DISCLAIMER: If I owned Camp Rock, Shane would be a manic depressive rockstar, Mitchie would be a drug-addict, and someone would die. So it's probably best you don't hire me, Disney. OH! And the song belongs to Death Cab for Cutie. I know, I know, people confuse us all the time, it's alright. I forgive you. Okay, it's time for you to stop reading the disclaimer now. Get on with the story, you moron!
…
I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called you a moron. Review, please? Maybe? No? Okay, you're a moron.
PROLOUGE
Amongst the vending
machines and year-old magazines in a place where we only say
goodbye
It stung like a violent wind that our memories depend on a
faulty camera in our minds
Shane Gray is a lot of things.
Angry? Yes.
Sad? Sure.
Deranged? Maybe.
"Shane, buddy, c'mon. You need to talk to us. You can't plead innocent and not give us reasons to believe you."
Shane glances up at the man sitting in front of him. His arms are crossed across his potbellied stomach while his wirey eyebrows raise. He's waiting for an answer. He's not getting one.
"Shane, you were with her on the scene, that makes you the number one suspect in this case."
The eggwhite walls are mocking him. White, the color of the dress she was wearing the last time he saw her. Pale white, the color of her skin after it happened. Shane cringes and shifts in his seat.
"Listen, kid. The economy is shitty enough, my job is currently hanging by a thread. If I don't get something out of you, I'm going to lose whatever I've got going for me."
Shane still remembers how pained she looked in those last few moments. He should have helped her, he should have known that she hadn't gotten any better, but he didn't.
"If you don't tell me something about this chick in five seconds, I'm telling the cops you're guilty and you can sit in a jail cell for the rest of your life. Five…four…three…"
"Stop," Shane whispers, staring at his worn out converse.
"He speaks! So, kid, tell me this story. What the hell happened?"
"Oh my God, Shane. What the hell was I thinking? What were you thinking? I can't do this, I just can't…"
"I…I can't talk about it," Shane wrings his hands together. Talking about it just reminds him of how much he hated himself, how much he hated her for doing this. Only he doesn't hate her, he could never hate her.
"God, Mitchie, you make everything a bigger deal than it has to be! It's over, he's dead! You need to get the hell over it, because this depression shit is really pissing me off!"
The man throws his hands up in the air, rolling his eyes.
"Oh, come on, just tell me what happened!"
"Fuck you, Shane."
"You just did, sweetie."
Shane rests his head in his hands, his fingers squeezing his temples. He deserves the pain, he deserves to die.
"You kids, you all are so melodramatic. We get it, your life sucks. Your parents treat the dog's shit better than you, you're bullied at school, your girlfriend is a dirty prostitute with abnormally large breasts-"
"SHUTUP!" Shane screams, his head laying in the same position, "You have no idea what the hell I have been through-what she's been through! You think you know me but you don't, so get the fuck off my back."
The man raises his eyebrows, challenging Shane.
"I'll get off your back if you tell me about this girl-Michelle Torres?"
Shane sighs. He's not going to win this battle, even he knows it. He takes a deep breath and raises his head.
"Fine, okay? Fine. I guess it started on the day she turned 17, about a year ago…"
Shane Gray is a lot of things, but Shane Gray is not a murderer.
So what do you think? Was it awful? Did I just waste a good 10 minutes of your life? I apologize if I did, really. Tell me if you want me to actually make this a story, okay? I've got some ideas for how it will go. Review, please and thank you :)
