#sorry feeling mentally unwell about fall out boy tonight

[weallpartyatybcpatricksfuneral]

Bob Dylan really feels like it belongs on mania. maybe not sound wise but in terms of lyrics and themes. oh boy. like it's the over the top expression of lust and obsession. I don't know if I can really call it love. heavens gate. church. last of the real ones. hold me tight or dont. They're not love songs they're obsession songs. songs when you're so throughly obsessed with someone that you'd wish they sneak you into heaven while you pray for them. Bob Dylan is when you're so thoroughly obsessed with a person you don't SEE them as a person anymore. they're a celebrity, a well loved one at that. someone who is so universally loved and adored. you need that person to obsess over you the same way a fan obsesses over Johnny Cash. you love them so much you need to be buried with them. you throw all your shame onto a billboard for everyone to see and beg to be loved like how everyone loves Bob Dylan. you want to feel worshiped and adored by this person. you want them to obsess over you just like how you obsess over them. and isn't this something we've heard before? you used to obsess over living-- but now you only obsess over them.

[sincerelyreidburke]

17 for bencole

“Wow, Mel, this is soooooooo late!” First: I know. Second: I’m profusely sorry. My semester was awful, and I have outstanding sappy prompts. This is the first of me finally finishing them off. Also, here’s the list, and if you want to request one no matter when you’re reading this, I will fill it!

Anyway. I’m so sorry. Both for my lateness, and for what I’m about to do to you. This isn’t really angst so much as it’s hurt/comfort, but I’m just warning you: Cole is in a bad place. There’s nothing more serious than depressive language, but it’s definitely hard to write him being so sad.

Read at your own risk, depending on how much you want to see Sad Cole Kolinsky!

17. “Because I love you.”

four years after graduation | november

 It’s getting dark again.

Cole hates this time of year. If he had the energy for it, he would honestly be down to personally fight the inventor of daylight savings. He really doesn’t understand the reason for setting the clocks back, and causing sunset to take place at 4 PM. Cole is pretty sure the only thing ever accomplished by daylight savings in the history of ever is making people feel dark, gray, and gloomy.

Case in point: out the apartment window, the sky is quickly and steadily darkening over a wintry Providence skyline. He hates how you can be facing away from a window in the winter, lose track of time, and turn around to find it’s pitch black out there. The city lights give him a little glow, cast across the floor of his studio, but that glimmer of light doesn’t stand a chance against the overwhelming night.

What time is it? Cole has no idea. He’s been on the floor in the studio for a couple of hours, at least, working away at the bridge of a song he’s been trying to finish for the past three days to no avail. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast, but he isn’t hungry. His guitar has been in his lap so long that his legs, crossed beneath it, are starting to fall asleep. The sweatshirt he’s wearing— one of Ben’s, baggy on him the way he likes it— needs to be washed. He knows it needs to be washed, because it smells. He’s known this for at least a week. Putting it in the laundry is a small, stupid hill he can’t seem to climb, so he’s wearing a smelly sweatshirt. He hasn’t showered in two days.

The studio is dark. He’s been trying to work for hours, and hasn’t made any progress. It feels like every small task, right now, is that kind of hill.

He blinks into the dark, and leans forward on the rug for his phone, which is buried under a steadily growing layer of crumpled papers, broken pencils, and random trash. When he finds it, he turns it over to look at the time.

It’s 4:31 in the afternoon.

He looks, blankly, at his phone screen for a second, aware of some stacked notifications but not really reading them. It’s been a couple of hours since he even unlocked it. The glow of the screen, bright in the dark studio, hurts his head a little, and when it auto-sleeps, he sets his phone back down and exhales.

4:31, and the only thing he wants to do is go to bed.

And, honestly, what’s stopping him from that? Because bed is one room over, and if he just gets under the covers, he won’t have to think about how impossible it’s been to finish this bridge, or how behind he is on literally all of his music work, or how he has a shift tomorrow at the café, which, no matter how soul-sucking, is real work, and will be, until he makes something of himself, which is probably never going to happen, because he’s worthless and useless and can’t even write a bridge when he has a completely free Friday afternoon with nothing else to do—

Or, come to think of it, the dark. Most of all the dark. Because when the world is dark for so much of the day, it leaves a free place for Cole’s own darkness to occupy in his mind. It makes everything worse. It always has.

If he gets in bed, hides under the covers, he doesn’t have to think about any of that.

