I was far less attuned than most people, and I could tell that it wasn't going to help me. It was useless to hope for something you knew would never happen.

He'll never really get what is wrong with you, said the majority, booming, pessimist side of my mind. He'll never understand.

I agreed with my brain just then, as my heart was telling me to do the impossible -- to go back to his house and try to make amends, or at least patch it up enough to be a so called friendship. It seemed to not know the fundamental rules of all breakups, gay or straight:
1. Don't try talking to each other until at least a month has passed.
2. Don't try to be friends; and
3. Don't try to get together again.

Well, at least I didn't just disappear like Whatsername had. At least I was still around, albeit reluctantly. At least I didn't leave him a good bye and or breakup letter (make that, letterbomb) and just go away. I wanted to go away, but I really couldn't, not then. I couldn't leave until the news of the riot had passed and I looked sufficiently unrecognizably different.

I sighed and stood up, my legs and arms feeling like they were rusted in place, and stepped out of bed onto a pile of thick clothing. Thick, dirty, clothing. Deciding that the shirt I'd been wearing for the past twenty four or so hours was ruined enough already for it to be worn while dying my hair, I kept it on as I trudged out of my room. I slid my bloody, torn, half burnt jeans off as I did so, deciding to just go through with it half naked. I didn't particularly want to wear them anymore, anyway. I could just remember Tré's rough hands running up and down the dark denim as he kissed me.

I shuddered as I stepped over... well, I don't know, but I stepped over something big and dark in the hallway as I walked down to the ever familiar bathroom. I turned right mechanically, opening the door and flicking on the light. In front of me stood the shower and to the left of me was the sink and toilet. It was a decent bathroom, not too clean, but not too dirty either. I reached under the sink and grabbed, at random, a small, unopened box of hair dye.

Just my luck -- it was blonde and blonde was the stark inverse of black (like my hair was at the time). It would be perfect to conceal my identity with. To just let my hair grow out a bit and to have it be blonde. Not spiked black hair. Smooth blonde hair and much less makeup than before. No one would recognize me as either Gloria or the Saint Jimmy if I walked around randomly. It was the perfect disguise, and from then on (I decided) I would be just Billie Joe Armstrong.

Smiling to my reflection, I opened the box and pulled out the bottle of peroxide. Shaking my hair a bit, I decided to take a quick shower to not just wet it, but to get the hair gel out. It was a good idea, really -- it would be awkward trying to dye my hair if it was stiff and very dry, not to mention quite greasy and covered with sweat at the nape of my neck.

I turned on the water, letting it flow and warm up, as I undressed. All I had to do, really, was pull off my tee shirt and yank down my boxers.

It felt weird to be naked in my own house again. To be naked and very much alone, here.
I felt vulnerable and still very lonely.

The good thing about showers was that no one could tell if you were crying in a shower. I pulled the curtain aside and just stepped in, feeling the hot water run over my skin and wash off the caked on dirt, my sweat, and the mixed blood of myself and others from the riot. I put my dusty, soot covered hands under the stream and watched them as the black stuff slid down the drain, watching as the marks I'd received in the riot were cleaned up and watched as my dark but somehow still pale skin was slowly revealed under the shower.

I smiled as it all went down the drain, smiled as the blackish reddish brown gunk drained out of the small pool at my feet washed down the drain, swirling slightly and leaving no mark. I smiled as the marks of that damned, bloody day washed away. I smiled as the marks of my martyrdom slid off my arms and cycled down into the sewer. I smiled and I washed clean.

However, it was a bittersweet and lonely smile as I remembered being alone. It was almost as if I had been pretending that Tré was next to me as it all washed away, that in a minute, his arms would snake around my waist and I would turn around and kiss him and we'd have sex right there, under the stream of hot water. I remembered that that was unlikely to happen anymore, that I'd probably never see Tré again, that I would be alone again... alone for what felt like the rest of my life. A few tears, cold against my water warmed cheeks, slid down and into the drain, followed by a whole stream. I choked and coughed and tried to breathe through my sobs as the water around me slowly grew colder. I could tell, from the limpness of my hair, that all the gel was washed out, but I didn't care and I just stood under the spray. As my sobs grew in intensity, I sank to my knees.

Now, the water seemed to be at its coldest, but I didn't care. Nothing could be warm again unless Tré was there with me, either in body or in spirit. I could feel the water falling over my skin and splatter onto the floor like blood from an open wound, but I could really care less. I just stood there, feeling sorry for myself.

Once my sobs had subsided enough for me to stand up without my legs giving out on me, I stood and turned off the water. I stepped out from behind the closed shower curtain, being hit by a wall of sudden cold wind. I shivered but ignored it, quickly drying myself off with a probably dirty towel and putting my shirt and underpants back on. I dried my eyes as much as I could and walked back over to the mirrored sink, picking up the hair dye and opening the first bottle.

Hair dye smells terrible.

Carefully as I could with my shaking hands, I mixed it all together into a small bowl that I kept in the bathroom for that specific purpose. It was a creamy off white color -- and once it was in my hair and set and everything, it would be perfect. Wiping my eyes once more with the sleeve of my black shirt, I put on the two flimsy gloves. I carefully started to smear the dye into my dark (for that moment) hair like I would with shampoo, conditioner, or any odd mix of the two. It smeared in quietly and as soon as I finished putting it all in, there was none left and I made sure that I got all of my hair. I stood there and waited for what felt like the sufficient ten minutes, and I was sure that it was.

