Last Login:
January 18th, 2021

Gender: Male

Age: 29
Signup Date:
October 08, 2020


01/13/2021 12:13 PM 

drabble; clockwatching in purgatory.

We were sitting around in our hotel room, waiting on mostly nothing, too scared to make a move forward or back. Too wrapped up in our own heads to say anything. It was too soon for the conversation we should have been having, and I’m not sure I could have mustered up a proper response anyway. At some points, I wasn’t even fully aware of what was happening, the question occurring to me more than a few times - is this a dream?

Am I really sitting here?

I kept waiting for someone to jump on top of me and start yelling in my face, or dump water on my head, or hit me in the balls - something to prove everything was normal. That our entire life hadn’t just collapsed right in front of us.

My holding out made it impossible to cry like the other two. Impossible to feel anything. If they knew how numb I felt, they’d have probably kicked me from the band right then and there.

I finally brought myself to look up. Allen and Steve sat beside each other on the single couch and I was on the floor with my knees tucked to my chest. Their heads were ducked down, arms folded, glassy eyes. I was beyond crying. I could barely even think, let alone cry, but I knew within the hour I’d probably be inconsolable. I knew I was a f***ing idiot for worrying about it, but I didn’t want to face the crash alone.

“So, what’re we gonna do?” Allen finally spoke up.

Steve shook his head. I still couldn’t form a sentence, even with a hundred-thousand of them flying around in my head. I couldn’t seem to pick one up, to make it coherent, so I just stared at him and hoped he had an answer.

“Neither of you are gonna f***ing say anything, really?” He kept going. That got Steve’s attention. “I’m not doing all the f***ing thinking.”

“If you ask me, he should be the one talking.” Steve nodded toward me. It's easy to be singled out when you're the f***ed up dude, sweating your ass off and shaking in the middle of the room. 

I furrowed my eyebrows. “The f*** is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you were f***ing with him when it happened, so you should be the one manning up.”

It was obvious he’d been waiting awhile to confront me, but manning up wasn't his style any more than it was mine.

“You guys couldn’t keep your sh*t together and now Jim’s dead, and you’re just f***ing sitting there, waiting for us to clean it up. We have to tell people, we have to figure out what the f*** we’re gonna do, and it’s like - f***, dude, at least throw something out there. At least SAY something. Do you even give a f***?”

“Hey, Steve -.” Allen cut in, but Steve cut him off. I still couldn’t form a proper thought, let alone an argument. I just sat there, waiting, fretting about the crash, thinking about whether or not I could muster the strength to jump up and deck him in the face.

“No, don’t ‘hey, Steve’ me. How many times have we told you guys to knock that sh*t off?” Steve ran his fingers through his hair. He was crying again.

“Just shut the f*** up, man.”

Both of them looked at me, and it was only then I realized I even said something - that the words actually made their way out instead of just joining the flurry in my head. But a follow-up got jammed in the back of my throat, so I ended up sitting there stupidly with my mouth open, not even looking at them. I felt tears finally making a grand entrance, but I wasn’t sure they were real at first, and even then, I wasn’t sure I wanted them. It was asinine to miss the numbness, I knew it was, but I couldn’t help it.

When was someone gonna wake me up?

“You don’t get to say shut the f*** up right now, Chris - you don’t. You don’t get to tell me to shut the f*** up when I literally told you this was gonna happen, and you guys went out and did it anyway, and guess what? I was f***ing right, so YOU shut the f*** up.”

“You think I don’t understand all of that?! You think I don’t feel like sh*t already?” I lost track of the steps between me sitting on the ground to me and Steve up by the couch in each others’ faces.

“Then act like it! Say something! Help us clean up your god damn mess!” Steve shoved my shoulder. “Jimmy’s dead, dude, is that sinking in yet? Huh?”

“F*** you, Steve!” Before I could shove him back, Allen got between us.

“Alright, stop!” He squeezed himself in the middle to separate us. My chest was on fire. I was shaking. I wanted to run away but couldn’t. “This sh*t isn’t getting us anywhere either.”

Steve rolled his eyes, holding his hands up. “Whatever, dude, I’m outta here.”

