The Real Story, chapter 2
Dear Billie Joe, I'm the son of rage and love, the Jesus of Suburbia. This is how I'm known from where I'm from. That is, Jingletown, USA. At least that's what we call it. And when I mean we, I mean the town. It's so rundown and shitty, it's practically wiped off the map. So we just call it Jingletown. I never found out the real name, and I don't plan to. Anyway, my life is shit, too. I live with my mom and all she does is get drunk every night. You think my dad would do something about it, but that's just it. I don't have a dad. I don't know what happened to him and my mom never talks about him.
Sure, I disapprove of her getting drunk, but that doesn't mean I don't do it. I mean, at one point, I would never ever get drunk, but it's the only thing that would keep me happy. Besides the drugs. Yes, drugs too. Kind of hypocritical, huh? Even Mom never uses cocaine, But what could I do? I had to cope somehow.
Oh, yeah, I'm a ring leader of a gang. Well, founder more like. I'm not much of a leader. The group is called the Disciples. It's a group I started after I gave up on everything--my mom quitting drinking, hope for this town, just...everything. We believe--or I did, more like--that hope was bullshit. Nothing was gonna save us from this town or the end of the world or anywhing. Every moral, every positive lesson was a lie, only used to cover up the real world and the pain it had. Tweleve people listened to me (ironic, very) and that's how the Disciples got started. And that's how I got the name Jesus--Jesus of Suburbia. Now there's more people in the Disciples, spreading the "message" of lost hope.
"And what about "Rage and Love"?" You may ask. Here in Jingletown, everyone knows each other's buisness. Like about me and my mom. They know I love her so much that I try to help her with the alchohol, but sometimes I only help her out of embarrassment and rage, so hence the term.
I think that's it for introductions. Now time for what you've been waiting for: the week leading up to my running away.
One night, me and a couple of friends were at a rave. My mom didn't care, she was probably getting drunk somewhere. We were just having fun and I was with my girlfriend. Her hair is blonde, but she wears a bright red wig over it.
Anyway, it started to get real late and I felt a huge hangover coming, so I decided to go home. I was passing by a neighbor's house when I saw my mom piss-ass drunk inside the house. People were laughing around her and I grew flushed: they were probably laughing at her. I sighed and went through the open front door.
"Mom," I said, pushing people out of her face.
"Oh, hey son," she giggled, her bloodshot eyes trying to focus on me.
"Mom, you've had enough. Let's go home now." I coaxed.
"Hell no! The party's just getting started," she said, clumsily getting up.
"Mom, just listen to me and let's go!"
"No, you go home!"
I grabbed her and started to drag her through the door. Yes, sometimes it leads to dragging. She resisted and tried to break free, but I had a hold of her.
It went on like this—the kicking, the screaming, the curses—for another two blocks. Neighbors kept coming out to tell us to shut up. Finally, we got to the house and I dragged her on the couch. Soon, she fell asleep.
Exhausted and drunk myself, I went to my room and collapsed on the bed and didn't wake up until late the next morning.
My mom was waiting for me in the living room with a plate of breakfast. Oh, joy; I love stale bread and old eggs to start the day.
"Who do you think you are?" She asked.
"Your face," I answered coldly. If she didn't give a damn, then neither did I.
"Are you, what, Jesus nailed to the cross, dying for my sins?" I smirked a little.
So, maybe she's heard what the neighbors have been saying about me and my fruitless attempts to have her not drunk at least for one night.
"And I'm the loser?" She continued. "I'm the loser you die for? If that's so, you're the son of a loser with no one to die for your sins in hell."
I couldn't believe she said that. I threw the plate at her and stood up.
"You're pathetic," I said, and walked out of the house. I was fuming, but also, it made me realize that Mom was right. Who was dying for my sins in hell? I try saving Mom from her drunken state and made others realize the truth and saved them from the lies, but who was saving me?
I kept walking until I saw my girlfriend leaning on the wall of the 7-11.
"Hey," I said glumly.
"Hey," she said back. "What's wrong?" I told her what happened that morning. She listened; usually she was the one I would turn to for advice. And usually, it was good advice.
"Don't worry about it. There's nothing wrong with you; this is how you're supposed to be. No one needs to die for you." This made me feel better. To get me in a better mood, we decided to trash the 7-11. We went in and opened bags of chips and flung them everywhere. We then took whipped cream and sprayed it everywhere. To end things I pulled out the sodas, shook them, and opened them, spraying the aisles with soda. Won't the shop keeper be surprised when he comes back from his lunch break? Yeah, it should be locked or someone watching it, but that's Jingletown: no one locks their doors.
