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The Story Without a Title	By : druscillaryan Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Green Day Views: 1095 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Green Day. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-The Story Without a Title
- 1
I don't own them.

Untitled Because My Tears and My Love Don’t Have Time For It.

There is no description for a story like this. My confession poured from chapped and bloody lips onto paper that will be burnt the second the ink dries. The way that this will change nothing. The way that life sometimes is unresolved and comes in detached episodes that will only anger you. And the way that I no longer care. I’ve accepted my life and I hate no one for it. It is my life. We all have one. Mine is different from yours and yours is different from hers. There is no one in this story that deserves your sympathy or your hate. This is a story. A confession. A truth.

This is my life.

Prequel

Everytime you do I try and pull my arms up over my head even though I know you're going to pull them away and smack me across the cheek, spit on my face. I try not to cry, but I know I will. I'll beg you to go slower, to stop. I'll try and talk you down. But it never helps.

And it's not your fault, Mike.

The First Time, First Tear

I opened my eyes when I felt scratches on my shoulders. And I saw your face. Well, I saw that thing wearing your face. Ugly smile, eyes so light it looked like your irises had bled into the whites. A look on your face, almost like you were hungry for something.

I probably should have yelled, but I was a scared nineteen-year-old who had no one to yell for.

I remember how I hated myself for almost moaning into that painful kiss. When you pulled me up by a tight fistful of hair and forced your lips hard against mine, teeth tearing at my flesh when the kiss broke.

I felt you move over me, a leg on either side of me. Your blue eyes barely saw me as you kissed me again. This time I felt blood when you pulled away, saw your lips stained a different shade of red.

And then my eyes went wide when your fingers slipped under the waistband of my boxers, moving to pull them down. I grabbed your hands and you shoved them away, the sound emerging from your mouth almost a growl.

“M-Mike?”

You didn’t answer, just hooked your fingers around the elastic waistband of the fabric and tugged them easily off my nonresisting body. I stared up at you, terrified and choking on air when you maneuvered to pull off your sweats. I shook my head about an inch, all I could manage to.

And you slapped me across the face so hard it turned the other way. I could actually hear your hand slicing through the air. I didn’t turn back to you for a moment, dotting the pillow with blood and tears.

“Who are you?” I whispered, almost screaming when I felt your hand force it’s way under my chin to turn you back to me. Your face was softer now, your eyes returning to their normal shade of blue. You looked . . . concerned almost.

“It’s all right.” you murmured, kissing my cheek. “It always hurts the first time.”

And then you pushed into me. I felt like I was going to tear, but that wouldn’t come until later.

You put your hand over my mouth to keep me from screaming. “It’s all right.” you kept saying as you rocked against me. “It feels better when you start to bleed.”

I shook my head, trying to say ‘stop’, but your hand remained firm against my lips. You’re not Mike. Who are you?

I tore a handful of thrusts later and your hand bled with how hard I bit it, but you remained unfazed. “It’s going to get better now. It will, I promise. He taught me how, Billie. He taught me. It’s going to be fine.”

I don’t remember much after that.

Who taught you, Mike?

The Afterglow

It’s weird how you can end up dating and falling in love with someone who rapes you once or twice a month. It’s weird how you can make love to him and laugh and then freeze up when his icy demeanor and frost-covered lips find you on an unsuspecting night. Kitchen counter, bedroom, shower, couch.

And you’ll spend the rest of the night with a scouring pad or tapping your fingers against a humming washing machine, praying to God that it will end and praying that he will never find out.

And he’ll wake up the next day to find you staring at a television set or plucking at guitar strings, a vacant expression on your face and the cold coffee that nursed you through the night at your feet. He’ll hug you and kiss your neck, concerned. Wondering aloud about your cuts and scratches.

And you’ll feel like shit. He thinks you’re cheating, but he doesn’t realize the ‘other man’ is himself. And how close ‘other man’ comes to describing it.

Because he’s not himself when his eyes turn gray.

He’s not your Michael.

Let’s Play the Opposite Game

”No. Please, no. Just . . . just stop, please?”

“Harder. Oh, fuck! Right there!”

”Please don’t cry, Billie. It gets better.”

”You’re a kinky little slut, aren’t you? I love it when you giggle like that.”

We went two fucking months without this shit. How come it had to start again? What the fuck do you want from me?

“We don’t do this enough.” “We’ve done ‘this’ three times today.” “It’s still not enough.”

”I love you, Billie Joe.”

“I love you, Mike.”

The Confession I Begged For and Didn’t Want to Hear

“It’s going to get better now. It will, I promise. He taught me how, Billie. He taught me. It’s going to be fine.”

And I somehow manage to tear your hand away from my mouth and you look down on me with surprise. ”Who taught you?”

You almost giggle and kiss my cheek. “Daddy taught me. Didn’t your dad teach you that?”

I turn my head and vomit off the side of the bed.

The Hurt and The Truth, Which Are the Same Words With an Extra 'T'

And then comes the day that you flinch when he kisses you. And he look at you, both worried and upset. “Billie?”

You shake your head, tears forming in your eyes. “No. I can’t. Not today.”

You move to get up, but he catches your wrist. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

You stare at him as the tears start to fall down your face, shaking your head. “I-I can’t tell you.”

“You can tell me everything.”

“I can’t tell you about you.”

…

And it hurts when he won’t talk to you. And when he sleeps on the couch. And when his bottom lip trembles half of the time he’s with you. And when you hear him crying and puking in the bathroom. And when that night finally comes, that he’s shoving into you and making you bleed.

And you hurt so much on the inside from being without him, that not only does it not hurt, but you actually want it for once.

And when he kisses you after, whispers I love you, and rolls over you smile and can’t even be bothered to change the sheets.

And he wakes up the next morning in a bed he doesn’t remember falling asleep in, staring at the blood stained sheets and then at you with wide eyes.

So you tell a lie. And then you tell another so that you won’t have to spend another night alone in your bed.

And then you hate yourself for welcoming being raped.

Or you try to.

Harsh Truth

I will never let Mike find out what he does, just like I will never let him go to another family reunion without me. I will never again neglect to wash the sheets and dig out cleaner and S.O.S pads.

I will endure this and still manage to somehow love him the next day.

Because I love him.

I can’t help it.
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The Story Without a Title