He glared at me one more time, then turned to the door. Allen reached for his arm. It was like watching a couple of kids, the tug-of-war afterward. “Steve, come on.”

“No. This is useless right now anyway. We’re all upset, this a**hole’s f***ed out of his mind. We’re getting nowhere, we’re just sitting here. I’m not just gonna sit here in f***ing silence, and if neither of you plan to fill that silence, I’m leaving. Call me when you guys know what the f*** you’re doing.”

The room went quiet after he slammed the door. It played in my head over and over, but it wasn’t waking me up. Even on the verge of being convinced I wasn’t dreaming, there was still that one stupid part of me clinging to the idea. I was jealous of Steve for escaping while me and Allen stood there and suffocated under the weight of everything, the endless choices looming over us. How would we tell everyone? What about Jimmy’s family? His girlfriend? What about the band?

Allen took a deep breath, scratching the back of his neck. I kept watching the door, biting my nails.

“Why don’t you lay down for a bit and then we’ll all talk? I’ll see if I can get Steve under control.”

“You’re not pissed at me too?”

“Oh, I’m so far beyond pissed that I don’t even have a word,” Allen corrected me, wiping his eye. “I can’t f***in’ believe it honestly.”

I deserved that verbal smack to the face, but it still made me sick. Before I could say anything - not that I had anything to say - he suddenly pulled me into a hug. It took a minute to gather the strength to hug him back right away, but when I did, it opened a floodgate for both of us. Some people say it feels freeing to cry, but I’d never felt more miserable in my life. Having always tried my hardest not to put myself in a position of crying in someone’s arms, as well as having to console someone who’s crying in mine, I have no idea what to do with myself when both are happening at the same time, so I had to just let it happen. It felt empty, not freeing. It felt lonely. We were hugging, but we weren’t united in any way; we were just sad. Neither of us could run to anyone else. If we could, Allen would probably have been as far away from me as possible, and I’d be cast out alone somewhere, and I deserved it entirely.

Allen suddenly started laughing, wiping at his face and shaking his head as he pried away. “But no amount of yelling at you is gonna bring him back, is it?”

I couldn’t fathom how he could possibly laugh, but he checked himself pretty quick. When he straightened up again, he put his hand on my shoulder. “But dude, for real, you gotta get your sh*t together, I’m not kidding. I’m not gonna lose you too.”

01/13/2021 12:12 PM 

drabble; weirdo.

pt. 1 - Jimmy’s POV

Mrs. Anderson speaks, unfaltering, over the natural classroom buzz. There’s a group of girls in the corner exchanging notes, some guys on the football team right beside them, giggling at anything that sounds even remotely close to sexual. They’d make up their own innuendos just to have something to laugh about. The front row is taking one for the team, acting as the front line of defense, feigning diligence for the other kids in the back so they can goof around.

Christian Thompson’s not much different in taking advantage of the diligent kids, it’s just he’s all by himself, so Mrs. Anderson suddenly chooses him to make an example of. The resident weird kid (and he seems to enjoy that title), building a miniature tower out of torn up notes, folded and painstakingly set in place until the it becomes noticeable enough to draw attention. The girls in the corner point him out first. Then Mrs. Anderson notices and stops the lecture, lowering her book. She eyes him sharply over the rim of her glasses. “Christan? Am I boring you?” She asks, just as he’s flicking a sturdier piece of paper - many folded into one - into the tower, crumbling part of it. His aim isn’t very impressive, but the tower is.

“What’s up?” He looks up, mouth hanging open slightly, eyes only half-focused. He always looks like he’s just waking up from a nap, but that’s just his resting expression.

Mrs. Anderson remains stoic even as the class erupts around her. “Am I boring you? I already told you once about the hood.” She motions toward her head.

Christian slowly pulls back the hood on his jacket. He’s been wearing it all Summer despite the heat, but no one asks about it, because no one wants to talk to him that long. He lives behind a barrier of sheer noise and ridiculousness not many are brave enough to try and break through, so they all just laugh at him, egg him on. I think we could be good friends, but that barrier is intimidating even for me, so I just watch.

With his hood down, as told, he flicks another speck of paper across his desk and shrugs. “You’re not boring me.”

