WHATSERNAME SAT IN THE BACK OF THE DARK ROOM, her eyes cast downward as the town bishop, who previously hadn’t known who the hell Jimmy was, read out the traditional blessings.
Instead of listening to the meaningless drone, she tuned him out and thought of the Jesus of Suburbia’s accusations. Had it really been her who had sent Jimmy to his death? Did her so-called letterbomb really drive him over the edge? Did she really destroy the man she had once thought of as the love of her life?
She still regretted sending that damn letter in the first place. Why did she do it? She thought that the breakup was permanent. Why didn’t she think of whatever he’d been drinking that night? She knew he was desperate for something -- anything to take, but she still loved him. It wasn’t why she sent the letter.
Whatsername thought that she’d be able to come back in a month and make amends. That they’d be together forever, again, and that he’d forgive her once she forgave him for something that he probably wouldn’t even remember doing.
She was pissed off now that she’d sent that letter, sent Jimmy to his death, and he didn’t even know why she was mad at him. He must have been devastated and thought that he’d driven his girlfriend to the point of her leaving him without any notice. He must have thought that he was unloved.
Whatsername began to cry again -- for what must’ve been the fiftieth time since her lover had died two days ago. A tentative arm wrapped itself around her shoulder, but she didn’t flinch or care about it. The person could’ve been the Jesus of Suburbia and she wouldn’t have cared unless it was Saint Jimmy, who was really alive. She just wanted him back.
It wasn’t the moving words of the speech that made her cry, it was the death itself. She didn’t know why he killed himself, but she hoped that the Jesus of Suburbia wasn’t right. She hoped that she didn’t ultimately kill him.
“And so James has passed on to the next life,” stated the old creaky-limbed bishop as he read over the casket that held Whatsername’s beloved.
Jimmy wouldn’t have wanted to be remembered as the faceless ‘James.’ He would have wanted to be the Saint Jimmy, forever.
And so, to make up for possibly driving him to suicide, Whatsername stood and spoke up for her dead boyfriend.
“His name isn’t James, you fucking morons. He was St. Jimmy. He was the only sign of hope in this God-forsaken town. And you just threw it all away.”
Wiping her tears and stalking out of the aisle of chairs, she faced the bishop dead-on in the aisle: “You just threw it all the fuck away and you know what? I’m the only one left to speak up for him.”
Whatsername turned on her heel and walked to the door, opening before muttering words that only she could hear.
“So I sent my love a letterbomb. See you all in Hell.”
And she left, stalking through the thick crowd outside and to the headquarters of the Underbelly.
Part One: What the Hell's Your Name?
WHATSERNAME DRIFTED THROUGH THE CROWD, as nameless as she always was. Her short reddish-orange hair bobbed above her shoulders, contrasting violently with the black corset that was clinched around her waist, just above her knee-length lace-trimmed skirt. There was an unusually somber air around her, and if anyone had card to look they would have seen tearstains on her cheeks that sprang from her reddened eyes and ran to her pointed chin.
The Jesus of Suburbia followed the heavy sound of her high combat boots as they thundered across the dead grey concrete. There was a greasy shine above his limp and spikeless black hair, which fell over his also bloodshot eyes in a manner similar to the person that had caused the ill-matched pair to grieve. In fact, the Jesus of Suburbia looked like he could have been the twin of the deceased teenager that he mourned. But no-one could mistake him for the other, as the Jesus of Suburbia was missing the defining tracks that had run down the arms of his somewhat twin.
The two somewhat mortal enemies were walking to the same place together for one reason, and one reason only -- for the funeral of the one once called Saint Jimmy.
“Wait up!” the Jesus of Suburbia shouted at the girl he was tailing turned a sharp corner, losing him in the thick Monday morning crowd.
But Whatsername did not wait up, nor did she ever outwardly show that she’d heard him. With a quiet grumble of a sarcastic, “thanks,” he ran after her, catching her as she crossed the street to the next block.
“You could go slower, you know,” he panted quite harshly.
“And you could go faster,” she retorted sourly, bitterly.
“Listen, Whatsername. Just -- let’s pretend to get along, okay? That’s how Jimmy would’ve--”
“Jimmy doesn’t give a fuck cuz he’s dead, idiot.”
“If he was alive, he’d care!”
“Don’t even pretend to understand Jimmy!” she yelled. “You were the one who drove him to suicide, remember?!”
“What?! I -- I didn’t, you have to -- listen, Whatsername, I -- I didn’t--!”
“You ignorant little son of a bitch! You’re not the Jesus of Suburbia, so stop pretending you’re all high and mighty!” She glared at him, before adding one last comment: “And stop calling me Whatsername, goddamn it!”
“Well, what the hell is your name, then?! I never learned it -- Whatsername!” he angrily half-screamed at her. “I don’t even know your name! Jimmy didn’t even know you’re name, did he?!”
“No, he--!”
“Then what is it?!”
Whatsername didn’t answer, just ignored the Jesus of Suburbia and stormed onward. Before she was out of earshot, her companion shouted something else at her.