So that’s what he’ll do, he decides. That’s all he has the energy to do. It’s not like he has anything to do for the rest of the day anyway. Ben will be home from work in half an hour or so, but Ben won’t mind if he’s asleep.

It’ll just be easier. He doesn’t want to be alone in the dark with his thoughts anymore.

*

It’s getting dark again.

Ben is over it already, honestly. Summer is his favorite season, for a variety of reasons, and pretty much the only things that make winter tolerable are hockey (a significant benefit) and the holiday season (sort of). He hates daylight savings, because it’s so dark when he leaves work it might as well be eight PM. Today is no exception; he leaves his office building to a black city sky and a certifiably nasty winter wind. There might be snow coming, which would be a hate crime, since it isn’t even Thanksgiving yet.

At least it’s Friday. He catches a good stretch of music on the radio during his short ride home, and he’s still nodding to the beat on the elevator ride up to his floor in the apartment building. It’ll be a good night in; they can order from that good pizza place down the block, and maybe watch a movie. Cole has to work tomorrow, but it’s an afternoon shift. They have the next twenty or so hours all to themselves.

Ben is looking forward to it.

“I’m home, Coley!” he sings, as he pushes open the apartment door. There aren’t any lights on when he walks in. This isn’t concerning, until it is— because Cole doesn’t really hang out in the kitchen, but a quick glance tells him that the lights aren’t on in his studio, either. The door is open, and it’s dark behind it.

It’s like there’s no one home at all.

“Babe?” He flicks on the main kitchen light, as he shuts the door behind himself. There’s no response. Ben hesitates, just a second, as he hangs his jacket and keys, and then adds, “You in here?”

Which is a stupid question, because Cole has to be in here somewhere. He doesn’t drive, and even past that, isn’t the kind of person to randomly go out without saying where he’s going. Ben knows he’ll find him, somewhere in the apartment— he just doesn’t know where, or in what headspace, he might find him.

He can’t help but get just a little nervous, when he comes home to a dark apartment.

Because nine months into this relationship, Ben knows what dark means. Cole shuts lights off, habitually, when he’s in a bad place. He blocks out the light on purpose, like it’ll hurt him if he sees too much of it. Ben has come home to this before. And he knows, on top of everything, that the onset of winter doesn’t do anything good for Cole’s mental health.

So he treads carefully, across the kitchen, and speaks gently as he goes. “Cole?” He peeks into the studio, and flicks on the light. Cole isn’t in here— but evidence of him is. His working area is a disaster scene, with his guitar left on the ground, surrounded by writing utensils, crumpled notebook pages, and trash. His phone is in here, too, near his guitar.

It’s… a mess. But messes can be cleaned up. What’s worse than it being messy is the fact that it’s a clear sign of Cole being unwell.

Ben steps back from the studio, and glances down the hall. Their bedroom is the last room, and its doorway is just as dark as any other door in the apartment. He tries to be quiet, as he walks there, and when he glances inside, finds his hunch was accurate— Cole is a lump under the covers, on the far side of the bed.

“Cole?” he tries, again, but keeps his voice low. If he’s asleep, he doesn’t want to wake him up. At least not right this second. “I’m home, baby.”

The lump doesn’t move.

Ben hesitates, a second, as he hangs on the doorway. Cole is obviously asleep— his body, huddled almost completely under the comforter except for the hood of his sweatshirt and top of his head, is rising and falling, steady breathing. The problem isn’t exactly that he’s sleeping, but that he’s sleeping in the dark at 5:15 PM. That fact, combined with his mess in the studio, can only mean one thing.

Cole didn’t have a good day today.

It pains Ben to think of what must have led to this— because he knows this boy, knows him well enough to understand these signs, knows his brain never takes it easy on him, least of all on days when it gets dark in the middle of the afternoon. He must have been in the studio, at some point— that’s what he said he was doing today, when Ben left for work this morning. Last he saw him, he was sitting on the counter, eating Trix out of a mug, and he said, I really have to finish that bridge today.

That’s a good idea, babe, he’d replied, putting the lid on his travel mug of coffee. You’ll have to play it for me, when I get home.

Cole had smiled— thinly, like it took a lot of energy, but still, he smiled. I will, if I finish.

Ben doesn’t know what filled the hours between his leaving for work and right now. But he knows Cole wound up here, instead of in the studio— where he would be, if it’d gone well— and that that can’t mean much good.