“Then what is that?”

“It’s a tower,” he answers, smiling, wiggling the front door he’d fastened to it, as if to show it off, but she’s not impressed.

“And since you built it during the lesson, is it not then safe to assume I’m boring you?” Mrs. Anderson places her hands on her hips, eyebrows arched as high as possible.

“You’re not boring me.” Christian shakes his head. “I heard everything you said.”

“Oh, did you?” Mrs. Anderson laughs. The rest of the class laughs with her. Christian does nothing. “Why don’t you come up and answer the question on the board then?”

Christian shrugs and stands up, students snickering as he makes a walk of shame up to the front board as Mrs. Anderson scribbles out a question relating to their reading - a snippet from Jim Whittaker’s A Life on the Edge.

Why does the author include the exchange between Gombu and himself where they each say “You first!”?

She offers a few choices, then steps aside with her arms folded.

It takes him a minute to read the whole thing - or at least long enough for people to start chattering again, just to be hissed at by Mrs. Anderson. Finally, he circles the second one correctly; because they see each other as equals. “Good?”

Mrs. Anderson is somewhere between flabbergasted and embarrassed, but she doesn’t go down without a fight. “Back to your seat,” she demands, pointing. “And get that thing off your desk.”

- - - - -

pt. 2 - Christian’s POV

Class goes on as scheduled. Because I ruined goofing off for the rest of the class, they all keep leering at me, or laughing at me. I don’t mind if they do. Something in me kinda likes that they can’t really figure me out. For the next month or so, I’ll just be the kid who tried to build a paper fort in class, which is a step up from the kid who bullied Justin Baker into switching schools.

Class lets out. Mrs. Anderson pulls me aside for a riveting conversation about my behavioral issues and asks the classic question - everything okay at home? Which sounds absolutely bogus when paired with a threat to get my parents involved if I don’t straighten up, so I don’t tell her anything. It’s all fine, and I’m on my way, never to create another paper fort again.

Between periods, the hallway feels more like a zoo; everyone running around, catching up at the lockers with their friends on mismatched schedules; yelling from either side; doors creaking open, then slamming shut. As soon as I join the frenzy, I hear someone calling out for me. I think about stopping, but don’t, and whoever it is opts to ignore the hint.

“Hey! Thompson!”

I wanna keep walking, but he’s too close now, so I stop. I remember him, but I can’t think of his name. We’ve talked like twice in class, only to borrow stuff from each other. I think I still have one of his pens, but I’m not about to bring it up.

“Never seen anyone stump Anderson before,” he starts off, now walking beside me, both of us more strolling than hustling.

“Was it entertaining for you?”

“It was pretty classic. You read the story before, huh?”

“Nope, I guessed.”


I laugh. “Yeah, I know. Could you imagine how badass that would be though? I just walk up there and guess the f***in’ answer?”

“Imagine if you guessed wrong,” he tacks on.

“I’d have to change schools.”

He stops at his locker to throw some stuff in. I stop with him, looking around the hallway to distract myself. I’m still wondering why he’s bothering with me.

“So -.” He shuts the locker and leans on it. “You wanna come hang out with me and my friends on Saturday?”

I scoff a little, thrown off. “What, you feel sorry for me or something?”

“Is that a no?”

“No, it’s a yes, I’m just wondering.”

“Nah, we’re just kinda off-beat too.” He starts walking again. I get a funny image in my head of us being a group of rag-tag teens in some campy 80’s movie.

“Well, I guess count me in.” My locker’s the opposite way, so I start separating myself. “Just one question.”

“Go for it.”

I squint a little. After trying this whole time to recall his name, I’ve given up. “What’s your name again?”

He laughs. “Jimmy.”

“Right, Jimmy. So Saturday?”

“Saturday.” Jimmy walks off down the hall, waving. “Seeya’ man.”

“Later.” I’m trying to play it cool, but I can’t stop smiling about it once we part ways. Maybe some rag-tag friends are exactly what I need.

