(c) Blinded By The Silence Of A Thousand Broken Hearts [M]

by **gloria-** Mon 24 Nov 2008, 6:49 am

Title: Blinded By The Silence Of A Thousand Broken Hearts
Author: Me
Rating: M for language, substance abuse, and more
Summary: There are millions of interpretations on the story behind American Idiot, the album. I would be willing to bet that not a single one of them is correct. Why? Because only two people in the entire world know the real story, the whole story. One of those people is me, and the other, my goddaughter, refuses to speak a single word of what happened; this story is hers. It contains infinite verity, and infinite sadness.

The memories are scrambled; I do not know when each happened, only the order in which I wrote the songs.

My name is Billie Joe Armstrong, and this is the real American Idiot story.
-
Chapter 1: American Idiot

Don’t wanna be an American idiot; one nation controlled by the media.
Information age of hysteria; it’s calling out to idiot America.

My telephone rang. And rang, and rang. I did not bother to answer it; I was in the process of creating something new, and I was not about to break my concentration for a trivial matter like the phone.

But then, my wife answered for me, and was soon rapping her knuckles on the table beside my hand. “Billie,” she murmured, holding the phone between me and my paper, “ It’s Tré.”

“I can’t right now, Adie,” I muttered, ducking around her and shifting the sheet upwards so I could see it. “I’m working.”

The dreadlocked woman pulled my chin around to look at her. “He’s crying.”

“Why?” I asked, my brow furrowed, “And what’s it got to do with me, right now?”

She set the phone down beside me, her eyes narrowed. “All he’ll tell me is that it’s about Melody.”

I sighed, but picked up the phone, and dropped my pencil. “What, Tré?”

“Billie,” the father of my goddaughter whimpered, “Can you come over, please? Please...”

“Why? What happened?” I shoved the notebook and its scribbling away from me.

I heard my drummer friend suck in a shaky breath and let it out in two short sobs. “I-it’s Mel.”

“I know.” I clenched my jaw; if he did not stop crying soon, I would cave and leave my work to try and calm him down. “Adie mentioned that.”

He hiccupped unpleasantly. “Sh-she...” I listened as he blew his nose raggedly, and, I assume, wiped his eyes. “She got caught throwing up, at school.”

“She sick?” I grunted.

“No, you son of a bitch!” the father screamed, suddenly, an outburst I had not expected, “She was making herself do it. Y’know, like shoving her fingers down her own throat.”

A long silence wavered on the line. I was incapable of moving, of saying anything. My goddaughter, my goddaughter, had bulimia. A disease I always thought was below her. “I...I...” my throat closed up, and I swallowed hard. “Coming over,” I finally squeaked, and hung up on my friend.

Suddenly, I was a whirlwind of motion, out of my seat and at the door before I had even managed to take a single breath. “Adie, I’m going to Tré’s,” I called as I shoved my arms through the stiff sleeves of my leather jacket. I slid my feet into the steel-toed boots I only wore when I would ride my motorbike, and checked my pocket for my keys.

“Wait, wait,” she replied, and skidded into the hall. “What happened?”

I blinked at her. “What?”

“With Mel. What’s wrong?”

“Oh. Right.” I took a deep breath and opened the door, speaking over my shoulder as I exited, “She’s in some trouble with the school.”

As I pulled up to Tré’s house, kicking down the kickstand and tearing the key from the ignition, the young girl was just unlocking the door. I removed my helmet as I ran towards her, almost tripping over my feet as I rushed to reach her. She slammed the front door behind her as I got to it, and I heard the lock click; I began to pound on the panel, screaming at the green paint and yanking at the brass handle.

By the time Tré had the decency to unlock the door for me, Melody was already on her way up the stairs, and her father was yelling, “You’re a fucking idiot!”

The girl turned, her flaming red hair framing her face and setting off the blaze of anger in her eyes. “Dad, this is America,” she scoffed, “Everyone’s an idiot.”

