Chapter 11 - The Mascara Tears


I swiped the hotel card through the scanner and the door opened. I walked in and tossed Armstrong's keys on a nearby desk before throwing myself on the bed. I snuggled my face into the comfortable pillow and was ready to fall into a deep drooling sleep, by Gloria and Armstrong started their whine fest.

Why couldn't you just have put your foot in your mouth for once in your life!?

I don't like having toe jam in my teeth.

Christian! What sick pleasure do you get by messing up Billie's life? Why can't you just be a helpful figment of his imagination instead of a crazed terrorist?

I don't know.
I guess the second one is just more fun.

My marriage is over because of you, Christian. My wife could never possibly forgive me for all of the shit you've done. It's over; you destroyed everything for me.

You must've forgotten that I don't care, Armstrong.
Have Gloria throw you a pity party, but don't invite me.

How can you be so insensitive?

How can't you be? Why do you care so much about Armstrong's well being when you're willing to sacrifice yourself for him?

What do you mean?
I'd sacrifice myself for him because I care.

No. You're trying to make his life absolutely perfect for no reason. When he goes to the hospital, he'll get us both killed off. Why are you living your last moments in such a boring way? Why aren't you being chaotic and destructive? Why are you so determined to protect Armstrong when he's just going to get rid of you?

Is that why you're so destructive? You're trying to self-destruct before Billie can destroy you himself?

Are you that demented and controlling that you have to control your own death? A death that, in actuality, isn't even real?

No, I just want to go out with a bang.

Christian, can you just be honest and human for a minute and tell us how you feel?

No.

Why not?

Because you just want me to bullshit about how disturbed I am so you'll feel less anger towards me. You want me to be fucked up because you think there's good inside of me.
Don't be naive, Gloria; the only thing I'm made of is rage.

But why? Why can't you admit and express your--

I think I'm going to pull a Holden Caulfield and get myself a hooker.

Why?

I need a reason to want to have sex? Are you aware of what gender I am?

Ugh, I'm sorry, Billie, but I give up on him...

Finally!
Now, do you still have to drive around to the corner of every street to find a tramp, or did the whore nation upgrade to a hot line?

You are not sleeping with a hooker!

Mo-om!

You may be twisting my brain around on the inside, but I'm still Billie Joe Armstrong on the outside.

What--worried about your reputation?

Yes. I'm worried about you getting caught, but having my name on the police file.

I could always say I'm Christian Armstrong.

No, you wouldn't. You would go by my name just to fuck me over. You couldn't pass up a perfect opportunity like that to screw my life up even more.

You know me too well.
Oh, well though, since it's not like you can stop me. I guess your knowledge is useless.

Christian, honestly. Stop this already!

I ignored Gloria for the trillionth time as I stepped out of the hotel room. I walked through the hall and lobby until I eventually made it outside. I climbed back into Armstrong's car and drove to the end of the long road.

This is ridiculous, even for you, Christian.

That's good, you know, 'cause I don't like to repeat myself. Gotta be unpredictable.

What are you pulling?

A Holden Caulfield.

You know, he actually didn't sleep with the hooker.

Oh, well, I'm pulling a Holden Caulfield with balls then.

Christian, c'mon, be sensible. What's this going to achieve or solve?

I won't be as horny afterwords.

You're disgusting.

Seriously, though. You're actually turning me on, and that's what's disgusting.

I cannot wait until Billie gets rid of both of us.
I can't take your silly remarks anymore.

I happen to enjoy my sense of humor

You just passed a hooker.

Billie! What the hell?

Thanks, man!

What? He's going to find one eventually--this is California. And I don't see any cops, so I'm not getting busted as long as Christian is capable of being subtle.

Oh, I can be subtle

Lord help us.

I flashed the lights at the most likely disease-ridden slut. Oh well. Armstrong can cope with syphilis.

How thoughtful.

I pulled up beside her and rolled the window down. I tried to be coy, but Gloria was sighing unhappily, and she sorta ruined my slyness.

"You sellin' that fine body of yours?" I questioned.

Yeah, she ruined your slyness, Dr. Love.

More like Dr. Lame.

"Yeah," the whore answered. "You interested?"

"Very." I replied.

What's her name going to be? Cinnamon? Candy? Caramel? Some other baked good?

Fifty bucks on Cinnemin.

I'll have fifty on Candy.

I opened Armstrong's car door and the tramp crawled in. I told her I'd take her to the hotel and she just nodded before asking me if she could bum a smoke. I handed her one and a lighter and she lit up and exhaled in just a few seconds.

"What's your name, baby?" I asked.

She blew out her smoke and hoarsely answered, "Candy, what's yours?"

Damnit.

Too bad figments of the imagination can't pay up.

"Christian." I informed her.

"Whoa," she immediately said. "Isn't that a religion or some shit?"

Wow. You are not serious.

Someone's got a GED.

"Yeah," I said. "But who the hell cares?"

She grinned after taking another drag, her coral lipstick staining the cigarette. "A little holy boy, yeah?" she said. "Nice."

I literally might rowf.

You kinda can't Gloria, but I know what you mean.

We arrived at my hotel and were stripped of clothes the moment the door shut behind us.
Candy was a great kisser, but she didn't taste sweet like candy at all. She tasted like cigarettes and cheap mints and smelled like sex and generic hairspray.

Ah, the aroma of whores...

The sex went by blissfully, yet dysfunctionally. She was good from experience, but also rushed and stratgesized from experience. It lasted less than half an hour, and we laid in bed, tired and bored afterwords. She had herself some fresh cocaine that she was happy to share, so I did a few lines with my new friend.