12/25/2020 01:44 PM 

( drabble - aftermath. )

continued from here.
CW: self-harm

Rain pelts down against the windshield. Christian watches droplets in racing down the glass with lackluster speed, his mouth hanging slightly open, head slumped into his palm. He itches all over, but doesn't have the strength or willpower to move. His neck aches, but he can't recline the seat back.

His head feels like it’s being pulled apart. Piece by piece, chunks flying out the open window into traffic. He stares off to the side, unable to focus on anything in particular. Unable to speak. Unable to think. A roaring sound coming from a busted heater fan in Jimmy’s car sounds more like a jackhammer on sensitive ears, but the oncoming migraine is really the last of his worries; and probably he deserves it and then some for what he put everyone through. He starts to consider Ana, but Jimmy speaks up, stifling the temptation to reach for his phone.

At first, it’s all so muffled, he’s convinced he’s dreaming. Jimmy’s lips move, but the words are lost somewhere under a pile of other thoughts. Christian’s eyebrows knit together, head tipped to the side. “What’s up?”

“You wanna roll that up?” Their eyes finally lock. Jimmy’s smiling, but Christian can’t fathom why. “I’m freezing my ass off over here.”

“Oh, my bad.”

“You feel okay?” Jimmy turns his eyes on the road.

Christian had asked him before to slow down, but now things feel unsettling, cars passing by in slow motion. They’re too far from home - or worse, still too close to the hospital. He finally cracks his own smile, though he rolls his eyes at the same time. “I feel stupid as all hell.”

“Well…” Jimmy teased him.

“Shut up.” Christian faintly smiles, leaning his head on the window, picking at his hospital band.

The car goes silent, but the air between them is unbearably heavy. His head starts swimming again, words blurted out in an overflow against his control, the grit teeth that would have kept them in place faltering. “Know what’s pretty f***ed up? When I was a kid, my dad used to ask me all the time, what’s wrong with you - why’re you so weird? Why can’t you be normal?”

Jimmy glanced at him, expression sobered. “Hey…”

“And I used to just laugh at him, like - haha, yeah, whatever, you don’t know sh*t, right? But he’s f***in’ right, man, I’m a god damn mess and he knew it all along. He’d probably laugh his ass off if he could see me right now.” Jimmy says nothing, just purses his lips together. Christian goes back to looking out the window. “Sorry.”

Jimmy shakes his head. “Nah, dude, don’t be. I just think…” He steals a second, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth a few times. “I think that if anyone could see you how I’m seeing you right now and laugh, they’re the f***ed up ones.“

The car starts to veer to the right. Christian looks around to check their position, opens his mouth to question it - to issue some kind of complaint because all he really wants is to go home - but he’s cut off. “But while we’re getting serious, dude, you really scared the sh*t out of me outta me.”

The declaration comes like a punch to the gut. Christian lowers his head like a scolded dog - equal parts humiliated and guilty. If he could slink to a safe spot underneath a couch somewhere, he would. He clasps his hands together and takes a deep breath, looking out the window. The cars passing go from making him anxious to making him jealous. “Yeah, man, I know.”

“I’m not saying it to make you feel bad. I just really want you to know that I really don’t know what the f*** I’d do with out you, so you better take care of yourself and keep your sh*t together. Okay?”

“Yeah, I hear you.” Christian slowly nods his head, unsure what to say. He can’t find the words amid all the clutter, and the ones he manages to scrounge up feel inadequate. “Can we -”

“No, I want a better promise than that weak sh*t.”

Christian scoffs a laugh. “Dude, I know. I’ll keep my sh*t together… okay? I promise.”

“Good.” Jimmy finally starts the car again, the jackhammer sound from the fan oddly relieving. “I’m not cleaning up your puke a second time, punk ass.”

Christian smirks, leaning his head on the window again, folding his arms over his stomach. “You sure? Seemed like it was a fun time.”

“I can tell you personally it was very much NOT a fun time.” Jimmy remarked. “We left some for you.”

“Thanks, I always wanted to clean up my own day-old puke.” Christian rolls his eyes, then simmers down, settling into his seat again. “For the record… since we’re getting serious or whatever… I don’t know what I’d do without you either.”

12/11/2020 03:40 PM 

( drabble - explanations. )

cw: self harm.