Smiling even though I was about at the edge, I turned the shower back on and grabbed the tiny bottle of conditioner that was specifically for hair dye setting in stuff, I stripped once again and stepped back in, washing the excess dye out. Once it had all drained out, I took off the gloves, watching them hit the ground with a sickening splash. Then, I ran the conditioner through my hair, pouring the bottle of white stuff through each strand and coating it all in whole. Once I thought it was good enough, I waited for about five minutes, quietly singing to myself. I washed it out then, running my fingers through my hair and making sure it was all out.

The water was frigid, but I didn't care.

Once it was all out and my hair was perfectly clean, I stepped out of the shower and dried off once more, with the same dirty towel, and then used an old, holey washcloth to wrap my short hair with. I got dressed once more before in the boxers and the white splattered black shirt before stepping in front of the mirror and letting my hair down.

It was perfect. I looked different -- in fact, I could barely recognize myself.

I smiled once more, feeling a bit more confident, before running my fingers through my still wet hair. I put all the hair dye stuff back in the box, only lightly closing the bottle, before switching off the light and walking out. I shut the door and went into the musty old kitchen, throwing the stuff away.

Did you know that if you close a bottle of mixed hair dye, the chemicals and gases and stuff trapped in there will make it explode? It's true -- I've seen it before, it's not pretty -- and so I'm always careful to make sure that it will not explode.

Confident that the used hair dye would not explode, I walked back to my room, almost tripping over the thing that was barricading the hall -- just an old box. I vaguely wondered what it was doing there.

I laid back down on my bed, wet hair spread around my face like a halo. My pillow slowly soaked up the water as I closed my eyes and thought over the day.

Tré... he was a fucking moron for having broken up with me. I couldn't believe how easily he went back on his words. Fiery rage against him ripped through my veins and I shot up, looking around the dark room. Stumbling to my door once more, I just turned on the light and looked around the room for a sufficient murder weapon. My head suddenly cleared and I recognized what I was doing.

I was still mad at Tré though, mad that he could just abandon me like that. Mad that he wasn't there right now, helping me through my self loathing. I was mad that he was just as mad at me as I was at myself. I grumbled incoherently, sitting down at my desk and pulling out some loose paper.

I determined then that he would never really understand me. He... would... never... ever... understand... what I had gone through. Between trying to get my hands on anything I could to Whatsername leaving me, to having no parents, not really, and always being alone... he would never understand, he could never comprehend what I had endured and what I still endured every day then.

It felt impossible, since he caused me so much pain.

It seemed impossible.

I stood up and walked to my small dresser. I picked up a small container of sleeping pills and grabbed two. Two. Just two... I really, honestly did not want to kill myself. I was upset, but I didn't want to die.

I sat back down at my desk, grabbing a pencil and putting it to the paper.

The burning still raged through my veins, from my heart. I still couldn't sleep. Not yet.

It was half angry, half soft, half blaming him and half blaming me. It was what I decided to call Restless Heart Syndrome. I smiled to myself... yes... and started writing down my feelings.

"I‘ve got a really bad disease. It‘s got me begging on my hands and knees. So take me to emergency, cause something seems to be missing. Somebody take the pain away… it‘s like an ulcer bleeding in my brain. So send me to the pharmacy, so I can lose my memories.
“I‘m elated, medicated. God knows I‘ve tried to find a way… to run away…
“I think they‘ve found another cure for broken hearts and feeling insecure. You‘d be surprised what I endure… what makes you feel so self assured?
“I need to find a place to hide -- you never know what could be waiting outside. The antidote that you might find… it‘s like some kind of suicide.
“So what ails you… is what impales you. I feel like I‘ve been crucified… to be satisfied.
“I‘m a victim of my symptom. I am my own worst enemy. You‘re the victim of your symptom. You are your own worst enemy… know your enemy."

It was perfect... it was just how I felt. I scribbled down a title to this half poem, half song at the top of the paper... I called it Restless Heart Syndrome, just like the disease that I thought, that I knew I had.

I smiled to myself, sadly, bitterly, I smiled over the paper as the tears began to fall again.

It seemed impossible, but I still loved him.

As the sleeping pill started to take effect, I stumbled over to my bed and collapsed, my thoughts drifting off to sleep.

And yet, I still loved Tré.

*

I awoke the next morning, groggy and still depressed. I was only half awake then, and I had temporarily forgotten why I was so damn upset.

My cell phone was next to me, on for who knows what reason, showing low battery -- and a new text. I plugged it in and opened it, looking at the text.

The sender was Davey Havok, a name that sounded only half familiar to me. The message itself read: “Billie Joe -- meet me at the ice cream parlor café thing, next Monday (July 1st). 4 PM. We need to talk. xoxo Whatsername.”

Oh, yeah. Whatsername’s name was Davey. I knew that.

I shut down my cell phone after setting the date on its internal calendar. I was still groggy and depressed, but half awake so I decided to just wake up for the day.

Then I remembered why I was depressed, groaned, and laid back down, effectively falling asleep.