“You were the one who made him kill himself! You and your damn letterbombs!”
Whatsername didn’t reply to that and just ran far, far away from the Jesus of Suburbia and the blame he was placing on her.
“Bitch,” the other muttered as he turned in the opposite direction, heading back to his apartment and the rest of the Underbelly.
The Jesus of Suburbia followed the heavy sound of her high combat boots as they thundered across the dead grey concrete. There was a greasy shine above his limp and spikeless black hair, which fell over his also bloodshot eyes in a manner similar to the person that had caused the ill-matched pair to grieve. In fact, the Jesus of Suburbia looked like he could have been the twin of the deceased teenager that he mourned. But no-one could mistake him for the other, as the Jesus of Suburbia was missing the defining tracks that had run down the arms of his somewhat twin.
The two somewhat mortal enemies were walking to the same place together for one reason, and one reason only -- for the funeral of the one once called Saint Jimmy.
“Wait up!” the Jesus of Suburbia shouted at the girl he was tailing turned a sharp corner, losing him in the thick Monday morning crowd.
But Whatsername did not wait up, nor did she ever outwardly show that she’d heard him. With a quiet grumble of a sarcastic, “thanks,” he ran after her, catching her as she crossed the street to the next block.
“You could go slower, you know,” he panted quite harshly.
“And you could go faster,” she retorted sourly, bitterly.
“Listen, Whatsername. Just -- let’s pretend to get along, okay? That’s how Jimmy would’ve--”
“Jimmy doesn’t give a fuck cuz he’s dead, idiot.”
“If he was alive, he’d care!”
“Don’t even pretend to understand Jimmy!” she yelled. “You were the one who drove him to suicide, remember?!”
“What?! I -- I didn’t, you have to -- listen, Whatsername, I -- I didn’t--!”
“You ignorant little son of a bitch! You’re not the Jesus of Suburbia, so stop pretending you’re all high and mighty!” She glared at him, before adding one last comment: “And stop calling me Whatsername, goddamn it!”
“Well, what the hell is your name, then?! I never learned it -- Whatsername!” he angrily half-screamed at her. “I don’t even know your name! Jimmy didn’t even know you’re name, did he?!”
“No, he--!”
“Then what is it?!”
Whatsername didn’t answer, just ignored the Jesus of Suburbia and stormed onward. Before she was out of earshot, her companion shouted something else at her.
“You were the one who made him kill himself! You and your damn letterbombs!”
Whatsername didn’t reply to that and just ran far, far away from the Jesus of Suburbia and the blame he was placing on her.
“Bitch,” the other muttered as he turned in the opposite direction, heading back to his apartment and the rest of the Underbelly.
About this Story (or the summary on the back of the book)
This is a piece of semi-original fiction dealing with the aftermath of American Idiot, Green Day's 2004 hit album. What really happened to St. Jimmy and the Jesus of Suburbia? Where did Whatsername go, and what was up with her cryptic letter?
A warning is that this story WILL deal with mature content, namely death/suicide, sex, mental illnesses, and drugs.
*
The title of this blog, its URL, and the words in the description are all from the second-to-last song "Homecoming."
Here's the full lyrics to Part I, The Death of St. Jimmy:
My heart is beating from me,
I am standing all alone,
Please call me only if you are coming home,
Waste another year flies by,
Waste a night or two,
You taught me how to live
In the streets of shame,
Where you've lost your dreams in the rain,
There's no signs of hope,
The stems and seeds of the last of the dope,
There's a glow of light,
The St. Jimmy is the spark in the night,
Bearing gifts and trust,
The fixture in the city of lust,
"What the hell's your name,
What's your pleasure and what is your pain?
Do you dream too much?
Do you think what you need is a crutch?"
In the crowd of pain, St. Jimmy comes without any shame,
He says "We're fucked up",
But we're not the same,
And mom and dad are the ones you can blame
Jimmy died today
He blew his brains out into the bay,
In the state of mind it's my own private suicide...
A warning is that this story WILL deal with mature content, namely death/suicide, sex, mental illnesses, and drugs.
*
The title of this blog, its URL, and the words in the description are all from the second-to-last song "Homecoming."
Here's the full lyrics to Part I, The Death of St. Jimmy:
My heart is beating from me,
I am standing all alone,
Please call me only if you are coming home,
Waste another year flies by,
Waste a night or two,
You taught me how to live
In the streets of shame,
Where you've lost your dreams in the rain,
There's no signs of hope,
The stems and seeds of the last of the dope,
There's a glow of light,
The St. Jimmy is the spark in the night,
Bearing gifts and trust,
The fixture in the city of lust,
"What the hell's your name,
What's your pleasure and what is your pain?
Do you dream too much?
Do you think what you need is a crutch?"
In the crowd of pain, St. Jimmy comes without any shame,
He says "We're fucked up",
But we're not the same,
And mom and dad are the ones you can blame
Jimmy died today
He blew his brains out into the bay,
In the state of mind it's my own private suicide...
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