How We Got Here

Disclaimer: Don't own, dammit.

Thanks for the review. It's what made me start Chapter Two so soon.

Summary: Where did Billie Joe's anxiety attacks originate?

How We Got Here (or Time of Your Life)

Chapter Two: Why I Hate Mickey Mouse

Time grabs you by the wrist,
Directs you wear to go.

Disneyland. I would hate Mickey Mouse forever. Mike's family went there every summer. I went home.

Mom was pissed, of course. 'You said you'd be here for this' and 'You never once called, Billie Joe Armstrong'. Blah blah blah. I love my mom, but damn. I won't even mention him.

They went on their annual 'honeymoon' that week. Perfect. Holly was having a party for her friend Sarah at our house. She told me if I kept my mouth shut she wouldn't kick me out of the house. I have the best family in the world. We have such great family values.

Four beers and I was tipsy. I couldn't figure it out at first. Usually it took a hell of a lot more than that. Six and I was drunk. (Losing ten pounds will do that to you.)

Holly was pissed. She told me to go upstairs because I was causing a scene and screamed that the house was going to smell like pot. I think I flipped her off over the five cards in my hand. I can't really remember.

He asked me where the bathroom was and so I said I'd show him. Don't ask me his name. I'll never be able to remember. But he had blonde hair, brown eyes, and a lipstick smudge on his right cheek. He was six inches taller than me and he had huge arms.

He pulled me into the bathroom with him and locked the door. I stared at him, my eyes wide. "What the--"

"You're a little young to be using language like that, aren't you?" he asked. His hand found the side of my face and I edged away.

"I'm fifteen." I snapped with the ego of a fifteen-year-old.

"I'm seventeen." he said.

"I don't give a shit how old you are." I said, my breathing becoming a little more erratic. What the fuck was happening to me? I could feel my face growing warm.

"You're kind of cute for a guy." he said, placing his hand under my chin.

I pushed it away. "You're fucking drunker than me."

He slapped me. I screamed. The music downstairs was so fucking loud . . . no one would ever hear . . .

He pushed me onto the floor and started clawing at me, undoing the zipper on my jeans and the button . . . and he pushed them down to my ankles with the boxers and tugged my shoes off . . . and he kissed me and he whispered something about me being beautiful . . . called me a faggot . . .

And then he was naked and he shoved a finger into my ass like Mike had done a few weeks before and I screamed and he hit me again. He pulled his finger out and shoved his dick into me . . . I screamed . . . I pushed at him . . . he swore and he kept hitting me . . .

I couldn't breathe . . . there was roaring in my ears . . . I kept thinking I was going to die . . . I thought I'd pass out . . . no one would find me until it was too late . . .

He was going to rape me to death.

Afterwar I climbed up to my room, tripping and stumbling. I was crying so hard, I crawled into bed and pulled the sheets up over my head.

I woke up the next morning. There were red spots all over the white sheets. I threw them out along with the clothes I had been wearing the night before . . . my favorite tee shirt, jeans Mom had gotten me for Christmas . . .

Holly came in around noon and told me to get up, that I needed to help her clean up the downstairs. I swore at her and kicked her out of my room, then got dressed and left.

I went to a club that we had played at a couple of times. Someone there knew me and I was getting drunk on Scotch when they asked for ID. It was seven and I'd been there since four. I walked outside drunk and looking for somewhere to puke . . . pass out . . . die . . .

Mike said that I was really out of it when I showed up at his house two days later. I don't remember those two days. But then again I'd never done anything stronger than pot before. Apparently my mom and Holly had been going nuts looking for me. I almost smiled trying to imagine that.

I tripped into his house, he caught me by the arm. That was when it happened. An act that would happen almost daily for the next few years . . . then become a not so normal occurance.

My breathing sped up . . . I could feel my heartbeat in my head . . . Mike was talking and I couldn't hear what he was saying . . .

He said that his brother came in, saw me freaking out, and threw a glass of water over my head. I woke up in Mike's bed. He was freaking out, smoking, chewing on hangnails. "You okay?"

I sat up slowly . . . my head hurt like a bitch. "Think so."

"You went down, man." he said, holding out his half smoked cigarette to me. I took a drag off it and handed it back. "Fainted. Never seen that before except on TV. You've been out for, like, twelve hours or something. It's midnight."

I didn't believe him at first. But then again, I hadn't slept in 48 hours. And Mike wouldn't lie to me.

"What happened this week?" he asked, lighting a new cigarette and handing it to me.

I shrugged. "Not much." I was lying. To Mike. To my best friend. I felt like shit.

"Yeah, right." Mike rolled his eyes. "Even you don't disappear for two days without leaving some kind of note."

"Holly had a party." I said. Maybe I could tell the truth and just leave the big part out. "I got pissed at her and left. I got drunk, did some coke and shit and now I'm here."

"Mark said you had a panic attack." he said, naming his oldest brother.

"Drugs make you paranoid."

Mike glared at me. "You're such a dick, Billie Joe."

I ran to the bathroom and puked.

We never 'experimented' in his basement again.

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