But he can’t change any of that. What he can do is try to make the rest of the night better for him. And if nothing else, that is something he knows how to do.

So he turns on the lamp on their bedside table, the lowest light in the bedroom, and lets him sleep, as he changes out of his work clothes and into sweats. He turns other lights on as he backtracks through the apartment— the hall light, the dimmer in the living room, the fixture over the kitchen island. Each makes the place feel a little warmer, a better place to be on a cold, wintry, maybe snowy night. He looks into the fridge, then the freezer.

Yeah, screw ordering. He’ll make pizza, tonight. He’ll do Cole’s favorite— barbecue chicken, green peppers. He has enough in the fridge, and something home-cooked could probably do him some good.

It takes ten minutes to roll out the dough, another ten to do the toppings. He preheats the oven, and while he waits, he cleans up the trash in the studio. He zips Cole’s beloved guitar back into its case, and brings out his phone, leaves it on the charger in the kitchen. He doesn’t really want to throw away any of the notebook pages, just in case Cole decides, later, in a songwriting frenzy, that something he crumpled up previously might be important. So he leaves those, flattens them all and puts them into a pile on the studio desk. When he’s satisfied, he shuts the studio light off, and closes the door as he leaves it.

Next, he grabs a fresh change of clothes for Cole from the dresser, and sets them on the sink in the bathroom with a clean towel. He highly doubts that Cole showered today, and he hasn’t seen evidence of him doing so in at least a few days. Cole won’t like that, but it’ll do him some good.

He’s back in the kitchen, taking the pizza out of the oven, when he gets company. He doesn’t notice, at first— Cole is in socked feet, and moves quietly, so much so that Ben starts a little when he turns and sees him coming in. “Hey,” he breathes, keeping his voice mostly quiet, as he sets down the pizza stone on a potholder to cool. “How was your nap, babe?”

Cole stops a few feet from the island. Head to toe, he looks so hollow and tired that it hurts Ben’s heart a little. He still has the hood of his sweatshirt— well, Ben’s own sweatshirt originally, but basically it’s Cole’s now— pulled up over his head, the way he slept, and his hair, longer than usual, hasn’t been brushed in awhile. He’s squinting, not wearing his glasses, and he rubs one of his eyes over and over.

When he speaks, he only has half a voice. “Hi.”

Ben walks to him. For some reason, he feels like he has to hold him up, to keep him steady on his feet. He takes him by his elbows, and Cole falls into his embrace— he’s dead weight, and he exhales, presses his head into his chest. He’s a little shaky. Ben would wonder if he caught a cold, but knows better. He knows this. This is a different kind of sick.

“Hey,” he says again, and squeezes him tight around the waist. “What’s wrong, baby?”

Cole is still shaky, in his arms. He doesn’t speak for a minute, so Ben holds on tight. Cole smells like his clothes haven’t been washed in too long, and his hair is greasy.

“I didn’t—” comes Cole’s voice, small and unsteady, from his head pressed into his chest. “I didn’t get anything done today.”

“That’s okay, babe.” Ben knows his assurance in this category won’t really do much, because Cole is so, so hard on himself when it comes to creative productivity— but the least he can do is try. “You don’t have to get things done every single day.”

Cole groans, and shakes his head. “I had the whole day,” he says, and Ben doesn’t realize until right then that he’s crying. His voice breaks on the end of his sentence, and he sniffles. “I had the whole day,” he repeats.

“Hey— baby.” Ben tugs, very gently, at the hood of his sweatshirt, and eases him up so he can look him in the eye. His eyes are glassy, and he has a pillowcase imprint on his cheek. Ben wipes at a wet spot on his cheek. “That’s okay,” he says. “The writing isn’t important if you’re not okay.”

Cole sniffles again, and his eyes well up further. “Hey,” Ben whispers; his stomach turns at the sight. He pulls him close to hug him again, and pressed close against him, Cole cries a little more openly. “Don’t cry, baby. I’ve got you. I’m home now.”

“I’m so—” Cole stops, to sniffle, before he continues, “I feel so useless.”

“You aren’t useless,” Ben tries. He tightens his grip. He knows he’s the only thing keeping him steady. “It’s a tough time of year.”

Cole groans again, and then nods, and for a minute, they’re quiet. They stand in the middle of the kitchen, and Cole sniffles a few more times against his chest, and to take this away from him is the only thing Ben wants to do.

He can’t do that. But he can do what he can. He can try.

