Category Linkin Park

Sirens repeat by JellyfishLP

Sirens repeat

Hey everyone, it’s me again.


The terrible, howling sound of the sirens repeats in my head again and again. The blue lights of the ambulance flicker through the darkness as the paramedics carry you out of the club on a stretcher, and the panicked voices of our bandmates are only a distant noise in my ears. You drank too much. You partied too hard. Again. We’re on our first world tour, but right now, my brain is too messed up to remember in which city we played tonight. Somewhere in Europe…I think. The paramedics barely speak English, and it wasn’t easy for me to communicate with them on the phone. I think one of them recognized us, but he was enough of a professional to not say anything.

I can hear lots of people talking to me, but I ignore all of them as I hop into the ambulance with you. You’re drifting in and out of consciousness; in a state between almost passing out and waking up again and again. I hope you didn’t take drugs; you promised me you had stopped. While we’re rushing to the hospital, you start struggling against the plastic straps that keep you safe on the stretcher; I stroke my hand over your spiky curls, trying everything I can to calm you down. You struggle against that, too. It hurts my heart to see you like this; we’ve become so close lately.

I’m not really sober myself, but slowly, I’m sobering up enough to realize that the paramedics speak French; at least I think so. They work quickly and efficiently as one of them puts a syringe into your arm, while I keep stroking over your hair, whispering comforting words into your ear. You twitch your arm against the invading needle and they have to hold you down so they can inject whatever substance into your bloodstream. I don’t question what they do; I focus just on you.

“Nnn…nooo…no.” you mumble, but before I can say anything, you’re already passed out.

I guess they gave you a strong sedative to prepare you for whatever the doctors will do at the hospital. Suddenly, the events of the night and the fast ride in the ambulance catch up with me. I’m beginning to feel sick, and one second later, one of the paramedics holds a bowl in front of my face so I can vomit into it.

“Thanks.” I say, wiping my mouth with my shirt.

Soon, we arrive at the hospital where they rush you into the emergency room and tell me to wait outside. I don’t care if anyone recognizes me tonight, I don’t care about the vomit on my shirt…all I care about is you getting better. I remember that day last week when we dyed each other’s hair and painted our nails. You’re blond now, and my hair is blue. Trying to distract myself by thinking about you isn’t the best option, I realize. It only makes me worry more about you. I take my brand new Nokia phone out of my baggy jeans, texting Brad, although I don’t even know in which hospital we are. My eyes dart around the room and then out of the open door. Spotting a nurse coming out of the room they brought you in earlier, I jump from my chair, asking if she has any news. She recognizes me, telling me in broken English that she thought it was you in there, and how much of a fan she is. I try to stay polite and patient as she gets more nervous every second but then finally manages to tell me what’s happening.

They’re pumping your stomach. They’ll keep you under surveillance until you feel better. The nurse tells me not to worry too much, and I hastily scribble my signature on a piece of paper for her.

Finally the doctors are done and let me see you, so I spend the rest of the night sitting next to your bed, holding your hand and resting my head on your mattress. You’re completely passed out, probably experiencing weird dreams from the pain medications that are steadily flowing from a little bottle through a tube that leads into the needle sticking in the back of your right hand.

I know who is the reason for all of this. The reason for your mood swings, your anxiety, your alcoholism. It’s her, your wife. All you two do is fight, and I don’t even know why you’re still with her. I hate her, I’ve openly told you that. After the show a few hours ago, she called you again, shaming you for something she made up in her mind. She makes you miserable, but you keep going back to her. You told me you want a divorce, but I’m not sure that’s ever going to happen. My own love life isn’t easy, either. I’m not happy with my girlfriend anymore; she knows I’m in love with someone else; I know she knows.

It’s you, Chester. I have a crush on you, and I’ve had it since the moment we met. I’d like to think that you feel the same way about me, but I’m still not sure. You and me, we’re a team. We’re good friends, and so close. What did that kiss mean? You kissed me, or did I kiss you? I don’t remember much of that night; we were both drunk, and we haven’t talked about it yet. I feel tears slowly making their way down my cheeks, falling into an uneasy sleep at your bedside. I’m so confused, Chazzy. Please, just wake up.


The next morning, I jerk awake as I feel your hand twitch in mine.

“M…Mikey…” you say weakly.

I almost start laughing because I’m so relieved; you’re awake.


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