Afterwards, I told her I had to go to the bathroom and wait outside for me. The 7-11 bathroom was where I would vent everything I felt. I had some paints in my pockets and I'd just start writing all over the walls. Like right now, I was pissed as hell at my mom and then and there, I decided that I wouldn't care anymore about what she thought. I wouldn't care how drunk she would get. And for a bonus, the town didn't care about the problems it had either, so why should I or anybody else? You wanna know why? The town was dead, so why bother caring about a dead city where it had hungry kids with dirty faces that no one tried to fix? I vented that feeling onto the wall, too. I also wrote some lies like "Home is where your heart is." That was a huge lie right there. Everyone's heart doesn't beat the same and I'm damn sure mine doesn't.
Feeling a lot better, I went outside and that good feeling went away instantly.
My girlfriend was making out with some guy. And not like drunk making out, but really making out.
"What the hell are you doing?!" I yelled. She broke from him and her eyes went wide when she saw me. I sprinted towards them and socked the dude in the face. Blood splattered from his nose. I went in for a second attack, but he got me in the stomach. Onlookers were rooting us on, while others tried to pry us apart. Eventually, they did.
As they took him away, he yelled, "She loves me now! She's carrying my child!" I turned to her, angry and upset.
"I wanted to tell you earlier," she tried to say, "but you were upset and—". Before she could explain even further, I ran to my house. Everything was too much. People were full of shit nowadays, and now I knew why. Hypocrites had raised them who supposedly had "morals", and now their result was backstabbing, shitty people who made other backstabbing, shitty people miserable.
As soon as I got home, I locked myself in my room and didn't come out for four days. All I ate was a supply of Ritalin since I had no more cocaine, and soda pop. I was emotionally hurt by my mom, and now, my "girlfriend". I didn't understand why this was happening to me. Everything I thought I knew was now showing their true colors.
Not able to take it anymore, I unlocked my room and went to the hangout where my now "ex-girlfriend" was sleeping at. It's basically an abandoned overpass where most of the kids slept when they wanted to be away from home.
I looked around for her, and many people were surprised to see me. They hadn't seen me for days and thought I had committed suicide.
I finally found her in a beat-up old recliner, but at first, I didn't recognize her. She wasn't wearing her usual bright pink wig and purple lipstick. And she wasn't wearing her usual black pants and black tank top; instead she had on sweats and her stomach looked slightly larger than the last time I saw her. That's when I confirmed the worst: she was pregnant, and I knew that it wasn't my kid.
I went to her and stared into her eyes.
"Explain why you did this to me," I said, my voice bitter and cold. She didn't flinch at all.
"I love him. What else is there to say?"
"Other than you fucked him? How long have you kept this from me?"
"Almost half a year." Half a year. I was with her for a year. She had been stringing me along for half that time.
"What was I to you?"
"You'll be a great memory." There was a pause.
"I never loved you," I whispered softly. And I walked away from her.
She lied to me. Never knew what was going on behind my back, and when she said that she loved me in those times, they were lies too. They were a hurricane of lies and I needed to escape them.
I went to the 7-11 and into the bathroom. I saw that they had painted over my graffiti. The paint was still wet, but I took no notice. Taking the last bit of red crayon I had, I wrote "St. Jimmy" in big letters. I don't know why; it was the first name that came to my head.
Afterwards, I found a nail file on top of the sink. I took it and slowly cut my left palm with it. I squeezed my hand so that the blood would spread. I then slammed my hand next to "St. Jimmy", leaving a bloody handprint. My hand stung a little, but I didn't care. I ran home and started packing. I just threw clothes in; I needed to get away to anywhere but here. My mom came in and saw me. She didn't do anything; she just stood in the doorway, watching me throw clothes into the bag.
When I was done, I pushed passed her and went outside to the car. Mom slowly followed me and by the time she was out, I had started the engine.
"Wait!" She finally called out. Sighing I decided to see what she had to say and get it over with. I got out of the car and before I could do anything, she threw her arms around me and hugged me.
"I'm sorry. You're right. I am pathetic. I should be grateful for what you've been doing for me. I promise I'll change.
I pushed her away. She had said that a million times and I had believed her those million times, but they were all lies. So what makes this one any different? The million and one time she tells me that, I'm not gonna fall for it. Not this time.