Armstrong's cell phone started vibrating obnoxiously, so I reached down and pulled it out of his jean's pocket. My eyes were blurred from the white, so I couldn't read the caller ID, so I just answered.

"Yeah?"

"Billie?" Armstrong's stupid wife inquired.

Adrienne! Christian, please, don't be an ass! Tell her--

"Yeah?" I questioned again.

Do you have any sentimentality at all?

"I...maybe I overreacted," the wife said. "I just...I think we both could have behaved better."

Look what you've done, Christian!
She's blaming herself when she's gone nothing wrong!

He's crushed her confidence and made her question and doubt herself. You can fix things, Christian--she's vulnerable. Please...just...don't be yourself.

Be honest with her!

"Are you done with this, baby?" Candy asked me about the coke.

I nodded when the wife asked, "Who's that?"

I thought for a moment, but quickly answered, "That's Candy. She's the hooker I just had sex with.

What the fuck is wrong with you!?

Gloria told me to be honest. I was just following orders from your precious saint.

Honest on an emotional level, not--

I'm not fucking around! Don't fuck me around anymore! Stop fucking up my life every chance you get, and stop destroying the only thing that matters to me--my marriage. You don't--

...I was in a hotel room...I was naked...with a filthy woman beside me in a bed in a hotel room.

"What did you do?" I asked Christian aloud.

"What?" Adrienne's voice asked through a phone that was in my ear. "What did I do? You mean what did you do. You've slapped me, insulted me, ignored me, and you set my deceased mother on fire! And, now, to top it all off, infidelity!"

There was a slight pause, before she added, "I'm getting myself a lawyer, and I'd advise you to get one too because I'm getting us divorce papers. I can't take this anymore."

She paused again, but that's because she began to sob. "I'm tired of fighting with you. I'm tired of lying to our children when they ask me where you are or if I'm OK. I'm not OK--we're not OK! I don't want marriage counseling or to just take a break...I want a separation. I want all of this to be over."

I could see Adrienne crying in my head--her brown eyes sore with pain and her mascara tears leaving lines of black stains across her cheeks. The thought of her crying brought tears to my own eyes and Adrienne heard me whimper slightly.

"...Billie?" she asked, becoming my worried wife once again. "Billie...what's wrong? Where are you?"

Billie...it's time to go.

In my heart, mind, and soul, I knew Gloria was right. It was time.

"I think I need to go to the hospital," I tearfully and softly informed my broken-hearted wife.

Chapter 12 - Pouring Out Like a Flood


"Billie?"

I saw splotches of colors in my eyelids. Rainbowed, plaid, and designed. Some bold and vibrant, others bland and wary. The colors made me tired; I just wanted to sleep.

"Billie?"

I opened my eyes. My legs swung as I sat on the cot, waiting on the doctor. In the distance, I heard a man puking and the painful tone of a flat line. In that moment, I knew I belonged here. I knew it would all end for Christian and I here.

"Billie Joe?"

I'm going to die here.

"Hey?" Adrienne questioned. "It's going to be OK. Everything's going to be alright," she comforted.

"Why?" I asked. "Why do you think that?"

She looked at me sadly. "I don't want you to worry."

I smiled wryly. "Too late," I muttered to her.

She smiled back as she took my hand in hers. "I just want you to get better...I should have known you weren't feeling well...I feel terrible for not bringing you here sooner."

"It's not your fault," I tried. "I should have came her sooner on my own, or told you earlier."

"You were scared," Adrienne reassured.

I just blinked. I was in a hospital room without any recollection of how I got there. Confessing to Adie that I had a problem was the last thing that I remember, but in all of the confusion, I felt a feeling of comfort because I new Gloria had been in control and not Christian; Adrienne wouldn't have been holding my hand and looking at me with empathy if Christian had taken over.

I realized then how strange I sounded and how corrupted I had become. I felt comfortable when the sweeter part of my subconscious popped her head in instead of Christian coming in and fucking everything up. In a consistent and sensible point of view, though, they were both fucking everything up. Maybe I've actually and finally lost my mind.

You're just realizing that now?

"I haven't been able to realize much because of you and her," I snapped at Christian.

It's not my fault!
At least I'm not trying to kill you!

"What?" Adrienne asked. I wondered what she was talking about, but I then ruminated that I chastised Christian aloud. I didn't have the chance to explain myself because the doctor walked into the exam room, an expressionless face resting on his chin.

After all of the pleasantries, he asked me what symptoms I had and, basically, what the hell I thought was wrong with me. The fact that my wife was there was making me neurotic and at ease. I knew I was going to have to pour everything out like a flood; confess everything that I've been going through for the past few months, and just the idea made me nauseous.

"I hear voices...in my head." I informed very uneasily, like I was pulling teeth. "There's like...there's two voices, a girl and a guy. And...I think...maybe it would be more accurate to call them personalities."

"Why do you think that?" he inquired.

I sighed, my mind speeding a mile a minute, but Adrienne gave my hand a squeeze, as if she were pushing me forward. "Because they're so distinct...and they...control me in a way." I tried.

"Control you?" the doctor asked.

I nodded. "I have these, like...blackouts. Like...I once woke up on my patio and didn't remember how I got there. I was with my wife a couple of times when...it was really me. I just don't remember things."

"What times?" Adrienne questioned softly, but with notable urgency.

I just looked at her sadly. "When your mom passed away...in the bathroom...and at the funeral."

Adrienne's eyes narrowed, as if she was trying to make sense of everything. "When...that happened...it wasn't you?"

I knew that she was talking about Christian lighting her mom on fire, so I shook my head no.

"That wasn't me," I told her. "I mean it was...but...it wasn't."

