And You Can't Tell Anyone (Track Twelve: III) 2, chapter 39

All this misery was just too much. He could not stand it anymore. It was sucking the life out of everything. Nothing seemed to exist but a grey pallor. Time seemed to drain away, yet simultaneously never seem to move. Sometimes he'd look at his watch, and the time would not have changed. Other times, as he did now, he would look out the window and realize the sun was falling from the sky.

I'm such an idiot. Why the hell did I let it happen? I let it happen! I stood there and just fucking let it happen. Then, I did that thing with the fucking vent. That probably pushed her over.

Tré sighed for what felt like the thousandth time.

"Damn, I need a drink," he muttered.

Billie Joe ceased biting the side of his index finger to reply, "Tell me about it." He rolled head, causing his neck to crack sharply. "Let's go get pissed. At least if I'm drunk, maybe I can forget this shit for a moment."

Hesitantly, Tré scratched the end of his roman nose. "Should we go get Mike?"

The guitarist's eyes flickered over to the hallway and then dropped to the floor. "I don't--well, yeah. Go get him. He's been shut up in there all day."

Timidly, Tré crept down the hall to Mike's room, his feet scuffing on the floor. The door was shut, but Tré had not expected any different. He gently knocked upon the door and waited for a response. None came.

"Mike?"

Nothing.

"Hey, Mike?"

Silence.

Tré cautiously opened the door. Peering inside, he first saw Mike's hand. It was tremulously holding a knife. Tré almost bolted inside, but stopped himself when he realized what the bassist was not intent on slashing his wrists.

With silent, blind deliberation, Mike picked up a photo and sawed through it with the blade. After he had two halves, he crushed one and placed it on the floor on top a pile of similarly mangled papers. With the same empty motions, he ripped another photo and another after that. Tré raised his eyebrows as Mike took a lighter and set the small pile alight. Only after the photos threw up a tongue of fire did the bassist acknowledge Tré with a glazed stare.

"What are you doing?"

Mike blinked slowly and looked back to the dwindling fire.

"Hey, uh, I was wondering if you want to go out drinking with Billie and me." Tré fidgeted uncomfortably as Mike kept silent. "C'mon man. You'll see her again. Trust me. Why not we go blur it out?"

Mike shook his head only fractionally.

"Are you sure? It's not that bad, man. You could hop on a plane after her." As soon as the words left his mouth, Tré knew he had made a mistake.

Way to go smart-ass. We don't have the cash, and we don't know where the hell she is. That's a fact that's probably grinding at him right now.

Mike winced, but said nothing.

"Well," Tré mumbled, "Me an' Billie are going out so...uh, yeah."

Head down, the drummer shuffled back to the living room. Billie Joe looked up expectantly and then sighed when Tré shook his head.

"Fine," Billie Joe muttered. "Let's go then. I can take this any more."

Twenty minutes later, both boys were seated in the nearest bar to their house. Some sort of pathetic woman with no sense of rhythm was attempting to sing a song in a flat tone. Everyone was too drunk or too out of it to care about her abilities. In Tré's mind, being able to sense such a thing indicated that he was much too sober.

This beer is just too damn watery. Two and a half of them just doesn't cut it.

Billie Joe slid out of his chair. "Watch my drink, I gotta go take a piss."

Tré nodded, rubbed his forehead, and resumed guzzling his beer. All too soon nothing but air met his lips. Grumbling incoherently about how the bottles seemed to be getting smaller, Tré plunked the bottle down on the table.

A waiter that he could have sworn he recognized from somewhere came over. "You look pretty cheery. Want another shot of the good ol' liquid courage? God, when there's a break up it affects everyone, doesn't it? Right after a dance too."

Tré's eyes narrowed. "What break up? Who told you there was one?"

A surprised expression darted across the waiter's face. He swallowed and stuttered a bit before explaining, "Well, you know, I'm a friend of Mike's. I know about him and his girl. Seems like them breaking up would result in you sitting here."

"Yeah, but how would you know they broke up after the dance?" Tré lurched to his feet. Immediately, the waiter shifted his weight backwards. "You son of a bitch, it was you in the car."

The waiter paled. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Tré shook his head in disgust. "Don't fuck around with me. You dressed up like Mike to scare off Wren."

"I--I--"

"What's up?" Billie Joe had returned from the bathroom. He crossed his arms and glared at the waiter.

"This guy," Tré jerked a thumb at the waiter, who flinched, "was just getting into how he's responsible for Wren leaving."

A snarl curled Billie Joe's lip. "Let's go to the parking lot for a bit of privacy."

Roughly, the band members each seized one of the waiter's shoulders and escorted him outside. No one was in the parking lot to give them a second glance as they forcibly removed the waiter to stand beside Billie Joe's car.

Tré gave the waiter a shove. "Speak up now. How'd you know what he was doing? No, wait." Tré paused to take a deep breath. "Why the hell did you do it?" he bellowed.

"Because it was only fair." The waiter was shivering. It was either caused by the cool evening air, or the menacing looks Billie Joe and Tré were sending his direction.

"Fair?" Billie Joe's voice was high with incredulity. "Destroying his relationship was fair? For what?"

"He cost me my job. He brought the cops down on my bar."

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," Tré snapped. "How the hell do you think he did that?"

"Me an' a bunch of the people at the Last Nite got a phone call," the waiter growled. "It said he was working for the cops in order to get out of some charges or something. Assault, I think it was. I got told if I wanted revenge, there'd be some cash in it for me."

"Was it a girl who called you?" Billie Joe demanded.

"Yeah. So?"

Tré ground his teeth. "She made all that shit up. The assault shit--it was Mike who was the assaultee, not the fucking assaulter--came after the bar shoot up. Did you ever think to just ask first instead of going all super spy waiter guy? How did you know where he'd be? How'd you know he wouldn't be in the car?"

"He was talking about it one night. I listened in, heard all about the costume and shit. That's all I knew, the rest was just a bit of luck."

Billie shoved the waiter into the car. "Truth. Not lies."

The waiter blurted, "She told me what might be going down and I acted on it." He flashed at Tré, "You're no saint yourse--"

"Shut up!" Tré aggressively thrust his face inches from the waiter's. "You fucking asshole, you sick minded, mother humping..." He trailed off into a serious of creative profanities. Trying to leash his fury, Tré walked a few steps away. His temper got a hold of him instead, and he flew into the waiter's face again. "Damn it! This is just—arrrghh! Get lost!"

Quickly the waiter scurried away into the bar, leaving Tré fuming. Furiously, he kicked the gravel of the parking lot. "All that for some stupid, God damn job."

He made a few wordless noises of vexation. A scowl marred his face as he noticed a smile on Billie Joe's.

"What the hell are you grinning about?"

"Well, Wren said she'd call me. When she does, we can just explain it all, and she can come back."

Tré lifted his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Yeah. Everything'll be fine." A small crease formed between the guitarist's brows. "I hope."