“I made dinner,” he says. “And I took out clean clothes— you should shower, babe.” Cole grumbles a little in protest, so he adds, “I know you don’t want to, but you should. You’ll feel better.”

“I don’t have the energy to shower,” Cole whispers, a little less tearily but just as weakly.

“I can—” Ben bites back his first response, because he doesn’t want to give the wrong impression. “If you want,” he rephrases, gently, “I can help you.”

Cole is quiet, and then lets off a long exhale. When he looks up, his eyes are still full, but he tips forward to rest his forehead against his, and reaches around the back of his head. Ben knows what he’s doing before he does it— he pulls at his elastic, and takes down his hair. When it’s out of the bun, Cole threads his fingers in it, like he’s holding on for dear life. It doesn’t really hurt, but it’s tight.

“Why,” Cole mumbles, and then swallows. He sounds like he’s fighting to keep his voice steady, to keep more tears from coming. “Why are you being so patient with me.”

It’s a question that isn’t phrased like one. Ben knows the answer, would always know the answer. “Because I love you,” he replies, without waiting. “And I would do anything to help you feel better. Even if it’s only a little at a time.”

Cole sniffles again, and Ben can see the exact moment he loses his fight against the tears. When they fall, Ben wipes them away with his sleeve.

“I’m sor—” Cole starts, but he cuts him off.

“No,” he says. “You never— look at me. You never have to be sorry, baby.”

Cole sniffles, again. His voice is strained, but he murmurs, “I love you,” and Ben doesn’t want to do a single other thing in the world tonight but be here. And hold him. And keep letting the light in.

“I’m right here, babe,” he tells him. “Okay? You can shower while the pizza cools.”

Cole takes a long breath, a shaky one, but his exhale is steadier than the inhale. It’s a good sign. It’s progress. It’s something.

They’ll take the night in steps, and go from there.

“Okay,” Cole says, finally, and he wipes his own face with the sleeve of the oversized sweatshirt. He nods, and repeats himself. “Okay.”

Ben reaches down, and takes his hand. When he squeezes, Cole’s squeeze back is tight. “Good,” he says, and tips his head toward the bathroom. “Come with me, baby.”

Out the window on his way by, Ben notices it’s snowing. It’s early, for sure, for that to happen. But the apartment is warm, and they have each other, and they don’t have anywhere to be.

It’ll be a long winter. But Ben is going to get them both through it.

Because through good and bad, dark and light, through any season, he has Cole— and he’s never letting go.

[danyka-fendyr]

As the Raven Flies: Part 8

Should I really stop writing these things early in the morning only hours before they’re supposed to be released? Well...yes. But alas, I probably won’t. As long as you guys are still reading, I’ll keep making insane life choices. Insane love to everyone who has ever left a single note on any of my posts.

Taglist:@dreamwritesimagines @rhabakoli @disengagefrmreality @superwolfchild-fan

Wordcount: 1988

Chapter 8: In which, you wouldn’t like Frank when he’s angry.

Eventually, Vivien finished crying, wiping away her tears in shame. James either didn’t notice or didn’t care that she was foolishly trying to hide the fact that she had cried, letting her clean up in silence.

“How do you feel?” He asked, voice quiet in the car.

“I’m okay.”

“You going to be honest with me or not?” 

“Cold. But like...cold inside.”

James nodded.

“I just...” she sighed. “I just want to go home.”

“Okay. We’re close to my house anyway,” James said, climbing back over into the driver’s seat.

She shook her head. That wasn’t what she’d meant, but she’d been emotionally vulnerable enough for the day, and she’d almost been blown up. She didn’t owe James any explanation about the hole in her chest or about how home meant one year ago or about how home meant anywhere but here and now and her. Home meant an entirely different person, and she wouldn’t be going home any time soon.

The rest of the drive was quiet, except for her occasional sniffles, but when they stopped outside of James’ house Vivien stiffened. There was a black car outside of his house, just a little farther down. She didn’t like that. She didn’t like that at all.

“James,” she said quietly. “Take another lap around the block.”

He raised his eyebrows, but followed her instructions anyway. The black car started up, beginning to follow them. That, James noticed, putting the pieces together.

“They’re following us,” he said.

“The question is, are they here for me, or you?”

“Why don’t we ask?” James pulled over, the black car copying him from a few feet away. “You ready for a fight.”

Vivien rolled her eyes. “Sure. Why not?”