"Why didn't you tell me, Billie?" she asked.

"I didn't know how to," I tried. "And after...that happened, I couldn't get in touch with you. Not for a few weeks until you called me."

Adrienne looked at me funny. "You called me. Then you came home and we had a fight. That's when you told me something was wrong."

I looked at her, confused. "We had a fight?"

She nodded. "I threw you out...you went to the hotel. That when I called you, and you..."

"What?" I questioned, not remembering any of this.

Her eyes narrowed. "You don't remember the girl you told me you...we had another fight...you don't remember?"

I shook my head and the doctor asked, "So, blackouts and auditory hallucinations. Any other symptoms, Mr. Armstrong?"

I rattled off all of the symptoms I had, realizing how long the list must have been: headaches, panic attacks, blackouts, auditory hallucinations, forgetfulness, unexplainable phobias, depression, lack of personal connections and lack of a distinction of reality.

"What are your phobias?" the doctor asked.

I thought for a minute, but could only think of three. "Pencils, dust, and imperfection." I informed.

"And do you have reasons why those things scare you?"

I shrugged a little. "Not really. I mean, I just sort of realized my fear of imperfection. I'm really critical and fastidious. Like, I'm in a band, and if the song isn't absolutely perfect, then I'll hate it. I can't stand it if I make a mistake. But I've been afraid of pencils and dust for a while, and I have no idea why."

The doctor nodded a little as he scribbled notes down. Adrienne rubbed my arm lovingly, for fingers gracing across a tattooed photo strip of her that was imprinted on my arm. I watched her face, waiting for her to look up at me, and when she did, I wanted to mutter, 'I'm sorry', but I whispered, "I love you." instead.

She smiled sadly, a glimmer of a tear in her eye. She was going to say something, but the doctor asked, "Do you know someone by the name of Christian?"

Here!

"Why?" I asked, becoming scared.

"I have a psychiatric report from a therapist, in Minnesota, Dr. Simmons. It was in your file--a Christian Armstrong. He has your address on here. He's your age..."

"What did you do?" I asked aloud.

You need to learn to keep your mouth shut.
They should put you in an asylum, Armstrong.

Stop it, Christian.

"Billie?" Adrienne questioned.

I swallowed hard. "He's one of my personalities," I informed. "I don't really know how the names came about, but the guy is Christian and the girl is Gloria."

I didn't need to look to my left to know that Adrienne was staring at me with a complete sense of trepidation in her eyes. She knew none of this, and I was throwing it all out at her without warning. It was almost like she had no idea what her husband had become or who I was anymore.

"I'm sorry to say, but you seem to be a classic example of a person with Dissociative Identity Disorder, Billie Joe," the doctor informed.

"What's that?" Adrienne questioned eagerly.

"It's better known as Multiple Personality Disorder," he told us. "We'll have to do some blood tests and deeply review your patient history to be able to know. MPD symptoms of sleep deprivation, medication, intoxicants, and a traumatic brain injury. Have you done or had any of those, Billie?" he asked.

"No, not really," I said. "I haven't been able to sleep very well, though, but I don't think it's that bad."

He nodded as he pulled out a prescription pad. "I'll write you a prescription for a sleeping medication," he said before asking, "Can you not sleep because of the voices? Are they that severe?"

"Sometimes," I said malcontentedly.

He left a while later and I just sighed. I looked at my wife, no sure what emotion was playing in stereo on my face. I couldn't distinguish her's either, but I'm not sure it mattered.

I figured questions would be asked and things would be said, but we left the hospital in complete and total silence. It was a good silence, though; not awkward or uncomfortable. After all of this crap that happened, we were in a weird peace, and I knew in that moment that our marriage was in a complex process of healing.

Chapter 13 - This Bitter Pill


The sleeping pill was down my throat and breaking a part inside of my body. I layed in my bed, waiting for the damn thing to take effect. It had been over an hour, and I still hadn't fallen into a worry-fire sleep.

I was tired, though. I had been dealing with a lot of sleepless nights lately, thanks to my over-active subconcious. When I tried to sleep though those restless and fussy nights, Christian and Gloria's voices were playing in a soft murmur; like a bunch of static and I couldn't turn it off. It was driving me mad with lunac. I was hoping the pills would be that push that would finally turn off all of the static.

It wasn't right then, so I layed awake, listening to the sounds of my Oakland home. I heard my son, Joey, playing his drumset, and my other son, Jakob, playing a videogame. I heard my wife talking to someone, but I didn't know who. I tried to listen more heedfully, and I eventually discovered my mom's voice following Adrienne's.

"He's just tired," I heard Adie say. "The doctor gave him sleeping pills, but I don't his lack of sleep is what's doing this to him. I mean, I know he hasn't been sleeping, but he gets some rest. I just don't think the severity of what he's going through and a few missed hours of sleep every night add up."

"From what you've told me, I don't think so either." my mom replied. "The rest couldn't hurt him, but I don't think that's the underlying cause."

"Ollie, he couldn't possibly be any worse than he is now," Adrienne said, a slight sense of lament drenching her words. Her voice got softer and lower, as if she was afraid that I could hear her when she said, "Blackouts and auditory hallucinations. I know that he's depressed--I can tell," she paused before adding, "It has to be MPD."

"Don't say that, Adrienne," my mom said. "Let's not get too ahead of ourselves and assume the worst. We--"

"What else could it be?" my wife interrupted. "You said it yourself--sleep deprivation can't be the underlying cause. It has to be more serious."

"We'll get the results of the blood test next week," my mom reminded. "Hopefully we'll know for sure then. Until then...I just want to remain hopeful."