Television dreams of tomorrow, we’re not the ones who’re meant to follow,
For that’s enough to argue...

by **Breakdown** Mon 24 Nov 2008, 6:53 am

Carmen, I like!
And I normal don't read anything but slash... whatnow? O_O

I'm sure I've read this before though..... hmmmm

Anyways, you must post more to this.
And then I will read more.

by lyrical_mess Wed 26 Nov 2008, 11:45 pm

o.o

I LIKE. I LOVE.

*bows*

I haven't read a good GD story in AGESSSSSS. I love you.

by **gloria-** Thu 27 Nov 2008, 4:44 am

thanks, you guys. ^_^
-
Chapter 2: Jesus of Suburbia

To fall in love and fall in debt; to alcohol and cigarettes,
And Mary Jane, to keep me insane! Doing someone else’s cocaine .

The front door slammed, and Tré looked up from his bottle of beer. A few moments later, his daughter walked in, eyes half-lidded and lips curved upwards just a little bit. As she passed us on her way to the fridge, the drummer sighed. “Mel, you reek.”

“Of what?” she muttered as she leaned into the refrigerator.

“Pot.”

She flopped down into a chair at the end of the table and opened her Coke. Propping her feet on the table, she took a sip. “Sorry.”

At the centre of the earth, in the parking lot;
Of the Seven-Eleven where I was taught: The motto was just a lie.

“What did you do after school?” my friend picked at the label on his bottle, frowning at the busty woman in the picture.

The girl shrugged. “Me and Jimmy hung out by where Sam’s been working. He gave us free slushies.”

There was a long pause. Finally, Tré repeated her words. “Slushies.”

Melody nodded. “Yeah. We were hungry so Sam gave us free hot dogs and slushies.”

“That’s it? You just...waited there?”

“Well, you know. Smoked a joint, hung with some folks. Watched the cat lady dig through the dumpster.”

Land of make believe, and it don’t believe in me;
Land of make believe, and it don’t believe.

“That’s all you’ve done? It’s been like three hours since school got out,” Tré grumbled, taking another swig from his bottle.

The fourteen-year-old did the same, and tilted her head to the side. “Well, yeah. What else were we supposed to do?”

“You’re really not going anywhere with your life,” her father commented, “Holy crap.”

Are we demented, or am I disturbed?
The space that’s in between, insane and insecure.

Melody removed her feet from the table and got up. “Well, that’s life I guess,” she shrugged, and left the room, her keys jangling from her pocket as she walked.

Tré leapt to his feet too, following behind, grabbing her wrist before she could leave the kitchen. “Why are you like this?”

“Like what?”

The father yanked his daughter around to look at him. She was still multiple inches shorter than him, and stared up at him with dull eyes. “Like a fucking little bitch who has no respect.”

She laughed, her head tossing back, sending her hair in flickering flames down her back. “What do you want me to have respect for, Dad?” she muttered, her blue eyes narrowing, “You want me to respect you? No, I won’t. Respect property? Whose property? What is there for me to respect, Dad?”

“Why not?” the drummer snarled.

Mel tilted her head at him. “Why not what?” her voice was almost angelic, would have been if not for the edge of chill that was creeping into her stature.

“Why don’t you respect me?” He wrenched her arm a little backwards so she was facing him completely.

She smirked, twisting out of his grip and taking a step towards the door. “Because there’s nothing for me to respect.”

When there ain’t nowhere you can go; running away from pain...
When you’ve been victimized...Tales from another broken home.

Tré watched as she left, and stood for a few minutes, still staring at where she had just been standing. Finally, he turned back to the table. His eyes looked haunted, his brow crumpled as he visibly fought back tears.

Shakily, he reached forward and pulled his chair out so he could sit. He slumped into the seat, almost knocking over his beer as he dropped his head into his hands, pressing his fingertips against his forehead and making a nondescript whimpering noise.

“She’ll be the death of me.”