They both got out of the car, and James slammed his fist into the dark window of the driver’s side. “Hey, jerk! Why are you following me and my girlfriend around? What, you think just because you’re her ex you can pull creepy crap like that?”

Vivien just stared at him. What on earth was he doing?

The window rolled down, and revealed...Frank?

“Last time I checked, you just wished you were dating her, punk, just like you’re going to wish you were dead when I’m done with you.”

He opened the door into James’ ribs, throwing him off his balance before Frank punched him in the face.

“Frank!” Vivien rushed forward, blocking his next punch, which was considerably easier to do when you weren’t lying on the ground with a bruised chest and potentially a broken jaw.

Frank stopped, scowling at her. “You should have been back 30 minutes ago, and I want to know what he did to you!”

Had she really cried that long? She hadn’t exactly been keeping track. 

“He didn’t do anything, Frank! I suggested we stop,” she lied. “I was in shock and I needed to get some sugar in my system. It wasn’t James’ fault at all. Leave him alone.”

Frank relaxed slightly, glaring at James, who was standing now, an impressive feat given the damage he had taken.

“I wouldn’t hurt her. She’s my friend,” was all James said.

Frank huffed. “Not five minutes ago you were telling me she was a little more than that.”

Vivien blushed, surprised to feel anything warmer than the cold that had been sitting on her chest. 

“That’s-I-” she stammered, unsure why she was trying to defend herself.

James was blushing also, speaking up. “We thought you were someone following us. I figured we should have a cover story in case you were just a normal person. And even if you weren’t, better to mislead you.”

Frank seemed skeptical, but also a little bit respectful, and Vivien was baffled as to how he managed to be both at the same time. 

He turned to her. “Karen is already at my place. We should go now.”

She nodded. “Just give me a minute. I want to make sure James takes care of that bruise somebody gave him.”

Frank rolled his eyes theatrically at her judgment but waved her on. She followed James inside, into a large, empty house that looked like it had come straight out of a Better Homes & Gardens magazine.

“This is where you live?” she asked before she could stop herself.

“Yeah. My Dad died a couple years ago, so my Mom does all the decorating now. Or, I guess, she pays someone to do it.” 

So that was why he had seemed to understand so well. “Do you miss him?”

She skipped past all the formalities. All the sorry’s, all the saccharine “that must be so hard” comments.

“All the time. Usually when I go watch baseball games. We used to do that together, but now...”

“Now you go alone and then you go home and you cry.” It didn’t sound mean. Just jaded.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do,” he said quietly.

“Where is your kitchen?” she turned to face him in the color palette of a foyer. “We need to put some ice on that.”

“This way,” he said, leading her back to a kitchen that was just as cookie cutter as the hallway.

He reached into the freezer, grabbing an ice pack, but before he could put it on his face Vivien grabbed it from him. She opened a few drawers before she found the towel one (close to the sink, like she’d figured) and pulled out a thin one, wrapping it around the ice pack. 

“There. That will help with the cold,” she said softly, pressing the ice pack to his cheek as he leaned back against the counter. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “He was just worried.”

“And angry and probably mentally unwell.” She was only a little bit joking.

“Well we can’t really talk, can we?”

She sobered, smile falling slowly off her lips. “No. No, we can’t.”

“Neither of us can,” he reminded her. He grabbed the wrist of her free hand, tugging her closer. “You’re not alone Vivien.”

She caught her breath. His eyes were really blue. How had she never noticed that before? How had she never noticed the soul-sucking, ocean deep, sky wide, awestriking blueness of his eyes? 

She swallowed. The way he was looking at her made her feel strange, made her heartbeat pick up faster than it should. That shouldn’t be pleasant.

“Thank you,” she whispered, feeling the deep need to break the silence. “For today. For not letting me blow up. For letting me cry.”

His hand that wasn’t holding her wrist came up to rest over the one still on the ice pack on his cheek. “You don’t have to hide it, you know? If you have to cry, you cry. Around me, anyway.”

She nodded slowly, not looking away from his eyes. It felt like she would be breaking something sacred if she did.

“Don’t hide from me, okay Vivien?”

“Okay.”

She waited another moment, savoring whatever this feeling was before she slipped out of his grasp. “I should go.”

He blinked, that look in his eyes disappearing like she had known it would. “Yeah. Umm..thank you. For taking care of me.”

“Yeah. Any time.”

She headed out the door, hands in her pockets. She felt the urge to both jump up and down and skip around the block and also bury her face into her bed and scream. Whatever that was.