I felt a little foolish when a tear rolled down my cheek, but I couldn't help it. If Adrienne informed my mother, then my whole family knew, and so did Mike and Tre. I wonder what she told our sons, if anything.

Oh, suck it up, Armstrong.
Your crybaby antics make me embaressed to corrupting.

Maybe you should stop it then.
Let Billie's mind at ease.

Both of you, stop. I need to sleep.

Nobodys' stopping you.

We are, so shut up!
Get some rest, Billie.

The rest won't help him.

Shh! And you don't know that.

For once, can you both just shut up?

Yes, we can.
Well, I can. I don't know about Christian.

I could, but I don't want to.

Well, you can't always get what you want

I had slowly, but surely been getting tired, and the pill must have really worked because I fell asleep despite the bickering between the figments of my poor mind.

So, I fortunatley finally fell asleep, but it wasn't worry-free like I had been hopeing. While I rested, my mind was going haywire and creating a chimerical delusion that I don't think I could even call a dream; it was too strange and peculiar to be classified as one.

There was some guy just sitting on the floor of a small, white room. He looked a little like me, but he wasn't; he had black glossy hair that was spiked up a little in the front. He wore a leather jacket and black pants and shoes. I didn't know who he was or why I was dreaming such a thing up, but you can't choose what you dream.

All of the sudden, I head the distinct sound of a flat line that I had heard when I was at the hospital. The random guy stood up and tore into his chest. He ripped his skin apart with his fingernails until his muscle was exposed. I could see blood through his black shirt as he dug his hands inside of his chest. He soon pulled out his beating heart; the valves in terrible condiction. He squeezed it, but nothing happened.

In the dream, I was able to see everything perfectly. I was able to study the heart that rested in his hand and realized that it wasn't a heart at all--it was a hand grenade and it exploded.

I awoke

Stop it, Christian!

What? It was cool, right, Armstrong?

You made me dream that?

Dreams are creations of the subconcious, since we are your subconcious, we can control your dreams.

But why did you make me dream that?

I didn't. Christian did.

Because we're still here.

I barely slept. If you are in my head, because of slept deprivation, I'm going to have to get a good night's sleep.

Check the clock, Armstrong.
You slept for eight hours.

I turned onto my side to check my alarm clock. I did the quick math and realized that Christian was right; I had slept for eight hours and Gloria and him were still in my head.

Told you it wouldn't work.

I love this Sarah! I am definitely looking forward to more. =D

^ Thanks! =)


Chapter 14 - Fight of Our Lives

This place is looking more homely by the minute.

Stop talking, Christian.
Billie needs some serenity.

I just made a simple observation.
It's not like I have more matches or anything.

Just be quiet.
You talk all the time, and it's driving Billie mad.

Then why don't you stop talking?
You're driving me mad.

"Shut up already - both of you," I ordered urgently. "I'm sick and tired of both of you."

Billie, I'm not trying to -

"Billie?" Adrienne asked. She was sitting next to me in the same exam room we sat in 2 days ago, a look of worry in her eyes once again. "Who are you talking to?"

"You know damn well who I'm talking to," I answered bitterly, becoming annoyed with either myself, Adrienne, or both. "They won't stop talking; it's killing me."

"They aren't real," she reminded sternly.

"How can't they be?" I asked quickly. "They feel so real. They're in my head and I can't get them out."

"Billie, they are not real," she repeated. "You're just sick...you're going to get better."

"You don't know a goddamn thing," I spat at Armstrong's credulous wife.

She just stared at me, her infatuation finally starting to run out.

Gloria, can you get him to not be an ass?

No, I can't.
I'm sick of trying to do things for you when you show me no appreciation or gratitude!

I'm sorry! I was just annoyed with Christian!

And me. Apparently I'm just as bad as that creep.

Whatever, Gloria. I just don't care anymore.

"Billie, I'm just trying to be supportive," the wife said. "No, I don't know what it's like, but you shouldn't expect me too. You should expect me to try and help, though."

"You've been doing a great job so far," I said sarcastically said. "Armstrong's about ready to blow his brains out."

Adrienne stared at me in disbelief as I wondered what insensitive remark came out of Christian's mouth.

She was being all lovey-dovey.

Oh, my! How dare she care about her husband like that!

It's sickening.

"Billie?" the wife asked. "Billie, do you know where you are?"

I rolled my eyes. "I may be losing my mind, but I'm not going blind." I snapped at her.

What just happened? Weren't you just dominant, Gloria?

I was, but I'm not anymore, apparently.

Yeah. Pay attention, Armstrong.

"Billie? Are you...you right now?"

I looked at my wife, confused. "Of course I am," I said, but grew worried the moment the sentence came out of my mouth. "Why, what happened?"

Her wariness became fear instantaneously.

"You don't remember? What you just said, how you acted?"

I looked at her, trying to recall anything, but I realized that I couldn't. I remember telling Adie how real the voices were, but that was it. I must have done something either incredulously saint-like or destructive to the point where Adrienne could tell that it wasn't me.

The doctor came in, a distraught expression on his face. In that moment, I knew what was going to be said.

I knew that Christian and I were going to die.

"The tests were not completely conclusive, but I'm fairly certain that you have MPD."

Ah, shit.

The next step to help us confirm is to conducting a questionnaire," the doctor continued. "We ask you simple questions and see how your other personalities will react to them, if MPD is what you have. If it is, there is an experimental drug that has shown significant improvements in patients with the disorder. We can try it, and see where it takes us."

"I don't want the pills," I said.

Huh? What are you doing, Gloria!?

If you have MPD, I'm not taking the pills.

But why?

Because you don't appreciate me, and if you don't appreciate me, why should I help you?

Way to rebel!

