Mr. Brightside


Torture.
I thought I knew the definition of that word. Until now.
Torture: having to watch the only woman I have ever loved be with another man. Seeing him beside her. Whispering in her ear. Touching her hair…her skin—her soft olive skin.
Touching her like she belongs to him.
She belongs to him.
The knowledge cuts me deep. Like a blunt fucking knife, stabbing through my ribs and carving out my still beating heart.
I don’t want to look at her.
I have to look at her.
I cast a glance to Tru while I numbly sing the lyrics to—what the fuck am I singing?
What does it matter.
All that matters is this. Here. Now.
Her with him.
Tru with Will.
Will, her smart, perfect, preppy fucking boyfriend.
Boyfriend.
The word is bitter. Acrid.
I want to be her boyfriend. I want to be her everything, like she is to me.
What am I to Tru? Her bit on the side. Her bit of fucking fun.
Does she think he’s better than me?
I hate him.
I hate her.
I love her.
I’m weak for her.
I can’t take my eyes off her. Him. Them. Together.
Heart. Fucking. Breaking.
She’s not looking at him. Her eyes are on the stage. On me. She’s looking at me.
Is that a good sign? Does it mean she wants me? More than him.
Heart. Lifting…
But he’s standing close to her. Or is she standing close to him?
Does she want to be standing close to him?
How close have they been all day…
I feel sick.
Heart. Numbing.
Is his arm around her? Or is he holding her hand? Is he touching her?
Worse…is she touching him?
Does she want him? More than me.
Have I lost her? Again.
Torture.
Misery.
Utter fucking misery.
I need a hit. I need to smoke. I need to drink this goddamn ache out of me. Anything to take her from my mind.
Even as I think the words I know I can’t. Nothing will take Tru from my mind. She is in me. Part of me.
She’s my history.
I can still taste her. Smell her. Feel her wrapped around me. Touching me. Holding me. Kissing me.
She’s mine.
She’s his.
Fucking torture.
Why is she doing this to me?
What if she chooses him, what will I do?
Pick me, Tru. Please.
I can’t lose her. Not again.
Fuck, this hurts.
I’ve known pain. But this…it’s all consuming. Weakening. Maddening. I have no control. It’s all out of my hands.
My life…my heart, they are in her hands.
I finish up the song, and the lights in the stadium kill to black, taking Tru from my sight. Them from my sight.
The relief is momentary. Because my eyes start to ache to see her again, like they fear each time will be the last.
I couldn’t bear to never see her again. Even standing with him, I want to see her.
The knowledge hits me like a sickness.
My need for Tru is greater than anything I’ve ever known. Even more than drugs.
I will take her in any capacity I can.
But I’m losing her…
Am I losing her?
Yes.
I can feel it. She’s being taken away from me.
No. She’s going willingly.
To him. She wants him.
Will the smart fucking banker.
What am I in her eyes?
Jake the fucked up, washed up, ex. addict.
What do I have to offer Tru?
Apparently, nothing.
God, look at me, standing here, like a weak pathetic bastard, in front of eighty thousand people, bleeding my fucking heart out, while she parades their ‘happy relationship’ before me. At my show.
I’m standing here letting this happen.
Letting her do this to me.
Mock me. Use me. Hurt me
Jesus, I’m pathetic. I need to man up.
Man. The. Fuck. Up.
What would Jonny do in this situation?
He’d make his point and move on.
And that’s exactly what I need to do – make my point and move the fuck on. I’m not doing this shit with her anymore.
Maybe I should just pluck one of these willing girls from the audience and make my point right here on stage.
You’ll hurt her.
I want to hurt her.
I want her to know how much she’s hurting me.
I want to rip my aching heart out of my weak chest and lay it at her feet so she has some comprehension of how I feel.
Sounds dramatic? It is. But tell someone who cares, because me…well, I’m Mr. fucking Brightside.
Tru just needs to hear me. See me. It’ll change things.
It has to change things.
Sing for me, Jake.
Lyrics. It’s the only way Tru listens. The only way she has ever really heard me.
Does he listen? Does he see? Her perfect fucking Will.
Does he know I was making love to his girlfriend last night? Making her come, over and over, screaming out my name.
No, because the stupid bastard is too blind to see what’s right in front of him.
Well, I’m going to make him see. I’m going to make him listen. I’m going to spell it out the way I know best.
I didn’t want to force Tru’s hand. I wanted her to leave him and come to me willingly. But she’s not, and I can’t do this anymore.
I won’t be made to look the fool for one fucking second longer.
I’m nobody’s bitch. I’m the one in charge here. And when the show is over, Tru will leave here with me.
Or him.
She’ll leave with me…
Won’t she?
The spotlight hits. Stepping back from the mike, I get a smoke out and light up.
My heart is pumping hard in my chest. I’m acting like a pussy. I need to sort myself out.
I’m Jake fucking Wethers.
I bow to no one. I chase no one.
They chase me.
Tru will chase me.
I take a long pull on my cigarette, the nicotine momentarily calming me.
Needing a pain reliever, I grab the bottle of beer from beside my mike stand and take a long swig.
The crowd starts to catcall and cheer, so giving them what they—and I want—I down the beer in one and throw the bottle off stage.
It gives me a slight buzz. Not enough. I need more.
Another drag of my cigarette. I step up to the mike.