“Ready to go?” Frank asked, leaning up against the car.

“Yeah. Why do you have multiple cars?”

“One is for getting shot at. The other is not,” he said.

“Enough said.”

She got into the car, the earlier weight that had been on her chest curiously lifted. Where it had sat, there was now just an empty hole. It was not good, but it was something. An improvement. It felt...light. Airy. 

She smiled. She felt okay.

Frank gave her the lecture of her life on the way back. On being reckless, on how she should have messaged Karen (she did have 8 missed calls), about how she was on a great path to lose dessert for the rest of her life. No really. He actually, literally said that. Vivien almost couldn’t believe her own ears.

“You can’t take dessert away from me!” She protested.

“My house. My rules.”

“Karen would never let you take dessert away from me.”

“Don’t try to use Karen against me.”

“This is ridiculous! All because I saw a boy you don’t like.”

“I don’t like him because he’s probably an enemy spy and set a bomb trying to kill you,” Frank said, adjusting his grip on the wheel.

“Well, you know what, if he did I guess I’d have to forgive him, wouldn’t I? Because he’s the only friend I’ve got.”

Frank quieted. No one ever had a witty retort for reminders of tragedy. It was difficult to laugh in the face of grief, especially when it haunted you as well.

“You’re still not getting dessert tonight.”

“Fine.”

Karen embraced her as soon as she walked through the door of Frank’s apartment. “I was so worried about you!”

“I’m fine. We just had to make a quick stop.”

“What she means by that is that lover boy had to make goo-goo eyes at her,” Frank said.

“That’s not-We didn’t-”

Karen looked entirely too delighted. “Suuuurrreee you didn’t.”

“I don’t have to listen to this.” Vivien marched off to find her room.

Frank’s place was small, but roomy enough to hold all of them. She suspected that he probably had multiple safehouses like this, and this one was obviously equipped to hold multiple people. She wondered how long he’d had it.

Still, it was small, and it didn’t take her long to find the room with all of her things in it. She made quick work of putting what little had been brought away before flopping down onto the bed. Karen had made sure to bring her comforter, remembering that it had been her parent’s before, maybe.

Vivien closed her eyes, wishing she could just go to sleep. After this day, all she wanted to do was sleep. However, there was still the matter of dinner. Karen and Frank would want her to eat with them after all the worrying they’d been doing. Sure enough, Frank knocked on her doorframe, standing where she had left the door ajar.

“Dinner is ready whenever you’re hungry. Just some lame TV stuff, but you know. Food is food even if it isn’t Karen’s cooking.”

“Which is, of course, the only reason you frequent our place for dinner.” She sat up as she teased him, getting out of bed.

“I’d be careful if I were you. Two can play at that game,” he warned.

She thought about James and how close she had been to him earlier today and decided that perhaps it was better to keep her mouth shut.

They headed out into what passed for a living room or common space where there were three TV dinners, just like Frank had said. Karen was sitting on the couch waiting for them, and Vivien joined her, sitting down.

“So, Frank told me James said he was your boyfriend?” Of course that was the conversation starter Karen chose.

“He’s not. And don’t we have bigger problems right now? Any theories as to who might want to blow us up?”

“Well that’s the main problem,” Frank said, sitting down with them. “There were four of us in that room. Any of us could have been the target, potentially, which doesn’t make tracking down a suspect easy at all.”

Vivien nodded. “We’ve all certainly made our fair share of enemies, haven’t we?”

“More than that,” Karen mumbled, a hint of bitterness flavoring her words.

“Which is why first we need to figure out who they were attacking, and then we can figure out why.”

Vivien stabbed her fork into her food. “Alright. When do we start?”

[elevenhoursinfront-blog]

20th April 2017

I woke up before my alarm which was weird. I didn't feel tired considering it was 0600 in the morning. I got up and ready for my trial to be down for breakfast at 0730. Steve was up and getting ready for his interview too. We went down and had food. I had to be quick and leave by 0750/0800. I left Steve eating his peanut butter on toast and made my way to the tram stop right outside the hostel. I needed the number 19 tram which was just pulling up as I stepped outside - fantastic. I was really hoping today would be the silver lining of tomorrow, especially as they phoned as everything was falling apart. I was so hoping, please please please. 