You don't know what my past was like. You don't know about all of the shit I've been through. And you don't care. I'm sick of being ostracized by stupid and self-centered men.

Oh, cry me a river.
I give you props for your amateur rebellion there, but stop being so melodramatic. All he did was call you out, he didn't ostracize you; Armstrong isn't smart enough to be that cruel.
Suck it up and stop being so goddamn pathetic all of the time.

"I'm not being fucking pathetic!" I cried aloud. "Is it so goddamn pathetic to want some fucking respect!? I'm sick of being the carpet everyone walks all over! I'm sick of fighting for my life! I just want..."

"Billie!?" Adrienne questioned frantically as the doctor tried to grab Billie's now shaking body.

I was on the floor and everything went black from then on.

Chapter 15 - Runaway


My head was killing me, but seeing a container of morphine beside my hospital bed changed that quickly, like a placebo effect. I tried to lift my left arm, but I realized that wasn't going to work at all.

I tried to remember why I was there, but that just made my head hurt even more. I decided that I was just going to sleep and let the morphine do its job; I'd deal with everything whenever I became painless.

You sure you don't have Alzheimer's, Armstrong?
Your little brain must be full of of holes or something.

I felt my eyes sting with hot tears. I exhaled and indulged my sanity but not answering Christian in any way.

But you're thinking about me.
I can hear your thoughts, remember?

I want to make a getaway. I'm not a masochist, so ripping out the IV and trying to find a way out of here in complete agony might suck a little.

I heard a sublimation, but I was too tired to find out what it was. but I was too tired to try to find out what it was. The room was trodorous, which was weird, but good, and I could feel the morphine beginning to work it's magic. My head was obviously spinning, as I still tired not to wonder why I was in a hospital bed.

I want to make a runaway; I want to be runaway.

I'm sick of being in this paper-thin, comfortless bed, and I'm sick of the drought my lucidity has been having to deal with because of Christian and Gloria. My marriage is healing, but the fact that the two of them are still inside my head could fuck everything up again. I want them out; I want a diagnosis and some medication. I just want to get better, to have my normality and sense of rationality back.

Then why don't you be a runaway?
Run the hell out of here.

Are you still pissed off?

Yes, so don't add to it.

For God's sake, Gloria.
He did nothing wrong.

Why are you trying to get me to forgive him?

Because I don't want to deal with a structureless grudge.
And you're really annoying when you're pissy.

Why should I forgive him or continue to try to help him?
Whenever I do, nothing changes; no respect, no gratitude, or appreciation. It's like I don't even exist.

You don't. The two of you aren't real.

Yeah, keep telling yourself that.
Rational words won't kill the irrational. You'll have to get some pills for a follow-through.

I'm not even sure I have MPD.

What else could it be, Armstrong? Seriously?
God, you are stupid.

You don't exist, so your insults mean nothing.

Ignorance is bliss.

I'm not being ignorant! You feel real, but you're not; that's what Adrienne told me. The two of you are just figments of my sick imagination, and when I get better, you'll both be gone; I'll have my serenity back.

Are how will you get better?
Where's the magic cure all pill we discussed awhile back?

I'm hoping to find it, or anything else that will get rid of the both of you.

What have I ever done to you, Billie?
I've only ever tried to help!

You aren't real, Gloria! You haven't fucked me up as much as Christian, but you aren't healthy and sane. I need you out of my head as much as I need Christian out.

Billie, a while back, I made some pretty lousy decisions and did some stupid things. I was naive and--

You don't have a past, Gloria! You shouldn't even have a name! You're just a twisted fixture of my subconscious, so stop bullshitting about your past when it's all just a deception!

I'm not being guile! Your subconscious apparently thinks I have a past because, otherwise, I wouldn't be talking about 'since I'm not real' , right? Isn't that your logic?

Yeah, but--

"You're finally awake," a doctor interrupted as he walked into the room. He sat down and glanced through my chart as he said, "You suffered a state of Dissociative Identity Disorder, and your delirious state actually helped prove it more.

"You hit your head off the ground pretty hard before Dr. Gibbs was able to catch you, but it's just a nasty bump; no concussion," he continued. "We want yo keep you overnight, and, if you feel up to it, we can conduct the questionnaire Dr. Gibbs had planned for your likable MPD. Would that be OK for, say....two o' clock?"

I was somehow able to nod and the doctor left shortly afterwords.

A questionnaire, huh?
It's gonna be a showdown.

Yeah, and you're on Gloria's side.

Ew.

Oh, and I'm flattered to be on your's. I'm just dancing with happiness!

You should be--I'm a great guy.

No you're not because you don't exist!

You keep talking without any doing.
It's working wonders for you, Armstrong.

Well, I'm doing something now. Once this questionnaire's through, these last couple months will just be a bad memory.

Chapter 16 - Gracing My Existence


"What's your name?"

Christian.

Gloria.

"Billie Joe Armstrong," I answered.

The psychiatrist who was conducting the questionnaire that would help see if I had MPD jotted something down as she asked, "Do you hear any voices other than mine right now?"

I nodded, feeling like a neurotic mess. "I hear them now, and I have for the past few months."

"How many months?" she asked.

These are stupid questions.
I don't see how this is gonna help you.

"About 3 or so," I answered, ignoring Christian.

"Tell me about the voices," she encouraged. "How many there are, what they say, how they make you feel."

I exhaled, finding it difficult and a little tedious to describe them. "I only hear two; a male, Christian, and female, Gloria."

"Did you give them those names, or did they tell that those were there names?"