No one ever died for my sins in Hell, as far as I can tell,
At least the ones I’ve gotten away with...

by **gloria-** Mon 01 Dec 2008, 2:03 am

Chapter 3: Holiday

Hear the dogs howling out of key, to a hymn called ‘Faith and Misery’;
And bleed, the company lost the war today.

I could almost feel the house shake due to the slamming of the front door. Stomping footsteps drew nearer to the kitchen, where Tré, Mike and I were cooking dinner, a joint effort. As the furious young girl entered the room, she flicked her red hair, letting out a loud, annoyed noise and tossing her bag at the fridge. She threw herself into a seat at the table, swiping her hand at a set of drumsticks that was sitting on the flat surface, sending them flying into the wall, nicking it with a black mark.

“Hello, sunshine,” Mike smiled cheerily at her, and she gave him a glare that could have killed a horse. “Hey, what’d I do?”

The teen pulled back her lips, baring her teeth, and growled viciously, like an animal. “Don’t fucking try me,” she snarled, and rested her forehead in her palm.

“What happened, Mel?” the girl’s father murmured quietly, hesitantly shuffling to the table and taking the seat beside her. He reached out , and, haltingly, slid his fingers into the curl of her hand. She jerked away, hiding her eyes from her dad. “Mel? Sweetie...”

“Dad, don’t,” she muttered, “I’ve really not had a good day and I don’t need you trying to chew my ear off about some other shit I didn’t do right.”

Tré turned to look at me, eyes wide and uncertain, and then clutched at his daughter’s wrist. “Baby, I just want to know what’s wrong...” he whispered, leaning closer to his child and patting her bright locks. “I just want to help you feel better.”

The fourteen-year-old girl looked up at her father, her eyes full of tears. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she spoke quietly, her teeth sinking into her lower lip.

My drummer friend grabbed her chair and dragged it around the corner of the table, closer to him. Carefully, he pulled her in against him, and I went back to slicing broccoli for the dinner, trying at least to give them a bit of privacy, although I could hear every word Tré spoke. “Sweetheart, it’ll be okay, mm? Things will be fine...” I glanced at Mike when Melody began crying, quietly, muffled because her face was stuffed into her father’s shoulder. “Don’t cry, baby, please don’t...”

The bassist flicked a little bit of duck fat into the sink and set down his knife, jerking his head towards the living room. He raised his eyebrows, signalling to me that he was just as uncomfortable with the situation as I was. I nodded silently, and followed him past the small family as they rocked back and forth together. I brushed my fingertips against my goddaughter’s shoulder as I passed, hoping to convey to her that I really did care and that I was there if she needed me.

By the time we returned to the kitchen, Tré was seated, alone, at the table, hands laced together in front of his face, elbows down on the wood. He looked up when we came in, and gave a weak smile.

“What’s she on about this time?” Mike asked, going back to the pieces of duck that were still lying limp on the cutting board.

The man shrugged. “Her boyfriend got mad because she didn’t want to get high.”

I wrinkled my nose and went back to the broccoli. “Well, at least she said no,” the taller blond man commented.

“I don’t think it’s permanent.” Tré suddenly was beside me, measuring out rice. “It was just for today. But, either way, she and what’s-his-face got rather angry at each other, and she’s pretty broken up.”

I hummed and patted his shoulder, trying to be reassuring. “Things will get better with her, Tré. Don’t worry, she’ll figure herself out.”

Hear the drum pounding out of time, another protester has crossed the line;
To find, the money’s on the other side...

by lyrical_mess Mon 01 Dec 2008, 6:59 pm

Dunno what to say...but I likes. I like the way you piece it all together. Even though I feel like you slightly stole my Haushinka idea...*indignant*

by **gloria-** Thu 04 Dec 2008, 2:36 am

^ if i did, i definitely didn't mean to (i've never read it)...

Chapter 4: Boulevard of Broken Dreams

Read between the lines of what’s fucked up, and everything’s alright;
Check my vital signs to know I’m still alive and I walk alone.

