Chapter Six: Tre's Inferno

April 25th, 2013.

Today, all five colleges that I applied to sent out their replies. All five of them were rejections. My GPA is so bad that I got rejected from five fucking colleges. I’m officially college less. No job for me, eh?

Fucking great. I have to stay in the grip of this Hell for longer? I’d rather die!

When I opened them to go over what was wrong with my résumés, I found that they were all shredded neatly, strips of white paper at the bottom of my envelope.
I ripped the rest up.

You’d never be able to tell that they were ever whole!

I didn’t even apply to any colleges -- not with the Class of Thirteen to take care of, my spotty history, my criminal record, and my low GPA -- but I pitied Tré immensely.

As I continued to flip through his notebook, going April through May, my feelings of pity for my boyfriend intensified. Along with this pity, his words inspired me. Already, on a sheet of neatly lined paper torn out of the diary, I had started to write a poem that I tentatively called Christian’s Inferno:
“I got under the grip between this modern Hell. I got the rejection letter in the mail, it was already ripped to shreds…”

May 15th, 2013.

Something good finally happened to me, thank whatever higher power that may or may not exist.

I met Gloria.

I’d say that she’s nice, but Gloria’s actually a guy. His name is Billie Joe Armstrong (god. His name is so cute) and I met him at my graduation.

I kissed him -- I fuckin’ Frenched him -- to shut him up.

That was the best night of my hellish 19 years of existence.

We’re going out on a date on Saturday.

So he felt what I’d felt? I was so happy that he’d been just as happy as me, feeling just as perfect and wonderful.

Fucking glorious.

May 18th, 2013.

My date with Billie, or Gloria, went so well.

We ended up kissing and pissing everyone off, then we ended up screaming at everyone, arguing, et cetera. Then we kissed again.

I’m definitely falling for him.

I think I may love him already.

Is this just the hormones or Opal speaking, or is it really me? I wish I knew.

I wished I knew, too.

June 1st, 2013.

Billie’s been practically living here. He says that it’s a lot nicer than his house.

Today, I tried out some pill that my Opal dealer -- Mr Ian Woon, he’s called -- gave me. It was awful and bitter and shit like that. Then, the glass holding the water that I was drinking broke and shattered glass cut my mouth open.

I wish that I had a better handle on my life.

I want to be less gullible. Damn this Opal shit. I’m so fucking sick of it. I’m sick of feeling the heat travel underneath my skin whenever I take it. I’m sick of wanting to cut cut cut to get it all out.

But Opal makes it all go away… and I feel so much better… but so much worse at the same time.

Fuck my life.

“…Seasons in ruin and this bitter pill is chased by blood. There’s fire in my veins and it’s pouring out like a flood. This is Christian’s inferno…” Even more poetic words filled my head.

June 5th, 2013

Today I had to talk to my mom. And I pissed her off majorly.

I’m sorry mom, that I’m not perfect. I’m sorry I don’t have a job. I’m sorry I failed school. I’m sorry I’m not going to college. I’m sorry, mother, that I am your accident. You whore.

Except… I’m not really sorry now. I guess. Sadly enough, I guess, I couldn’t give a shit about either of my so called parents.

I feel good about that.

I’m glad I’m destroying this household from the inside out.

I’m glad.

I am fucking glad.

“…This diabolic state is gracing my existence. Like a catastrophic baby. Maybe you’re my chemical reaction. I am the atom bomb. I am your chosen one. Toxin your reservoir and then return man to ape. This is Christian’s inferno.”

All of it was based off of his diary entries -- except for the atom bomb/chosen one line. That was straight out of the Memoirs of the Jesus of Suburbia.

Still more things I didn’t like talking about.

According to his diary, Tré was raised in a Christian household. He knew about the religion, and started to stop going to church when he was 18 and actually could choose not to go. He didn’t agree with his parents.

Funny that I nicknamed him Christian now, huh?

I leafed through the inky pages of Tré’s most private and personal thoughts, peeking into his life, into his drug addled soul and heart and mind. He was insane, but then again, so was I. We seemed to be the perfect match. If I told him my story, maybe he’d become clean. He’d have motivation.

Then again, when you’re hooked on something to take your pain away, you don’t have motivation. It’s a numb and seemingly clear (although actually very foggy) mirror that you start to see through your eyes with.

June 15th, 2013.

Today is me and Billie’s first month anniversary. He’s gonna come over later. I don’t wanna go all withdrawal on him… I’m going to smoke some of my supply of Opal.

Damn, am I running low again? I’ll have to see Mr Ian Woon soon enough to get some more.

As I continued to look into his soul through paper, a few tears fell down my cheeks, almost definitely starting to smear my eyeliner. Tré’s life -- his inferno, really -- was so similar to mine that it was almost scary. He really had no father, and his mother was so emotionally distant. He practically raised himself, just as I had, and he’d ended up in a very similar situation to the one I’d been in -- well, except for the fact that he didn’t run away and fall in so called ‘love’ with the leader of the Revolution. Well, maybe him falling in love with me counted for that.

Suddenly, I was surprised by a warm presence behind me. Slim, familiar arms wrapped around my waist, and someone lay there forehead on the back of my own head. It only took me a second to realize that Tré stood behind me now.

“Hey, Billie Joe,” he whispered warmly in my ear, his hot breath snaking around my cheek and down my neck, raising the little hairs on my exposed skin.

“Hey, Christian.”

That was the first time I called him by his nickname.

I liked it, too.

“Christian? Where the hell did ya get that?”

“You know… I don’t know. I mean, it’s your Class of Thirteen code name. It goes well with Gloria, too.”

“Hmm,” Tré pondered for a minute. He was so damn cute sometimes, even though he was somewhat of a maniac. “I like it, too. Christian and Gloria. Gloria and Christian.”

He sighed, breathing onto my hair and ruffling the slightly curly black mop and blowing some into my face.

“What’s wrong?”

I could read him like a book, even when he was behind me. I knew something was up. I could tell he wasn’t mad at me anymore, too.

“I’m sorry that I blew up at you.”

“It’s okay,” I said.

“No, it’s not,” Tré insisted. “I really shouldn’t have done that. I mean -- well, it wasn’t me, really. Really. Do you believe me?”

“Of course I believe you, Tré.”

I could feel him smiling. “I’m glad you do. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Tré’s warm hands traveled lower, lightly over my stomach and down to my legs, soft as butterflies.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, either. I love you, Tré.”

And with that phrase, I smiled, gently placing his diary back on his bed, and turned to kiss Tré.