"They told me," I replied. "Well, sort of. When I first heard Gloria, I was driving and she started talking. I realized she could hear my thoughts, so I actually started talking to her, and I asked her what her name was, and she told me. I later asked her why that was her name , and she told me that it was my subconscious...or something. I don't really remember."

She wrote more things down before asking, "Why did you try talking to her? Did you think she was real?"

I shook my head. "Honestly, I thought I was dreaming."

The psychiatrist nodded. "What about Christian? How did he come about?"

He heard about me from all of the whores.
I'm known well in that community.

Don't you ever stop?
Nobody wants to know about your sexual escapades when they don't even exist.

What are you talking?
You were talking about your non-existent past 6 hours ago, so I should be able to talk about my-

"Shut up!" I ordered them.

The psychiatrist's eyes narrowed. "Are Christian and Gloria talking?" she inquired.

"They're always talking," I informed. "Not to me, but to each other, and it's not even about anything important! They just argue! They argue like an old married couple!

I don't appreciate that simile at all, Armstrong.

"Can you describe them to me?"

I sighed, a headache beginning to develop in my brain. "Christian is the most annoying. He's rude, disgusting, vulgar, diabolical, catastrophic, and...twisted. He always talks about destruction and how he doesn't care for anything.He's sarcastic and immature, too, and whenever he takes over, he screws everything up."

I think you got me down pretty well.

"What do you mean by 'takes over'?" she asked.

I sighed again. "I don't know how to explain it, really, but if I do have MPD, and Christian and Gloria are my other personalities, then that's when I become them. I lose hours of the days; I have blackouts, and that's when I figured one of them had taken over.

She nodded and questioned, "What about Gloria? Describe her for me."

Why do I have to describe myself?"

The psychiatrist looked at me funny. "Not you, Billie. I want you to describe Gloria."

I then gave her a strange look. "Well, I am Gloria."

She leaned forward slightly and looked me in the eyes. "Gloria? Can you describe yourself for me?"

I shrugged a little. "I don't know what to tell you. I'm just...me. Christian makes fun of me for being some kind of a saint, but I don't think I'm all that perfect."

"Why is that?"

I didn't feel like answering that, so I questioned her instead. "Do you have a cigarette? I haven't had one in years; I used to smoke them all the time."

"No I don't. Gloria, could you describe Billie or Christian for me?"

I felt my heart drop. "...Was I just Gloria?"

She looked up at me, a little surprised. "Billie?"

I just nodded. "Did I...?" I asked, but I drifted off.

The psychiatrist sighed a little. "Your doctor will take you back to your room where I suggest you get some rest. I'll review this session and tell you the status of the evaluation early tomorrow."

I was take back to my room where I was left to wait for a report. The waiting was pointless, though, since I already knew how fucked up I was.

I knew I was finally going to get a diagnosis.

Chapter 17 - What We Waited For

Opacity was all I could see, but when the obscure lighting in my eyes corrected itself after a few blinks, I was able to realize that I was in the hospital once again. The lividness was gone and I was left with redundancy, and I don't know which hand I liked better.

My head was killing me again, but I was learning to ignore the pain. The ache resided everywhere on my body now, but it was especially excruciating in my head; probably because that's where Christian and Gloria are.

I've actually been quiet for the last few hours, Armstrong.
Gloria's the one who hasn't shut up.

Is it opposite day or what? Why is Gloria being annoying and you're behaving?

I'm not going to mis-behave without an audience.
You've gotta be awake, or screwing with you isn't fun.

Great. I had hoped you turned a new leaf.

Ha! How long have you known me, Armstrong?

Long enough to know that was just wishful thinking.

In the most naive and idiotic way.
I thought I crushed your optimism.

Not all of it, but most of it; Gloria kept it intact, but now she's pissed off at me.

I'm not pissed, I'm just upset.
I just want you to appreciate me, Billie.

Gloria, how can I appreciate a symptom of a terrible illness?

I know, I know! And I'm sorry.
You like me more than Christian, though, right?

Definitely...but that's an easy accomplishment.

What the hell?
I've been good for the last few days.

Yes, you have, Christian.
You can get a gold star from your father, Lucifer.

That was cold.
See how mean she is, Armstrong?

And do you see how you deserve every ounce of it?

I control your dreams, remember?
Time for an awesome nightmare.

"Billie Joe?" A familiar voice asked. I looked over to see Mike and Tre, and my stomach started doing back flips. I just didn't want anyone to see me like this.

"Hey," I said, surprisingly normally. I remembered what happened last time I was awake, whether that was yesterday or a year ago, I don't know, but I needed to know the answer.

"How did I do on the thing?" I asked as I sat up in the bed, getting sick of laying down.

They glanced at each other. Mike sighed before Tre slowly said, "You failed with flying colors."

"So...I...?"

Mike nodded. "You have Multiple Personality Disorder..."

I don't know why, but the fact that it was definite caused me to lose it. I started crying, and I felt like an idiot, but I couldn't help it.

Tre put his hand on my arm as Mike tried to comfort me by saying, "The session wasn't even finished and the psychiatrist knew...Billie, this is a good thing, in a way; it's the best case solution in a situation like this. The doctors want to give you the treatment. They were waiting for you to wake up 'cause they need your consent."

I just nodded, my tears stopping, "Where's Adrienne?" I quickly questioned.

"She was here, but she had to check on Joey and Jakob," Tre answered. "She figured you'd be out longer. She said she'd be back soon, though."

I nodded again, afraid my mouth wouldn't work. I couldn't say anything because nothing could really be said. I mean, what was I supposed to say to all of this? I knew MPD was the answer for a while now, but, I guess actually realizing it and seeing everyone else become aware of it too was scary, to say the least, and no words could accurately describe it.