“Billie, you got a few minutes? I’m in need of a bit of...” Tré trailed off, and I heard him exhale sharply. “If you can’t, I get that, though.”

The strain in his voice made me set my guitar aside and push away my notation sheet. “What’s up, buddy?” I asked, hoping it wouldn’t be something stressful or awkward.

“It’s Mel again.”

I bit my lip. “Of course it is,” I sighed, settling myself more comfortably against the cushions of the sofa.

The drummer cleared his throat, making the line crackle. “She asked me if I could sign her dropout letter...”

I put my head in my hand and groaned. “What’d you tell her?”

“I said I wouldn’t, and then she did that growly thing at me that she does...” he paused, and I heard him take a breath, steeling himself. “So I told her that I want her to be like, a doctor, or you know , the normal stuff parents want their kids to be...”

I hummed, hoping he would continue so I didn’t have to say anything. “She glared at me something vicious, and told me she didn’t care what I wanted, because parents’ dreams don’t matter.”

“But, what are her dreams?”

I could almost see him rubbing his eyes wearily. “As far as I can see, she doesn’t have any...” He sniffed. “But she must. I mean...She has to, right?”

I chewed the corner of my lip. “Yeah...I guess so...” I cleared my throat and leant my head against the purple upholstered armrest. “Should I talk to her?”

Tré squeaked. “Would you?” he asked hopefully, “I don’t know if she’ll listen to you over me, but like...I just don’t know what else to do.” I could hear the tears in his voice. “She’s killing me. I’m so Goddamn worried about her, and she just doesn’t give two shits...”

I nodded. “I’ll call her in a little while. She got her cell phone?”

“Yes. I think she should.” My friend let out a pained sob. “Billie, thank you so much.”

I walk this empty street, on the Boulevard of Broken Dreams;
Where the city sleeps, and I’m the only one and I walk alone...

by **gloria-** Mon 08 Dec 2008, 3:36 am

Chapter 5: Are We The Waiting

The rage and love, story of my life;
The Jesus of Suburbia is a lie.

I peeked into Melody’s bedroom. The window was open, the screen leaned against the wall beside it, and I could see her silhouette, blocking out some of San Francisco’s lights. I shuffled in, closing the door quietly behind me, and made my way to the gaping source of cool air.

As I clambered out onto the shingles beside my goddaughter, she turned to look at me, cigarette dangling easily from her lips. I could see her blue eyes shine with caution, but she didn’t say anything as I sat and crossed my legs. “Hey,” I smiled at her, trying to act cool.

She tilted her head, taking the smoke from her mouth and nodding at me. “Hey.”

“How’s it going?”

She shrugged, taking one last drag from her cancer stick and stubbing it out on the roof. “Could be worse.” Her voice held no apparent emotion, though I knew that she was guarding her words, speaking carefully.

“Yeah? But could be better, too?” I asked.

I could almost hear the gears in her head turning as she looked at me again, the blue eyes again shining, but this time more with interest, it seemed. “Could be,” she muttered quietly, “I bet you heard about the purging.” I nodded slowly. “Dad’s been telling everyone. You know, I heard him telling his sister over the phone a few days ago.” She shook her head, looking back towards the bay. “I haven’t answered my phone since. They keep trying to reach me.”

I chuckled. “I know you’re not,” I commented, “I tried calling yesterday.”

She snorted. “Dad told you I want to drop out?” I hummed. “Course he did. Fucking prick.”

“Mel, he just wants you to be okay,” I bit my lip, knowing I wouldn’t be able to get through to her this way. “We all do.”

“I am okay.”

I grabbed her arm and pulled her around so she was at least facing me. “If you were okay, you wouldn’t have to tell me that.”

She turned her chin to look at me, her eyes narrowed. She gave me the most vicious glare I had ever been given. “What do you want me to tell you?” she growled.

“Just why you’re doing this to yourself.”