“Okay…” I push my hand through my hair. What if this drives her away and back to him? Back to him – that’s a fucking joke. She’s already with him. There’s nothing left to lose, apart from my dignity. “I know the guys are going to kill me for this…but I’m thinking of maybe mixing things up a bit, doing something a little different.”
I lean back from the mike, covering it with my hand and beckon Tom over with a look.
Before he gets a chance to say anything, I say in his ear, “We’re changing the set. We’re playing Mr. Brightside next.”
He looks at me surprised. Then I watch as the lines connect the dots in his mind.
Humor flickers in his eyes.
Bastard. He’s going to fucking love this.
He gives me a grin and a nod before heading back toward Denny. My eyes follow him.
Denny’s eyes leave Tom, resting on me, he gives me a look.
A look of disappointment.
I know what he’s thinking. He thinks I’m playing a stupid game.
I am playing a stupid game.
I just don’t want to be the one being played anymore. I want to be the puppet master.
With nothing to say, I lift my shoulders, grinning at Denny, making out this isn’t as big a deal as we both know it is.
He gives me a sad smile.
I turn back to crowd.
I hate that Denny can see right through me. I can’t hide anything from him. Just like I couldn’t Jonny.
A moment later, I feel Tom’s hand on my shoulder, then he says in my ear, “Good to know your cock is still working.”
I laugh. I can always count on Tom to lighten a situation.
Right, let’s get this game started…
“Okay, folks, sorry about that. We’re going for a song change, but one I think you guys will dig. We’re doing something a little different—it’s not one of ours. This song was out around the time that we were breaking into the music scene, and these were guys we admired—still do. It’s a personal favorite of mine.” I take a drag of my smoke. “So all you ladies out there…no, actually, guys too, how many of you have had your heart broken?”
The stadium becomes a sea of raised hands. Strange thing is, for a brief moment, it makes me feel less alone.
“I’ve had my heart broken too.” The words nearly choke me. “Believe it or not, quite recently in fact.”
“I’ll mend it for you, Jake!” some chick yells out.
If only you could, sweetheart.
My bravado up, I laugh. “I might have to take you up on that, honey.”
“Say when and where, and I’ll be there, baby!” yells the same chick.
Then there’s hordes of them, all screaming at me. Yelling they want me.
I want you, Jake! Pick me!
They don’t want me, not really. They just want what they think I am. What I represent. And of course, a ride on my cock.
These chicks don’t know me.
Only Tru knows me.
And she wanted me, for me. Or at least I thought she did.
The urge to look at her is overwhelming. But I hold myself back.
“Okay.” I lift my hand quietening the crowd. “So tell me, out of all those broken hearts, how many of them was because your guy or girl cheated on you?”
I watch hands fall.
“Bad shit, huh?” I say into the mike. “Okay…” I take a final, much needed drag of my cigarette and drop it to the floor, putting it out under my boot. “How many of these hands up have ever, in their time, been…a cheater too?”
I can’t help it. I look at her.
And who is she looking at – Will.
Not me. Him.
She knows what I’m doing, what I’m saying, and all she cares about is him.
Hurt and rage burns through my veins.
Screw you, Tru.
Screw. You.
The sting of pain I’m feeling is nearing unbearable. I tighten my grip on the mike stand.
I fucking hate you, Tru.
I fucking love you...
I grit my teeth, and say, “Okay, well this song is for all of you who have been cheated on, and also for the ones they cheated with. The ones of you who were used and abused, filled with a shitload of promises, then left hanging dry. This one is for you guys.” And me.
Me, Tru.
I give a slight tilt of my head to give Denny the go.
He hits the cymbals twice. Smith strums the intro.
Then I put my lips to the mike, and start to sing Mr. Brightside.
I’m singing angry.
Venom is pumping through my veins. My head is buzzing. My heart pounding in my chest. I feel like I’m running a fucking marathon.
Is it registering yet, Will?
Are you hurting yet, Tru?
Because I can’t handle this. It’s killing me.
It hurts to sing this song. Each word like a wound over my already raw skin.
Unable to not look at her for a moment longer, I tilt my head to the side, and fix my eyes on Tru.
She’s staring back.
And she’s angry.
She’s motherfucking angry. Is she having a laugh?
Apparently, so. And at my expense.
She doesn’t care about the aching pain inside of me. The pain she’s causing. The pain I’m bleeding out right now.
No. She’s angry because I’m risking her perfect set up with him.
Well, fuck you, Tru.
Fuck. You.
I look away from my pain, and out to the crowd, trying to shut my feelings off and give these people the Jake Wethers they paid to come see.
As my eyes graze the crowd, I spot a redhead up front.
Attractive. Tits spilling out of her dress. Eyes gazing up at me lustfully. Glossy pink lips singing along with my pain.
She smiles when she sees me staring.
I feel nothing.
I force a smile.
Then without thinking—or maybe that’s the problem, I’m thinking too much—I give one of the roadies the nod to take her backstage for me.
He leans in, says something in her ear. She smiles, then nods. He lifts her over the railing and leads her away backstage.
I look at Tru.
She’s not looking.
She didn’t even notice that I just picked out some random chick to screw backstage, because she’s too busy looking at Will.
And she looks relieved.
Because he hasn’t figured it out.
And my heart sinks.
Because, yeah, I’m Mr. Brightside.