I slid back in the car and drove away, leaving her standing in the driveway. I didn't feel any shame, she deserved it. She never protected me from pain when I was victimized and hurt. So I had to run away from my broken home. I was leaving home... and her.
Sure, I disapprove of her getting drunk, but that doesn't mean I don't do it. I mean, at one point, I would never ever get drunk, but it's the only thing that would keep me happy. Besides the drugs. Yes, drugs too. Kind of hypocritical, huh? Even Mom never uses cocaine, But what could I do? I had to cope somehow.
Oh, yeah, I'm a ring leader of a gang. Well, founder more like. I'm not much of a leader. The group is called the Disciples. It's a group I started after I gave up on everything--my mom quitting drinking, hope for this town, just...everything. We believe--or I did, more like--that hope was bullshit. Nothing was gonna save us from this town or the end of the world or anywhing. Every moral, every positive lesson was a lie, only used to cover up the real world and the pain it had. Tweleve people listened to me (ironic, very) and that's how the Disciples got started. And that's how I got the name Jesus--Jesus of Suburbia. Now there's more people in the Disciples, spreading the "message" of lost hope.
"And what about "Rage and Love"?" You may ask. Here in Jingletown, everyone knows each other's buisness. Like about me and my mom. They know I love her so much that I try to help her with the alchohol, but sometimes I only help her out of embarrassment and rage, so hence the term.
I think that's it for introductions. Now time for what you've been waiting for: the week leading up to my running away.
One night, me and a couple of friends were at a rave. My mom didn't care, she was probably getting drunk somewhere. We were just having fun and I was with my girlfriend. Her hair is blonde, but she wears a bright red wig over it.
Anyway, it started to get real late and I felt a huge hangover coming, so I decided to go home. I was passing by a neighbor's house when I saw my mom piss-ass drunk inside the house. People were laughing around her and I grew flushed: they were probably laughing at her. I sighed and went through the open front door.
"Mom," I said, pushing people out of her face.
"Oh, hey son," she giggled, her bloodshot eyes trying to focus on me.
"Mom, you've had enough. Let's go home now." I coaxed.
"Hell no! The party's just getting started," she said, clumsily getting up.
"Mom, just listen to me and let's go!"
"No, you go home!"
I grabbed her and started to drag her through the door. Yes, sometimes it leads to dragging. She resisted and tried to break free, but I had a hold of her.
It went on like this—the kicking, the screaming, the curses—for another two blocks. Neighbors kept coming out to tell us to shut up. Finally, we got to the house and I dragged her on the couch. Soon, she fell asleep.
Exhausted and drunk myself, I went to my room and collapsed on the bed and didn't wake up until late the next morning.
My mom was waiting for me in the living room with a plate of breakfast. Oh, joy; I love stale bread and old eggs to start the day.
"Who do you think you are?" She asked.
"Your face," I answered coldly. If she didn't give a damn, then neither did I.
"Are you, what, Jesus nailed to the cross, dying for my sins?" I smirked a little.
So, maybe she's heard what the neighbors have been saying about me and my fruitless attempts to have her not drunk at least for one night.
"And I'm the loser?" She continued. "I'm the loser you die for? If that's so, you're the son of a loser with no one to die for your sins in hell."
I couldn't believe she said that. I threw the plate at her and stood up.
"You're pathetic," I said, and walked out of the house. I was fuming, but also, it made me realize that Mom was right. Who was dying for my sins in hell? I try saving Mom from her drunken state and made others realize the truth and saved them from the lies, but who was saving me?
I kept walking until I saw my girlfriend leaning on the wall of the 7-11.
"Hey," I said glumly.
"Hey," she said back. "What's wrong?" I told her what happened that morning. She listened; usually she was the one I would turn to for advice. And usually, it was good advice.
"Don't worry about it. There's nothing wrong with you; this is how you're supposed to be. No one needs to die for you." This made me feel better. To get me in a better mood, we decided to trash the 7-11. We went in and opened bags of chips and flung them everywhere. We then took whipped cream and sprayed it everywhere. To end things I pulled out the sodas, shook them, and opened them, spraying the aisles with soda. Won't the shop keeper be surprised when he comes back from his lunch break? Yeah, it should be locked or someone watching it, but that's Jingletown: no one locks their doors.
