Title: Everybody’s Fool
Genre: Angst, Drama, Death, and Issues
Pairing: Male/Male insinuations.
Rating: let's say PG13, just to be safe.
Required Disclaimer Shit: Not true, this is fiction. It never happened. I do not own Conor Oberst or anyone else mentioned in this story. The only thing I own is the mirror. Because it's cool. nyah.
Summary: This isn’t me. This cant be me.
Author's Notes: As much as I really dont like Evanescence, the song was perfect, so yeah. This is just a short little stand alone. Have fun with it. I dont do the whole chapters thing. I tend to not finish them.
I stared into the mirror; the cold from the bathroom floor making its way up through my bare feet, up through my spine to the very tips of my fingers. It was a chilling feeling; an empty feeling. I kept staring at myself. My thoughts began to run amuck.
I’m here. In a hotel room, just another hotel room, it’s just like all the others. It’s hotel after hotel, show after show, and fan after fan. It never ends. A lot of people would probably say that I should be grateful for what I have; some would say that I’m taking my good fortune for granted. Now, you must understand. I’m so grateful and thankful for everything I have. I love that so many people love the words I’ve written and the songs I sing. But I hate that that’s all the world sees me as. I’m tired of going on fan sites and seeing lines such as “Oh mah gawd! Conor Oberst is so hawt! I love him so much!” They don’t love me. They don’t know the first thing about me. You can’t love someone you don’t know.
And it kills me. Not being truly loved… kills me from the inside out.
I won’t even read magazines anymore. For fear that I will see something about me or Bright Eyes. For fear that I will see something that would try to show the world who I am.
And for fear that the world will believe those lies.
I reach out and slowly touch the mirror, dragging my fingers down my reflection’s face. This isn’t me. This can’t be me.
[Have you no shame?] [Don't you see me?]
I pull my hand away and bring it to my own face, watching in the mirror as my hand ran along my facial features. I miss the old me.
A tear glides down my face, mixing with my charcoal black eyeliner, creating a watery black line down my cheek. Another falls, and another, and another, leaving the skin beneath my eyes a blackish gray. I felt my lip begin to quiver. I heard the words of Girl, Interrupted running through my brain. "Tell me you don’t take that blade, drag it across your skin, and pray for the courage to press down."
I slowly pulled up the sleeves of my black shirt, revealing pale, white, pure, and unscarred arms. Every night I hoped for that courage. Every night I took my small razor blade, set it in front of me and stared at it, for hours at a time sometimes. But I could never go through with it, I had never liked physical pain, but hell, it’s got to be better than this self loathing.
I stared at myself for another minute longer. I felt my black angel tears slowing and my anger growing. I pulled my arm back and flung it forward into the reflective glass before me, shattering it to pieces, a shard of glass making its way into the palm of my hand, causing blood to pour. I quickly turned the sink faucets on and stuck my hand beneath the warm water, washing away the blood. It had hurt, I won’t deny that fact, it had hurt like hell, but something was different. I hadn’t minded the pain... I liked it.
I stared at my still bleeding hand in confusion. This isn’t fair.
The bleeding in my hand slowed itself, and I removed it from the water. I shed my shirt and pants from my body, boxers as well, and turned on the shower water, turning it as hot as it would go. I turned back around to the shards of glass that were splayed along the counter top and floor. I bent over and picked up one of the largest ones slowly. I walked back towards the shower and stepped in. I let the scalding water hit my skin, turning the pale to a reddish tint. Sliding down the wall to sit on the floor of the tub, I began to cry. The hot water was hitting the back of my head and running down my back, creating a painful tingling feeling.
I placed the glass to my wrist and swiftly and roughly pressed down.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
I removed the blade from my now bleeding wrist, and placed it a bit lower and did the same thing.
I wasn’t supposed to like guys.
Another deep cut.
I was supposed to love my life and who I was.
And a last cut, from the bottom of my palm, to where my arm bends. Then I swapped the glass to my other hand, bringing the sharp edge down to my other wrist.
I was more careful this time. I took the edge and pressed down, gently adding more and more pressure, until my skin couldn’t take it anymore. My veins turned a slight purple as they were first cut but soon were covered my blood, my pale wrists turning a deep and morbid crimson. My body began to feel weaker and weaker; I began to feel lightheaded. I sighed softly and pulled my naked knees up to my chest, clinging to them as my tears fell again. I layed my head on my knees and breathed in deeply. My vision became blurry and my arms ached. I closed my eyes and whispered to myself...
"But this wasn’t what I was supposed to do."
well, there you go. I feel kind of bad for Conor.
... Eh, oh well.