“I really just don’t understand why you have to be so… weird.” Dean slaps a stack of paper on the kitchen table, an incident report. His crime technically falls into cyber-bullying territory, which his teachers only decided about a year ago to start taking seriously, long after his own struggles with it were over, rendering “they did it to me first” a useless excuse.

His chest aches. He hasn’t slept in two days, and while he’d usually jump at any and every chance to be sent home, the current circumstances are pretty far from ideal.

He sits at the table, hood pulled over his head, jaw slightly unhinged. He rubs at his arm, staring lackadaisically at half-assed screenshots of the gruesome photos he’d sent to Justin Baker, a text reading This is what I did because of you, I hope you can live with that.

“What is this, Christian?” Dean demands, but demands appear to fall on deaf ears, so he slams his hand down on the table to garner some kind of attention, or at least a sign of awareness. “You gonna explain yourself or you just gonna sit there?”

Christian pays only a small flinch in response to the prodding, but then reaches out to turn the papers over so he doesn’t have to see them, only to have them slapped off the table all together, evidence scattered across the floor. “What were you thinking, Christian!?”

Christian instantly retracts, slumping back in his chair. In a quick glance upward, he notices his mother standing at the archway between the kitchen and living room, but she makes no attempt to step in - not even a reassuring expression. He can tell she’s disappointed too, but even if she wants to help, they both know any attempt would more than likely be useless.

“I’ve had to yell at you for some stupid sh*t before, but this really takes the cake.” Dean starts pacing around the table. “Do you just look for ways to outdo your own idiocy?”

Christian scoffs a laugh.

Dean’s eyebrows raise. “Oh, you think that’s funny?”

Christian shakes his head. “Not really.”

“Then, what’s funny? You really don’t care at all, do you?”

“Nah, I really don’t.” Christian shrugs. “They’re fake, dude.”

Dean snatches Christian by the arm, pulling him forward with a force that has his ribs crashing against the edge of the table. “Listen to me, I don’t give a flying f*** if they’re fake or not, you still sent them.” Dean shoves him back. “You probably screwed that kid up for good, do you realize that?”

Christian shakes his head again, gritting his teeth together, finding temporary distraction in the burning sensation underneath the sleeve of his sweater when he rubs his arm.

“Do you?”

He looks to his mother again. Still, she does nothing, and despite understanding, a part of him still wants to beg her for some kind of back-up.

“Enough with the catatonic bullsh*t, answer me!”

“I don’t care, dude,” he finally answers. “I really don’t give even half a sh*t if he’s screwed up or not.”

“Good lord.” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, stepping away from the table. “You know what, fine. You don’t wanna talk, don’t.” As he passes by the table, he grabs Christian’s shoulder to get his attention. “I really don’t know if this is some kind of cry for help or what, but it better stop, now.” He then points up at Christian’s mother, still watching from her hiding spot in the archway. “You better get a handle on your god damn kid.”

His mother waits for Dean to leave before rushing over to his side, picking the papers up off the ground, placing them back on the table face-down before coming to his side.“Are you okay…?”

“I’m totally cool, I don’t know what he’s freakin’ out about.” Christian insists, leaning on her shoulder, expression softening. “Sorry I screwed up.”

“We’ll figure it out. You know if you need to like… see someone --.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m good.” Christian sits up straight, rubbing his eyes. “Right now I really just wanna go to bed.”

11/12/2020 11:54 PM 

( drabble - best friend chronicles. )

A suburban neighborhood, notoriously cookie-cutter, fills with the noise of a revving engine. Houses all lined in a row, exactly the same color -- a dull gray -- which makes the bright red of Stephen’s pick-up truck stand out even more on camera. All-in-all, the group of rag-tag teenagers, wailing and cheering, don’t look like they belong there, and even further, don’t look like they care.

Allen comes around the truck with his camera, focusing in on the driver’s side window, Stephen awaiting with a middle finger already prepared for the camera, immediately met with another in retaliation. “Wanna tell us what you’re doin’, Stevie?”

Stephen leans up to check over his shoulder, out the window. “Gonna give Christian a ride to the mailbox.”