Afterwards, I told her I had to go to the bathroom and wait outside for me. The 7-11 bathroom was where I would vent everything I felt. I had some paints in my pockets and I'd just start writing all over the walls. Like right now, I was pissed as hell at my mom and then and there, I decided that I wouldn't care anymore about what she thought. I wouldn't care how drunk she would get. And for a bonus, the town didn't care about the problems it had either, so why should I or anybody else? You wanna know why? The town was dead, so why bother caring about a dead city where it had hungry kids with dirty faces that no one tried to fix? I vented that feeling onto the wall, too. I also wrote some lies like "Home is where your heart is." That was a huge lie right there. Everyone's heart doesn't beat the same and I'm damn sure mine doesn't.
Feeling a lot better, I went outside and that good feeling went away instantly.
My girlfriend was making out with some guy. And not like drunk making out, but really making out.
"What the hell are you doing?!" I yelled. She broke from him and her eyes went wide when she saw me. I sprinted towards them and socked the dude in the face. Blood splattered from his nose. I went in for a second attack, but he got me in the stomach. Onlookers were rooting us on, while others tried to pry us apart. Eventually, they did.
As they took him away, he yelled, "She loves me now! She's carrying my child!" I turned to her, angry and upset.
"I wanted to tell you earlier," she tried to say, "but you were upset and—". Before she could explain even further, I ran to my house. Everything was too much. People were full of shit nowadays, and now I knew why. Hypocrites had raised them who supposedly had "morals", and now their result was backstabbing, shitty people who made other backstabbing, shitty people miserable.
As soon as I got home, I locked myself in my room and didn't come out for four days. All I ate was a supply of Ritalin since I had no more cocaine, and soda pop. I was emotionally hurt by my mom, and now, my "girlfriend". I didn't understand why this was happening to me. Everything I thought I knew was now showing their true colors.
Not able to take it anymore, I unlocked my room and went to the hangout where my now "ex-girlfriend" was sleeping at. It's basically an abandoned overpass where most of the kids slept when they wanted to be away from home.
I looked around for her, and many people were surprised to see me. They hadn't seen me for days and thought I had committed suicide.
I finally found her in a beat-up old recliner, but at first, I didn't recognize her. She wasn't wearing her usual bright pink wig and purple lipstick. And she wasn't wearing her usual black pants and black tank top; instead she had on sweats and her stomach looked slightly larger than the last time I saw her. That's when I confirmed the worst: she was pregnant, and I knew that it wasn't my kid.
I went to her and stared into her eyes.
"Explain why you did this to me," I said, my voice bitter and cold. She didn't flinch at all.
"I love him. What else is there to say?"
"Other than you fucked him? How long have you kept this from me?"
"Almost half a year." Half a year. I was with her for a year. She had been stringing me along for half that time.
"What was I to you?"
"You'll be a great memory." There was a pause.
"I never loved you," I whispered softly. And I walked away from her.
She lied to me. Never knew what was going on behind my back, and when she said that she loved me in those times, they were lies too. They were a hurricane of lies and I needed to escape them.
I went to the 7-11 and into the bathroom. I saw that they had painted over my graffiti. The paint was still wet, but I took no notice. Taking the last bit of red crayon I had, I wrote "St. Jimmy" in big letters. I don't know why; it was the first name that came to my head.
Afterwards, I found a nail file on top of the sink. I took it and slowly cut my left palm with it. I squeezed my hand so that the blood would spread. I then slammed my hand next to "St. Jimmy", leaving a bloody handprint. My hand stung a little, but I didn't care. I ran home and started packing. I just threw clothes in; I needed to get away to anywhere but here. My mom came in and saw me. She didn't do anything; she just stood in the doorway, watching me throw clothes into the bag.
When I was done, I pushed passed her and went outside to the car. Mom slowly followed me and by the time she was out, I had started the engine.
"Wait!" She finally called out. Sighing I decided to see what she had to say and get it over with. I got out of the car and before I could do anything, she threw her arms around me and hugged me.
"I'm sorry. You're right. I am pathetic. I should be grateful for what you've been doing for me. I promise I'll change.
I pushed her away. She had said that a million times and I had believed her those million times, but they were all lies. So what makes this one any different? The million and one time she tells me that, I'm not gonna fall for it. Not this time.
I slid back in the car and drove away, leaving her standing in the driveway. I didn't feel any shame, she deserved it. She never protected me from pain when I was victimized and hurt. So I had to run away from my broken home. I was leaving home... and her.