I arrived and saw that the cafe was in a Cancer hospital. It didn't look like a hospital at all though, it was massive and silent. It looked really posh and clean. There were doctors here and there but there were no hospital smells. I had to go up to level 7 into 'The Loft' which was the cafe. There were loads of really unwell people around me which wasn't ideal as I cry very easily. 

At 0820, I walked into the cafe and explained that I was here for an interview and trial. I was asked to take a seat and I was left waiting for 20 minutes. I saw that there were other people here for trials too which was annoying. Basically, a competition. Eventually the manager came over to me and we went through interview questions. I got really quite annoyed because he obviously hadn't read my CV thoroughly. He first asked me how my barista skills were, which are non-existent. I told him that I couldn't make coffee. Here in Australia, you have to pay for an official course to make coffee which I haven't done. He then asked me how my kitchen hand/food prep skills were like. I said to him that applied for a waitress role and that's what I can do. He said that he wanted to hire people that were 'all rounders' and said that he needed floor staff too. That's what I had applied for so I wasn't sure why I was being made to feel like an idiot. He didn't put me on the floor waitressing at all. He put me behind the sandwich deli and till. I had to serve customers using a till I hadn't ever used before. I also had to pick up the sandwiches that they had requested which sounds easy. It really wasn't. The signs of the bread/fillings were at the front, so I had to know what they were from behind. Australia has weird bread and filling choices. I had to constantly ask which one was what. I then had to check whether they were eating in or taking away. I had to toast the sandwiches and wrap them up in such a way that looked presentable. I hated every single moment of my time there. I went to serve another customer and a different member of staff went 'no, I'll do it!'. I wouldn't normally mind but how do you expect someone to be able to do it as a second nature in half an hour? I could easily do the job just give me a chance and some training. The manager came over and asked why our section was really far behind because it wasn't acceptable. Nobody said anything so I stepped forward and said "I'm sorry, it's probably me getting in the way of everyone and asking questions". He replied with "well why are you? You shouldn't be getting in the way. I run a tight ship here". I was mortified. None of the members of staff smiled, had fun or laughed. It was work, work, work. I stuck out like a sore thumb as I wasn't Asian. An hour and half into my trial and I wanted to walk out. I wasn't being paid to feel like this. I stuck it out until my trial finished and the manager said that he would be in contact by Saturday for a start on Wednesday. I very much doubt he would be in contact any time soon. Not sure I wanted him too. 

I got out of the building and rang Steve. His interview went really well and he got the job! He starts tomorrow which is brilliant. We both made our way back to the hostel at the same time. I tried not to have a mental breakdown in public because I didn't want to be sectioned. We got back to the hostel and I made something to eat. Megan was off at a trial shift for a doughnut and ice cream place and Dan was at work. Steve was working with Dan tomorrow which would be nice. The job is only 15 minutes away and it's a 9 hour day 1200-2100. The more hours, the more money. He also got a text about Saturday work which is $30 an hour so he is more than happy to work for that money on the weekend. Sunday goes up to $40. We sat around chatting for a few hours but I tried to nap around 1500. I told Mel I would go to ABC (Asian Beer Cafe) with her tonight. Free Prosseco for girls and hopefully we would actually get in this time. 

I got ready and we left at 1730. Mel, Megan, Sophie, Lauren and Kat made our way there. The boys stayed in doing nothing. We got there and had a good 5 glasses of Prosecco. Cherry met up with us after a couple of hours. You could only order one for yourself - you couldn't go and get a glass for your friends if they were sitting down. Make sense but really quite annoying. After 1900, free prosecco became $1 but again, you could only order one at a time. We drank quite a few; one smashed glass, one glass spilt and one boomerang of a mandatory 'cheers'. You can tell we're all English because we were the first ones up dancing. There was a guy from Columbia who couldn't speak much English that wanted to buy us all a drink. I told him not to worry and to save his money. I feel bad for anyone that buys a drink especially here because the prices are unreal. Columbia guy then returned with a jug of beer and three pint glasses. He obviously didn't understand a word I had said. Never mind then. We drank the beer and carried on dancing away. We left at 2200 as Cherry and Mel had to be up for work the next day. We actually had a really good night so I'm pleased we went. Megan and I wanted to stay in bed and be sad for the whole night. When we got back, we knocked on Megan's door to find Dan and Steve chilling. We went in and stayed there for a while before going to bed. We didn't realise but we were actually quite tipsy. Dan and Meg went to get a McDondald's but I said no. Steve would've eaten it just for the sake of it. We went to bed and I was out like a light.