"Where the fuck is, Abigail?" Mark growled, pacing in front of his mic stand. I rolled my eyes and continued to sit comfortably on the couch with Lucas and Nate while we waited for member number five.

"Chill out, Mark. She's late the everything, you should know this."

"Well we gotta start stepping it up in here!" he says sternly, punching his fist into his other palm. "I'm tired of not getting any practice in because one of you is late and we can't do shit without you."

"Just ask your parents for a bit more time. Who's fifteen minutes going to hurt?"

"I have already asked them," Mark grinds out between his teeth before running his hands through his blonde hair. "You're lucky we get until six to practice anyways and-"

"We can always use my house," I offer for the hundredth time. Mark's bitching was starting to piss me off and if I had to listen to another one of his 'you're lucky we get what little time we have here in this shitty place' rants, then I was going to sock him in the throat.

"Use your house for what?" Abbie asks, making her entrance with her guitar case in hand.

"Fucking finally!" Mark yells, throwing his hands up in the air. Abbie rolls her eyes and rests the case beside one of the small amps set up for her Westfield guitar. "We've been waiting for half an hour!"

"That's your own damn fault, babe," she says nonchalantly, giving Mark a quick peck on the cheek before walking over to the rest of us. "Practice starts at four, and it's ten after. You may have been waiting but I do have life outside of this garage, ya know." Abbie falls across our laps, sighing to herself. I lightly hit my drumsticks against her legs, smirking when she whines for me to stop.

"Well if you would please grace us with a bit of your precious time with us then it would make me oh so happy." We all look at Mark as he spits out sarcasm at her. Nate, Luke and I share a look knowing they were going to have another lovers' quarrel, like every other week. And then tonight, they would have make up sex and go back to being their usual stubborn selves tomorrow.

I keep beating against Abbie's legs until she's finally pushed off the couch by Luke and Nate while they go to stand up from the couch. Abbie groans, laying face first in the floor, not wanting to move.

"C'mon, Abs, before Mark has another bitch fit," I mumble to her, standing up to my tall six foot-one, and nudge her side with my shoe.

"But I don't want to," she says, but its muffled against the concrete. Laughing, I reach down and wrap my around around her waist before pulling her up onto her feet. She becomes merely dead weight in my arms. I roll my eyes, ignoring Nate and Luke's snickering at me as I carry her over to her guitar and amp.

"Don't be such a baby, Abs. It's very unflattering." I try to keep my voice stern, but by the time I'm done, we're all laughing - except for Mark, the fucker - and I drop Abbie down to the floor.

"Can we just get on with practice?" Mark growls, before going over and turning on the amps and mics. Abbie simply sits where I dropped her and sets up her guitar from there. Luke and Nate stand close to one another, heads together as they talk, warming up their fingers on their respective Schecters.

Mark, Nate and I test our mics real quick before my feet rest on the pedals of my large drum set.

"What are we starting off with?" Luke asks, running his fingers over the four strings that cause a deep bass sound to feel the garage.

"Pretender?" Abbie asks, leaning against the side of her amp as she looks up lazily. She hasn't been sleeping well lately. I look over at her, and she must have felt it because she looks back. And then, to answer my questioning look, she nods and gives me a smile. It doesn't reach her eyes though.

"Yeah, dude! Pretender! We haven't done that one in forever!" Nate says, strumming at his own six strings, getting ready for the song. Mark looks annoyed, but nods. He's been too stressed out lately with trying to get us a show, but we've all agreed that we only do the band for fun. Mark's the only one trying to make us something.

"Okay, Pretender is cool. It'll be a nice warm up. You guys ready?" Mark asks, looking to me and then to Abbie. We nod; my fingers spin the two drum sticks in a quick circle before I grasp them in the correct position against my palm. Abbie starts off with the slow opening riff, her fingers moving gracefully over the strings and Nate comes in to add the rest of the rhythm in the background. I press my lips close to the microphone.

"Keep you in the dark you know they all pretend... Keep you in the dark and so it all began..."

My hands flick hard, beating the end of the stick hard to the drumhead to get the sound I want. Mark sings into his mic.

"Send in your skeletons, sing as their bones go marching in... again!"


"Mom!" I yell, walking in through the front door, dropping my book bag onto the floor beside out shoes. "Mom, guess what! The guys and I finally decided on a name. It's pretty kick ass-"

I stop in the middle of the doorway leading to the kitchen.

