We as human beings do crazy shit all the time. We throw ourselves out of airplanes attached to a piece of fabric. We go out and wrangle with bears and tigers and wild beasts and act like we can tame them. We put a variety of substances in our bodies that we know will fuck us up.
Why would we do that to ourselves? Why do we knowingly put ourselves in danger?
Because that adrenalin rush bypasses every single feeling of wellbeing and monotony we hold within ourselves. Because we feel superior to the people who play it safe when we rebel against the norm. Because there's got to be more to life than just being ordinary.
I roll the dime bag between my thumb and forefinger, feeling the tiny grains within it grind together. Mitchie would kill me if she saw this. She'd go all psycho bitch and tell me about how I'm fucking my life up and how she never expected the pressure of fame to get to me and how much I've changed and all sorts of nagging shit. Christ, she's a pain in the ass.
If it's not her telling me what to do, it's my band mates. If it's not them, it's the label. If it's not those suits, it's my god damn publicist.
Shane, you glared at a girl stalking you down the street. You don't appreciate your fans enough.
Shane, you were photographed kissing your girlfriend in a private place. You draw too much attention to your sex life.
Shane, I ran over your dog with my convertible. You should take better care of your pets.
And I just take it. I never stand up for myself. I cower away, lamely fulfilling everyone else's expectations of me. It's like I'm not even allowed to have expectations of myself. I just always have to do what everyone else wants.
That's why I have this small but ridiculously expensive plastic bag in my hand. When I'm high, I feel invincible. It's just me. No one's yelling or whining or rolling their eyes at me. There's nothing I can't do or say or even think. I'm free.
I stretch my legs out across the pine floor and tilt my head back so it rests on my mattress. The lights in my cabin are out, but yet the furnishings glow at me, like they're surrounded by some kind of aura. I take in a deep breath, and I'm consciously aware of my chest expanding. I hold it in so I can feel my skin stretched across my rib cage. I run fingers delicately up and down the thick rungs of my torso, caressing each individual bone.
I know why they call it a cage. Because it's like a bars in a prison cell. You have a prison inside your own body. You can't escape it.
Slowly, I let out my breath, and stare out the window. I can see the moon shining, illuminating the outline of the forest, and glittering across the lake. I chuckle slightly as the glow dances across my dilated pupils, momentarily blinding me and reminding me why I hate the freaking outdoors so much. Why the fuck am I even back at this stupid camp for a second year? Probably some sort of contractual obligation that the record label had fine-printed on Nate, Jason and I. But whatever, I'm alone here in this dingy cabin, and I can do whatever the hell I want.
There's no going back now, anyway.
The door handle rattles and I smirk arrogantly. What an idiot, trying to get into my cabin when it's obvious I'm either sleeping or not here. But my stomach drops when the handle keeps on turning and I realise I've forgotten to lock the door.
I try to stand and run over, to slam the door in the trespasser's face, but the room swirls before me and I fall to my knees. The door swings open and whoever it is delicately shuffles into the room. By this time, I'm on all fours, and I don't have either the strength or co-ordination to lift up my head to see who gets the pleasure of seeing me in this situation.
"Shane?" They spot me as I curl into the fetal position.
I try to say something, but I feel like someone has chucked a fur-ball down my throat. All I can do I gape at floor and mumble out a few incoherent words. They kneel down beside me and place one hand on my forehead, and the other under my chin, tilting my face up to look at them.
"Heeeey" I slur whilst smile inanely.
"Fuck." is all she says.
She stands and turns on the light in my cabin, and I groan as the bright light hits me, covering my face with both my arms and rolling onto my back.
"Cait-lyn!" I whine, emphasising each syllable. "Go awaaaay!"
"Shane, I'm not leaving," Caitlyn says quietly. I hear her lowering herself next to me, and the noise of her crossing her legs reverberates around my brain.
I feel the world tilt as she lifts my head and slides her legs under me, creating a makeshift pillow. Reluctantly, I allow her to pry my arms away from my face and lift up my eyelids, and I know what she's about to see. She's going to look in my eyes and see a guy who's tripping out of his mind, and then she's going to hate me.
"Jesus Christ, Shane." She sighs. I brace myself for what I expect to be a huge and confronting lecture about my irresponsibility and how she's going to tell everyone and it will be a lesson learned. But instead of a prejudicial rant, Caitlyn merely puts her hand on my forehead again.
"You're sweaty." She grumbles.
"No shit, Sherlock." I spit back at her, suddenly angry at her intrusion. If she's not going to chastise me, why the hell is she still here?
I feel the anger building up from my stomach, spreading throughout my veins, like a burning heat. It rises up my chest, fills my lungs, makes my heart pound faster. The fury I'm feeling is clawing its way out of my throat and I want to scream at her. I open my mouth to let my rage take its toll. Suddenly, I'm being frantically turned onto my side, and I feel Caitlyn's fingers slide into my mouth to scrape the heaving vomit out of my airway. Grunting, she helps me to sit up and some how she manages to get me into the vicinity of a toilet.
I don't even realise I'm crying until she's wiping away the tears on the cheek that isn't pressed against the cold porcelain bowl.
"I'm so sorry for doing this to you, Caitlyn," I sob.
"Shh, don't apologize, Shane. It's okay." She whispers kindly.
"No, no it's not!" I cry harder. "Nothing is okay! Everything has gone to shit! And it's never going to change! My life is so fucking predictable, and I hate it!"
"You have a great life, Shane." Caitlyn rubs my back soothingly as I throw up into the toilet once again.
"Yeah, that's what everyone thinks, isn't it? That I'm doing what a lot of dumbass people wish they could, and I should be grateful for all my fucking opportunities. I'm not grateful for any of that shit, they don't know what it's like to be a fucking robot! I'd rather live a thousand moments like this than ever go back to just one that's ordinary." I choke out.
"So how long have you been extraordinary for?" Caitlyn murmurs.
"Only a few times, it's not as if I'm like an addict or anything. Just when crap gets too much to handle, I just like to free myself for a little while." I shrug, looking my balance and slipping off the toilet, smacking my head hard against the bathroom floor. That's the last thing I remember.
Finally, I've had actual inspiration for another chapter story. It will only probably just be short though, I read this really good book last week that kind of addresses these same issues, but better, because it was actually published and all. But yeah, if you're into books, read Breath by Tim Winton. He's one of my all-time favourite authors.
Please review, and let me know what you think. I know it's a little extreme (okay, a lot), but I find the concept very interesting, I don't know about you.