Since I knew what was wrong with me, everything seemed to go back to being black and white--completely achromatic, but in a good way. The doctors were going to start the treatment, and, hopefully in a few days, Christian and Gloria will be gone, along with the blackouts, depression, and body pains. I just couldn't wait for things to get back to the way they used to be.

So, you're gonna get that magic cure all pill, huh?
You're gonna kick me and the assiduous saint out of this awesome crib?

That's the plan, yeah.

Well, I don't appreciate that too much, Armstrong.

Well, there's nothing you can do.
Billie got a diagnosis, and he's going to take the treatment. We'll be gone. I guess we should take one last good look around, 'cause it'll all be over soon.

But it isn't fair, is it Gloria?
You've busted your ass for Armstrong and got no credit for it. Now, he's killing us off. It doesn't seem to just in my point in view.

Your point of view doesn't exist, Christian, so nothing you do or say matters.

I'm not gonna go out quietly, Armstrong.

What are you talking about, Christian?

I'm talking about another plan.

To what--conspire against me?

To keep me here in this comfy cerrebelum.

But why? This war is over; like Gloria said, I have a diagnosis and I'm getting treatment. You can't stop this, or delay it, so why try?

Because I am the adversary.
And I enjoy fucking you over.

Christian, you can't do anything. Billie has a disease, and he'll get treatment.
Nothing can be done.

You're right.
I can't do anything on my own, but if you help out, I bet we could crash in this brain for life.

You're a sick delusion, you know that?

What makes me sick? I'm just fulfilling a purpose.
I want to go out with a bang, remember?

This is ridiculous and pathetic. There's no chance that you can harm me in anyway anymore.

Not if I have a tag team.
C'mon Gloria; you've got nothing to lose. It's not like you'll lose Armstrong respect or appreciation.
He never gave you any of those, ever.

That's just because I ruined his life.

How? By being his conscience; his sense of rationality? We may not be real entities, but i was the asshole, not you. I ruined his life, you picked up the ruins and tried to put them back together, but Armstrong never cared. Isn't that such a slap in the fuckin' face?

Don't listen to him, Gloria; he's just trying to fuel the flames of his unjustified inferno.

He sounds pretty justified to me.

What? You can't be serious, Gloria.

Christian may be crazy, psychotic antinomian, but he's right. I don't have anything to lose in trying to save myself. I know that makes you unhappy, but I just don't care anymore. I'm sick of caring, actually, and if joining Christian in the fight against you mean I might have some glimmer of something to live for, then so be it.

But you have nothing to live for because you don't live! How many times do I have to tell you that--

You never gave me any adulation! You treated me like an enemy, when I was just trying to help you!

Deja vu. We already had this conversation, and I hate broken records. Are you in or not, Gloria? Yes or no?

I'm going to have to say yes.

Awesome! I knew you were a rebel behind your stupid and amiable ways.

Insulting me makes me want to work with you less, so stop calling me every name in the book.

I'll stop being an ass, if you'll commit to this plan 110%.

Deal.

OK, then.

I just sighed and tried to go to sleep. Tre and Mike still with me in the room. If only they knew the trials I was going through, maybe I wouldn't feel so resentful.

Chapter 18 - This Modern Hell

I'm dominant, Christian.
Can you tell me your plan now?

OK, but; it's top secret.
We're gonna have to do a huddle.

Billie's subconscious is resting, so he can't hear us. If he could, it wouldn't matter because he wouldn't remember when he becomes dominant again, anyway.

So, that's a no on the huddle?

Yes. MPD's blackouts and forgetfulness are a nice excuse for me not having to get close to you, huh?

And you think I'm cruel.

Yes, I do.

Whatever, OK, the plan is simple. Armstrong has started the MPD treatment. The treatment is just a bunch of pills he has to take over a period of time. The pills are sitting right in the kitchen cabinet, so all we have to do is dispose of them some way; throw them away, flush them down the toilet--whatever.

That sounds easy though.

Yeah. The only problems are getting it past the wife and Armstrong. When he becomes dominant, he'll realize something's up and he'll blame us. He has to go to the hospital once a week to check his progress, so the doctors will know he's not taking the pills, but Armstrong won't know why for certain because of the blackouts.

So this isn't really going to work then, right? The doctors will know he's not taking the pills, and Billie will know it's us. They'll find a way to give him the treatment.

But it buys us more time here. It's also our last time to mess with Armstrong. Doesn't that make it worth the while?

Not really, but I've got nothing better to do.

Good. So, since you're dominant, you get to go first.
Get down into the kitchen, but avoid the wife and kids.

Where are they?

Who the hell cares? Stop asking questions and go, go, go.

OK!

I walked out of Billie's bedroom and looked both ways before rushing to the stairs...I walked down them quietly and passed through the living room, but avoided the dining room where Adrienne was.

I made it to the kitchen and started looking through the cabinets. I found the medication and quietly headed back to the stairs.

What should I do with them, Christian?

Flush them down the toilet. If Armstrong or the wife sees them in the garbage, then we're screwed.

The bottle and all?

Yeah, sure, whatever. Just hurry up!

But what if it gets stuck in there or something?

Gloria! It doesn't matter! Hurry up before the dominance changes.

OK, OK! Stop yelling, you're making me nervous!

You're the one yelling, genius!
Hurry the hell up!

I stood in front of the toilet while staring at the pill bottle in my hand. The medication was called Cynoplorian and the tablets were round, small, and white. They looked weak, but they were powerful.

I couldn't stop staring at the orange bottle. This was Billie Joe's cure, and I was getting rid of it. I was hurting him when I used to try to help him. I had become everything I hated, I had become Christian.

What's taking you so long?