She turned away again, letting out a mirthless laugh and flicking her red hair, almost purple in the moonlight. “It’s a defence mechanism,” Melody let out a breath, “At least, that’s what the school counsellor says. She says, ‘you don’t hate your dad’. She doesn’t get it. I hate him for all the shit he’s put me through.”

“But...Why don’t you take it out on him?”

The teen snorted. “Because if there’s anyone I hate more than my father, it’s myself.” She looked at me from the corners of her eyes. “And you know something? It’s a lot easier to punish myself than it is to punish him.”

“You are punishing him.”

“Am I?” she sounded careless.

“Yeah. He’s killing himself, he’s that worried about you. You’re hurting him just as much as you’re hurting yourself.”

She got up, and stepped behind me towards the window. “Good.”

Starry lights, city nights coming down over me;
Skyscrapers, stargazers in my mind...

by **gloria-** Sat 27 Dec 2008, 12:24 am

Chapter 6: St. Jimmy

My name is Jimmy and you better not wear it out;
Suicide commando that your momma talked about.

“Dad, I’m home,” Mel called, and a few moments later she entered the kitchen, a long, lanky boy with dark hair trailing behind.

“Who’s that?” Tré asked, looking just as surly as the boy.

Melody wrinkled her nose and huffed. “That’s Jimmy.” The boy smirked and touched his fingertips to her hips. “You want something to drink?”

“Nah, I’m fine,” the teen flicked his hair and hiked his pants.

“Right. We’ll be upstairs.” The two teens exited the room, leaving a wavering silence in their wake.

“I hate him,” Tré finally muttered, still scribbling on his beat sheet.

Mike snorted. “You don’t even know him.”

The drummer growled. “I know enough to know that Mel wouldn’t be in so much shit if it weren’t for him.” He clenched his fist and got up. “I need a fucking drink.” By the time he was seated back at the table with his tumbler of whiskey, he had stopped swearing and was calmed down enough to be able to smile at Mike and me wearily. “Thanks, you guys.”

“For what, man?” I asked, ruffling his bleached blond hair and shuffling towards the door. “Anyways, I’ve got to get home. Adie’s a bit sick and I said I’d try and make dinner tonight.”

“Hey, but, um,” my friend leaned back in his chair to look at me better, “D’you think she’d come here? I don’t ...really want to be here alone with him.” The look of anxiety in his eyes and the seemingly permanent crease in his brow made me turn back. “Please.” He turned to the bassist. “You too.”

“I’ll call,” I nodded, “I don’t know what Adrienne will say, but I’ll see if I can’t convince her.”

“Billie, I don’t know...” my wife sighed as I sat by my younger friend and squeezed his shoulder. “I mean, you’ve been spending so much time over there, and... well, the boys miss you.”

I bit my lip. “Yeah, but Adie, we’re working on a new album,” I wheedled, “And you know Mel’s having some troubles about now...And if you guys come over then I’ll hang with the boys tonight.”

She huffed unhappily. “Billie Joe, listen.” She cleared her throat, but I could sense her crumbling. “You know I’m worried just as much as you are about Melody. And you know I understand about the new album. And...”

I groaned, cutting her off mid-word. “No, Adie, I don’t think you really are just as worried as I am about Mel. If you were, you’d be over here now with us trying to help her. You’d have tried to find out what was wrong. You wouldn’t be fighting me right now.”

She made a very annoyed noise. “Fine, Billie Joe. We’ll come over. And you can tell me what the fuck could be making Melody so messed up. And maybe then I’ll be more worried about her.” She hung up, and her cold tones wavered over the line for another few seconds before I pressed off on my phone too.

Tré gave me another thankful grin. “Thanks, Bill. I’ll talk to Adie, we’ll sort everything out.”

A thump sounded from upstairs, and all three of us looked towards the ceiling. The father of the girl upstairs sighed and looked back into his glass, swilling the ice around slowly. “I’ll sort him out too.”

My name is St Jimmy, I’m a son of a gun; I’m the one that’s from the way outside;
I’m a teenage assassin executing some fun, in the cult of the life of crime...

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