“Wow, what a friend.” Allen moves on, catching footage of a few old dents in the side of the truck before he finally reaches the main attraction. Two more shaggy-haired boys are laughing and carrying on at the back, one perched on a raggedy skateboard, the hood of his jacket pulled over his head, eyes completely concealed by hair. He flashes a grin and a peace sign to the camera. The other is busy fastening a rope around his waist, securing him to the back of the truck.

“Sooo, whatcha doin’, Christian?” Stephen asks.

Christian’s smile broadens. “I’m goin’ for a ride.”

“Yeah? To where?”

“Down the street.” Christian points outward down the street; the camera zeroes in on the mailbox, then back to Christian.

“To the mailbox?”


“On that?”


“For real?”

“Yes, for real, it’s literally tied to my f***in’ waist right now.”

“Cool, man, just checkin’. Jimmy, why don’t you tell us what the f*** you’re doing.”

Jimmy looks up, having just finished securing the rope. “I’m the rope guy,” he exclaims, tugging on it. “I’m making sure Christian doesn’t bust his ass goin’ down that hill.”

“Oh, so you’re in charge of that. No need for helmet and knee pads, we have rope!”

“Exactly.” Jimmy finishes up, then runs around to the passenger side of the truck.

Stephen goes back to focusing on Christian. “Are you nervous about that hill?”

Christian tugs at the rope a few times, wiggles his waist a little, then shrugs. “Nahhh, it seems perfectly safe.”

“You sure about tha --”

“I said it’s perfectly safe!”

“Alright, start ‘er up!” The camera backs out, both the truck, and Christian strapped to the back of it in view.

The truck engine revs a few times. Everyone laughs as Christian smacks at the back window. “Go, a**hole!”

Finally, they’re off, but celebration lasts all of a few seconds before the hill poses the anticipated issue, skateboard flinging out from underneath Christian, sending him stumbling into the back of the truck before he crumbles to the ground completely. The truck slams on breaks. A few passerbys who would have previously ignored them stop to stare, then scurry away before they’re forced to deal with it.

“Holy f***!” The camera catches a quick glimpse of Christian rolling around on the ground, half-laughing, half-groaning, then turns off entirely.

When the camera comes back on, Christian is sitting on the curb, truck parked off to the side. He’s surrounded by Jimmy and Allen, who flips off the camera a second time, but it goes ignored. “So, uh, what happened, Chris?”

Christian pulls his head up from his knees to reveal a bloodied face. “I ate sh*t!” Emphasis on the last word. He spits out his answer just before hawking blood into the street.

“You ate sh*t. ‘Cause of the hill?”

The camera zooms in on his face, swollen and red, eyes mostly shut, but somewhere amid the wreckage is a smile, even while blood dribbles down his chin. Then he swipes the camera away. “Get outta my face, I hate you,” he demands, though he’s laughing. Everyone else is laughing too, patting at Christian’s shoulders.

“So, would you try it again?”

“Dude, do you see my face right now? Do you see this? Look at my face.” Christian raises his eyebrows, motioning around his face, particularly the mouth. A long pause. The camera zooms in on his eyes, deadpan, contradicting a grin that tugs at his mouth just before he spits out more blood. Once he gathers himself, he points a finger at the camera. “You bet your f***in’ ass I would try it again.”

11/07/2020 02:38 PM 


NAME: allan castleberry PLAYBY: sam farrar
CONNECTION: bandmate ( bass )


NAME: stephen hall PLAYBY: darren robinson
CONNECTION: bandmate ( lead guitar )


NAME: nicholas moore PLAYBY: jeff conrad
CONNECTION: bandmate ( drums )


NAME: jimmy lewis PLAYBY: jason schwartzman
CONNECTION: bandmate ( former drummer, deceased )


NAME: ana sutherland PLAYBY: agyness deyn
CONNECTION: ex-girlfriend


NAME: casey caverly PLAYBY: taylor hanson
CONNECTION: best friend/ex-boyfriend


NAME: sarah hudson PLAYBY: joy williams
CONNECTION: ex-best friend


NAME: candace aldridge PLAYBY: alison janney


NAME: dean aldridge PLAYBY: joel gretsch
CONNECTION: step-father


NAME: arthur thompson PLAYBY: billy campbell
CONNECTION: biological father


NAME: daniel aldridge PLAYBY: michael cassidy
CONNECTION: step-brother


NAME: allison aldridge PLAYBY: z.berg
CONNECTION: step-sister


11/01/2020 06:57 PM 

( drabble - leave a message. )


12:31 AM.

