"Faceache, answer the phone." You groan as you hear the beep indicating you had been sent to voicemail, taking another swig of the now stale whiskey in your hand. You let the bottle fall from your fingers and roll onto cold floor beside your head, letting your now free hand drag through your greasy locks before letting it fall back to the floor. You spent most of your nights like this; drunk off your ass on your apartment floor, making pointless phone calls that would never be answer. Leaving messages that would never be heard. Apologizing over and over again for things that didn't matter anymore.
Or, rather, didn't matter to anyone important.
It was sad, really, but you deserved this. You laid on your the dirtied hardwood floor, phone in one hand, a new bottle whiskey in the other. This is how every day of your life went and that how it would always be. You couldn't change it.
Your eyes trail up to an article you had tacked to your wall. There you all are, Noodle, Russel, yourself...2D... Your own eyes well up with tears as you gaze at the picture. It had been taken shortly after Clint Eastwood was released. Times were good then. It almost filled you with a melancholy feeling, one that started in your heart and spread to the rest of your body, filling in every space it could find. It made you feel as if you were a dead weight, tied down to your floor. The bottle of whiskey in your hand used to help you feel light again. Now it just left you with a head ache.
Even in your drunken stupor, you manage to fumble with the phone in your hand, typing in a number you knew better than your own name. You click the call button and wait patiently for the ring.
ring.
ring
ring
I'm sorry, the person you are trying to reach is not available. At the tone, please record y-
You zone out at this point, subconsciously waiting for the beep, formulating you words of choice in your head. Maybe it was the booze, but you always felt as though you were forgetting to say something. And may be it was your lack of judgment, but it always felt important to you.
Somewhere between the third or fourth phone call and you blacking out for the umpteenth time, you'd begin to stop pleading for an answer on the phone. You now whispered apologies, trying to take back everything you had said and always knew you would regret someday. At this time you began to plead for forgiveness.
beep.
"Faceache...I'm sorry...please answer... I need to tell you... I really am sorry...
I'm sorry for hitting you...and yelling at you...that was wrong of me...it was never your fault, though...
And calling you stupid...and beating you senseless...That was the worst feeling in the world...seeing you broken and being too damn proud to do anything about it
I'm sorry for being so horrible to you...and everyone...
I'm sorry Russel left...that was my fault...he took Noodle with him...I begged him to let her stay...she just started school...was it last week? Maybe last year...can't remember...
I'm sorry for being a horrible person...and pushing you away...
I'm sorry for not watching you carefully...I probably could have stopped you...
Faceache...I'm sorry...please answer..."
The beep on the other end alerts you that you have long gone over the limit of recording space and the phone's voicemail box has no more space for messages so you hang up and drop the phone beside your head. You deserved this though... It had been your fault that Russel had left with ten year old Noodle more than a year ago. It was your fault that the band fell apart. It was your fault that your singer had slowly ascended in to madness. It was your fault he had overdosed.
It was your fault 2D was dead and there was nothing you could do about it.
disclaimers: I own nothing