LPfiction

Category Linkin Park

The Memories Won't Escape Me by Razorzout

The Memories Won't Escape Me

The Memories Won't Escape Me




Mike's POV


It was another day on tour, the typical routine after every show. We sat at our table, smiled at the fans, and autographed posters until we couldn't move our hands. It was all the same, until I noticed people backing away from us, with dismay pulling on the light in their eyes to replace it with fear and dread.


A girl, only a few feet in front of me, looked at me with fearful tears threatening to fall down her face. She held a gun firmly to her temple and said, "I just want you to remember me! Nobody gives a shit about me or that I'm dying, not one person on this earth will care if I don't exist tomorrow! There's no cure for what I have, there's no family to hold my hand while I die, but if I go out this way, then I'll be remembered. Somebody's going to remember this. You'll remember this."


Before I could even try to protest, she pulled the trigger and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Her blood painted the wall before me and the incoherent screams of hundreds of people flooded my ears.






Two hours later I was sitting on the bus across from Chester.


"Her death was my fault." I whispered. "Why would she choose to end her life in front of me unless she thought I could help her? I just stood there like a coward and watched her."


Chester tried to comfort me. He patted me on the back and said, "Try not to beat yourself up over it, it's not your fault."


Brad's POV


It was a month after the incident when Mike started keeping a journal. He took it with him everywhere and he'd almost always be writing in it. He'd mutter random words under his breath while writing and if anybody ever asked to read what he wrote, he'd defensively bring the book to his chest and rapidly shake his head like a child with stolen candy. Before the journal, he had completely stopped taking care of himself and it dragged his mental health into a pit of self destruction that had completely ruined his marriage and almost torn the band apart. So although his behavior was a bit odd, no one was complaining. At least he was functional and healthy, or so we thought.


I visited him one weekend unannounced and when I arrived, he was in his kitchen with his back turned towards me; apparently oblivious to my presence. I figured I should take advantage of the rare situation, so I carefully walked up to his room in search of the journal. After briefly scanning the area of his bedroom, I found the object on top of a book shelf, against the wall and across from the door.



I hesitantly picked up the worn, leather-bound book and opened it to the first page. What I read shocked me and its contents took half an hour of my time to consume. It took much more time for me to process and understand the words which were passionately etched on the paper; for me to understand him and his pain. There were seemingly countless pages filled with unrelated words of beautiful hate. Words like,


"Streets, fail, try again, fail again, lose, hate, hopeless, pathetic, danger, still, leave, stay, bye, anger, lights, hope has gone, missed, sing, scream, agony, sadistic, and lies," were angrily forced on to the paper.


The lines of passionate self hatred scared me most.


"It should be dead, you should be dead, they all should be dead and you should be gone. They say you'll be missed. You will not be missed.


You actually thought you had a worth?


You're pathetic.


They say you are loved, you were never loved, not really.


You deserve to hurt. You deserve the pain, you deserve to burn.


You, pathetic sack of shit, would be lucky to end up as a stain on the wall.

Because none of it is good, and none of it happened. Nothing is real except for death and the pain that you caused. You should bleed for making them cry.


So silence breaks the ocean like glass and pain still demands to be felt.


The face inside is right beneath my skin. So I'd better cut it out, set it free from my veins, watch it blend in with the sweet red that carries my life as it trickles down my arm. By letting it escape, I will at last find peace. Then my mind and soul can rest at ease for the agony I have caused."




I would find drops of blood on an occasional page accompanied by tear stains. It was when I saw the words, "Don't worry, I'll be gone soon." On the last page, that I dropped the book and started sprinting to find Mike as fast as I could. I found him lying lifeless on the ground, with a knife in his arm.



Words that were similar, if not exact to what I read minutes ago were carved all over his arms and torso; causing him to bleed out on the carpeted floor of his living room. He was covered in horrid scars and it took all of my might to not look away in disgust. I rushed over to him, pulled the blade from his arm, and tossed it to the side. "Come on Mike stay with me buddy, I need you, we all need you." I pleaded. His breathing was weak, which frightened me. "Mike, you know you have people here that love and care for you. Nobody blames you for what happened, just please stay." He limply grabbed my arm and forcefully said,


"That's just what you think."


I saw despair and hopelessness in his eyes as he drew his last breath.


"No no no no no no no Mikey, COME ON! Fucking wake up!" I shouted angrily, but he didn't move. He never moved again. And still today, I'll find many of the words I encountered that day to be aimlessly wandering around my mind, as if a part of Mike is still with me even now. It's like he just wants to stick around for my nightmares.


I visited his grave and re-read his gravestone for the millionth time, thinking it would help to calm my mind. It said what it's always said, "Michael Kenji Shinoda, February 11, 1977 -- November 2, 2015. A loving husband and father, may he rest in peace."

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