“Hey! It’s Ana! Leave a message.”

He shut his eyes, imagining the smile on her face. He’d been there when she recorded it. Despite a vow to be completely honest and tell her if it sounded phony (any answering machine message sounded phony as far as he was concerned, but he never had the heart to tell her), he was the one who interrupted about five recordings with random sounds or burst of laughter. And each time, Ana would slap at his shoulder, recompose herself and carry on with the same bubbly voice. The same radiant smile, never faltering. And promptly after she finally got her perfect take, she’d shoved him away, only to fall onto his chest, laughing that infectious laugh -- one he might never hear again.

What used to warm his heart now suddenly made his chest ache with dread; what used to make him smile brought him to tears.

12:45 AM.

“Hey! It’s Ana! Leave a message.”

“Wow, you didn’t even let it ring that time, you just sent me straight to voicemail, sh*t…” Sprawled out on the bathroom floor, Christian slurred almost incoherently into the phone, one arm draped over his forehead, the other outstretched beside him, bleeding slowly. “It’s okay, I’ll be okay… I just miss you. I wish you’d f***in’ talk to me, tell me to f*** off even or something, I dunno…”

12:47 AM.

“Hey! It’s Ana! Leave a message.”

“Hey! It’s Ana! Leave a message.” His slur even worse, he repeated the answering machine in a high-pitched voice, then laughed. “I’m just playing… You didn’t wait that time either. I coulda been like -- you know, distress call, help, I’m bleeding! or whatever. But you wouldn’t have cared about that either, huh? It’s fine.”

12:55 AM.

He’d bunched himself up into a corner in the bedroom, bleeding arm wrapped around his knees, pulled tightly to his chest, head resting on a dirty towel that had already been on the floor. With his eyes closed, he sang in a frail whisper. “Well I turn pale when she walks by… I am lost in her eyes… she is always on my mind… She --.” He interrupted himself to yawn, then huffed a little laugh. “You always sang the next part… remember that? F***, I need help -- f*** you for doing this to me, dude, this f***in’ sucks.”

2:30 AM.

“Whoa, hey, hey, hey, what the f***?”

“Get ‘im up, come on. Holy sh*t.”

Two forces from either side lifted him up and he was powerless to do anything but allow it; like a puppet on strings, animation only coming from a second-hand source, forcing limp legs into uncoordinated movement. His head slumped forward. The weight on either side stopped him from falling. That was the part where they were all supposed to laugh and make fun of him, but no one did. He muttered something as his weight shifted too far to the left. Through the fog in his head, he didn’t even understand himself, and it was clear no one else did either because no one said anything. Instead they were yelling at each other.

His back hit the wall, sparking some kind of awareness in him -- enough for him to recognize Jimmy and Steve, not enough for him to make sense of where he was or what he was doing there.

“F***in’ sh*t dude, I said gentle!” Steve yelled.

“Hey, f*** you, man,” Jimmy shoved his shoulder a little.

In his stupor, Christian scoffed a little laugh. No one acknowledged it. It felt like he wasn’t even there. His head dropped back against the wall. The ceiling started to warp and ripple, patterns becoming more dimensional the longer he stared until his eyes suddenly rolled back, cutting off his view.

“Chris.” Steve tapped his cheek a few times. “Wake up, buddy, come on.”

The ceiling reverted back to its normal, unobstructed white. His upper body slumped a little to the side. Jimmy pushed him upright again. He watched them argue back and forth about what to do, but the longer he listened, the harder he tried to focus, the less he seemed to understand them.

He was sweaty and shivering all at the same time. His heart raced despite everything else moving in slow motion. The walls started to ripple again, like a fun house. Confusing, nauseating, but somehow hilarious. A memory of him throwing up at a carnival as a kid suddenly popped into his head, causing a faint smirk to tug at his lip. “I’m gonna throw up,” he mused, but no one was listening. His eyebrows suddenly furrowed. “Where’s my phone?”