Mom and Dad are sitting at the island, facing me, with their hands clasped in front of them. There are two notebooks placed side by side on top of the counter. My entire body goes pale at the sight of them. Oh shit...

"You wanna talk to us about something?" Dad says, motioning toward the two notebooks. I haven't moved from my spot in the doorway. I'm almost scared to. Could I make a run for it and stay over at Luke or Delia's? No, I'd still have to face them about this sooner or later...

"Please, Owen? Please talk to us. If you don't tell us what's wrong then we can't help you," Mom tries to reason, and I slowly feel the color coming back to my face.

"Guys, it's not what it looks like, I swear. Those are just-"

"Suicide letters? Final good byes? Please, stop me when I answer correctly." Dad growls, standing up from the chair. I can see the veins beginning to tighten underneath the skin of his neck. Mom places a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back into the seat.

"No, lyrics," I tell him, my expression serious and truthful. He's still bristling. "You of all people should be able to tell the difference between a suicide note and lyrics, dad-"

"Don't you dare use that tone with me, Owen James!"

"What tone? This tone? Sorry! Can't help it! I'm just a fucking teenager with the world out to get him!"

I feel my own anger growing and growing - it's about to burst if I don't get it out.

"Owen, sweetie, please calm down, okay? We just want to know why you've written these."

"Like I said, mom. They're lyrics. All musicians have written at least one suicide note in a song." My eyes look up at my dad, and I know I've given one of the lowest blows I could. His angry hazel eyes slowly become clearer and clearer until he hits the realization of what I meant.

"I'm going to my room," I tell them, before turning on my heel and walking away.

You shouldn't have said that, Owen.

I groan at the sight of the tall figure before slamming my door shut and flicking my fingers over the lock.

"I don't fucking care anymore."

Actually you do, I know you do, ducky.

"Why do you keep calling me that?" I growl, flopping down on my back onto my bed. "I'm not fucking five anymore."

It feels weird calling someone my name.

"Your name is Jimmy," I inform him, and he laughs. I feel the bed sink in at the end. I lift my head and look down to see him cross legged on the end, sitting with his elbow on his knee and his chin on his palm.

You know what I mean, ducky.

I say nothing, and the room is overcome by silence. I'm not sure when Jimmy left, or when I fell asleep, but when I open my eyes again it's three in the morning. I'm wide awake, and with it being so late, I'm positive that my parents are in bed. The stairs don't creak as I walk down them, giving me the perfect chance to slink around the lower level of our home easily.

However, as I pass the front room to go to the kitchen, I stop and step back.

Dad's sitting on the couch, his back toward me, staring forward. On the middle of the shelf mom had put up a few years back, sits a picture of my dad and his band and the group of people they called their family. It was back from when they were just starting out, just really getting known and making music. I remember every story he ever told me - every single one. And he's always said there are plenty more to be told.

"I shouldn't have yelled at him," Dad says quietly, surprising me. Who is he talking to? "I shouldn't have told Violet about them. I should have just left the notebooks where they were and waited for him to come to one of us, or hell, maybe I should have confronted him myself. But it's too late for that isn't it, Rev?"

He does this alot.

I turn in surprise, staring at the figure of Jimmy.

He'll stay up all night talking to the walls, trying to get through to me. I've heard every word loud and clear, but I can't answer.

I say nothing from the fear of dad catching me.

I can only talk to you, Owen. His bright blue eyes look down from dad to me. I blink, and he does the same. The silence chokes me, almost. I'm stuck with you because of that little thing. His long finger taps against the skin above my right eyebrow, motioning for the bright blue eye I have. I don't feel the touch, but I do get a chill. I left a piece of me on your mom when I brought her back, and it got passed on to you.

"Where did I screw up, Jimmy? Where did I become this kind of shitty dad?"

"You're not a shitty dad," I say without thinking. He jumps around in surprise, before cursing once he realized he split whatever bottle of alcohol he had, all over himself.

"Shit, Owen! Don't scare me like that." He goes into the kitchen to grab a rag, and I follow to repeat my earlier words.

"You're not a shitty dad."

He stops in the middle of soaking up the beer with the rag, and stares at his hands. Dad doesn't say anything.

"You didn't screw up anymore. And Jimmy is proud of you."

I bite my tongue once I realize what I said and how I phrased it. Dad says nothing after a long pause, so I sigh and walk back to my room. The hunger is now gone.

I'm proud of both of you.

Notes

lyrics; "Pretender" by Foo Fighters