His puppet arm yanked off to the side, a sharp pain igniting another spark of awareness, this time giving him enough strength to try and pull away. “Ow, what the f*** --.”

“Don’t! You wanna f***in’ bleed to death?” Steve snapped, keeping hold of his arm.

“I don’t give a sh*t.” Christian sloppily waved his free hand at him.

“Knock it off, yes you do.”

“We do,” Jimmy added. “I’ve got your phone, you don’t need it right now, okay?”

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

“You’re in the bathroom, man.” Steve pressed a towel to his arm. He didn’t pull back that time.

“I'm gonna throw up,” Christian trailed off, leaning against Jimmy’s shoulder, a quiet stream of tears trickling slowly down his face, prompting him to cover it with his free hand. “Jesus Christ, I need f***in’ help man…”

10/09/2020 02:28 PM 


10/09/2020 02:26 PM 


Disclaimer: I'm not Alex Greenwald, nor am I affiliated with him, the rest of Phantom Planet or anyone associated with them. I don't own or take credit for any images or lyrical content used on this page. Christian Thompson, however, is a character of my own creation. Unless it's permitted by me, I would appreciate it if no one took any written content (ic posts, musings, aspects of character, biography, etc.) from this page. Thanks!

PS. Casey Caverly is me also, I just needed this account to advance a storyline.
one }} Depending on what I have to work with, I can write anywhere from 3 - 20 paragraphs per post, but frankly, I'm not that picky on length. It's all about content for me, and context. It's unreasonable to expect 20 paragraphs when the scene is just two characters in casual conversation. That being said, please don't stress when it comes to the length of your reply when you write with me. Give me enough to go off of and I'll be happy. 
two }} I'm not an English teacher. I'm not gonna send your reply back to you with corrections or pointing out every misspelled word / typo. One, I'm far from perfect myself. Two, that would really suck the fun right out of this whole thing, wouldn't it? Seriously, just have fun and write. As long as I can understand what you're saying, we're cool. 
three }} I like pre-discussed storylines, but I'm also a fan of "winging it." 
four }} As for storylines, there really isn't much I won't say yes to. If you've got something crazy and outlandish you've been wanting to try, let's go for it. If you have a wildly intricate connection idea, but aren't sure about sharing it, SHARE IT WITH ME. I'll probably love it. I'll do the same for you. Designing a storyline should never be a one-person job. 
five }} I'd prefer my writing partners to be at least 18. Please understand my page, character and writing may contain dark, triggering content. If you have any specific triggers you would like to avoid, please don't hesitate to shoot me a message. Your comfort means more to me than anything I could ever write. Here is a list of triggering themes that may be found on this page: 
  • drugs / alcohol / smoking 
  • blood
  • suicidal thoughts / behaviors
  • self-harm
  • domestic violence
  • cheating
  • mental illness
  • miscarriage
six }} I don't write smut, although certain things may be alluded to if the situation calls for it. 
seven }} This is a multi-storyline character, meaning a storyline with Person A will have no effect on an existing storyline with Person B unless it's discussed and agreed upon by all parties involved. 
eight }} Although most storylines will be kept separate, this is still a single-ship page. Should this character end up with a love interest, I will remain faithful to that writer unless it's been discussed otherwise. Admittedly, I'm really picky when it comes to shipping. Our characters NEED to have chemistry, so I won't do any love interest connections right off the bat, especially if we've never written before. 
nine }} I really shouldn't have to say this, but no OOC drama. IC drama is A-okay though. 
ten }} I'm a snail on this website. Sometimes I get busy, or I just straight up don't feel like responding to things. I'll always at least try and give a heads up if there's gonna be a major delay. PLEASE be patient. If it's been a week or two, I understand if you wanna shoot me a message asking about your reply. If it's been like an hour and you're pestering me, that's a pretty quick way to end our storyline. I do have LINE and Discord, but I'm also still a bit of a snail on those. You're still free to message me and ask about them though. 
That's all I got for now.
If I need to, I'll add more later on. 
Thanks a lot to anyone who took the time to read this! 

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