I can't do this, Christian.

Why the hell not?

Because it isn't fair for Billie. We've been torturing him for months, and doing this will just give us a few more days. What's the point?

Gloria, don't you remember how he treated us? You were pissed last week, and nothing's changed.
Just drop the fuckin' thing!

I can't! I don't want to do this anymore!

For God's sake, Gloria. You're such a stupid bitch for helping a guy that wants to fucking kill you.

The deal said you wouldn't insult me anymore, and I really don't appreciate being fucking berated by anyone, especially you!

The deal also said that you would commit 110% and you aren't!

I just can't do this to him!

You're a coward.

And you're a maniac!

I'm a sensible maniac, though. You're the crazy, worthless one.

Just stop it, Christian!

Let me be dominant, and I'll take care of this.

No!

I began crying, unable to control me emotions. I was overwhelmed with guilt for resenting Billie. He deserved to be upset with me, he even deserved to hate me. I'm the wrong one here, he never was.
The pill bottle fell out of my hands.

There. The deed is done.

Christian! What the hell?

Apparently, I'm dominant, so I can do what you were too foolish not to do.

The pill bottle was in the toilet and I flushed them away. By doing so, I also flushed away all of Gloria's happiness, but I couldn't possibly have cared less.

Chapter 19 - Don't Lose Your Faith

I don't even know why I was trying to write a song; it's not like there were any melodies or lyrics in my head. The only things inside of my head were Christian and Gloria, and that wasn't a good thing.

I had taken one dose of the experimental MPD medication, but things were good, so far. I wasn't dealing with Christian and Gloria that often anymore, and my body wasn't ashing that much. I wasn't even experimenting the possible side effects the pill bottle warned of.

Unable to write any form of a song, I sat my acoustic guitar down and walked out of my den and upstairs. I figured it was time for a second does of the meds, so I opened the kitchen cabinet to get them.

But they weren't there.

I looked behind old and empty pill bottles, but I knew they wouldn't be back there. I looked on the kitchen counter and table, but they weren't there either. I looked in the dining and living rooms and didn't find them. I finally went upstairs to check my bedroom, but was still empty-handed.

I started questioning and doubting myself, but I shouldn't have been. I clearly remember putting the pills in the kitchen cabinet, and Adrienne or my kids wouldn't have moved them. Even if they had, I've looked all over this house and haven't found them anywhere. I was racking my brain madly, but a probable conclusion popped into my head quickly.

"What did you guys do with them?" I urgently asked Christian and Gloria aloud.

I received no answer.

"I know you're still in my head," I said, slightly neurotically. "One dose of that stuff couldn't have possibly killed you both off."

Still no reply.

"I know you're in there!" I cried. "I know you did something with the medication, and I know you're pretending to be gone so I'll think I'm better, it's not going to work."

Once again, nobody spoke.

"Fine," I announced, still speaking aloud. "But when I go to the hospital tomorrow, the doctor will know, and we'll get rid of the both of you somehow."

I received no comment from either one of them, so I gave up. They were both stubborn and adamant about destroying me, so neither one of them were going to blow their cover.

I laid down on my bed, planning to just rest for a moment, but I ended up falling asleep rather quickly. I was actually able to sleep soundly too since Christian and Gloria weren't fuzzing up my poor and tired brain with foundationless arguments and melodramatic complaints.

Hey, my complaints are very dramatic!
Gloria's the star of all of them.

I thought we weren't supposed to be talking?

Armstrong's asleep, so it doesn't matter.

I knew you two were still in my head!

I thought he was asleep...isn't he?

Yes, but his mind is still working.
His subconscious is talking to us.

So, he's dreaming?

Sort of.

Ugh...this is so confusing.

As you said before, Christian--let me end the confusion by destroying your mind. To do that, though, you're going to have to let me take the medication.

What are you implying, Armstrong?

That you did something with the pills.

Why would I ever do such a thing?

Because you're a sick bastard.

This is not the time for name-calling, and I don't appreciate being singled-out. Why don't you accuse Gloria? She could have done something.

What could she have done?

Apparently something with your pills.
I don't know--how should I know?

Because you were definitely involved. Your plan was to destroy my medication, by the looks of it.

I'm flattered that you think I'm the mastermind behind this, but I'm not as bad of a seed as you think; Gloria's the one who's still pissed at you.

Gloria and I are OK now, to my knowledge.
You're the one I have to worry about.

Christian flushed your pills down the toilet.

Gloria! Not cool!

Well, it's not like he'll remember this; I just want to know his reaction.

Thanks, Gloria. I'm not very surprised, though. That 'plan' isn't really as diabolical or maniacal as you made it seem, Christian. You're a very simple bastard, I guess.

Simple, but still effective.
I have a question, though--why blame me? I know I'm a twisted maniac, but Gloria could have still been involved and you just gave her a free ride; no berating, lecturing, or even questioning. You don't even seem doubtful. Is my perception of your emotions shot; or what? She was pissed at you just a few weeks ago, and nothing's changed...has it?

No. I guess I still want to believe in Gloria. I know she's just a personality, but...I guess since she's technically me, I take her as a sick and fragile version of me, and I don't want her to break, I don't want to lose my faith in her.

Thanks, Billie!

That was lame, Armstrong.

I woke up in my bed; I must've drifted off for awhile.
I sat up and sighed when I remembered that I still had no idea where my MPD meds went to.

Chapter 20 - I Got Under the Grip

Time was running out and I could almost feel Christian breathing down my neck.

I don't know why I was even considering doing this, but when I'm under pressure, I usually take the impulsive way out, and my impulses usually lead to mistakes which quickly become regrets. I knew that everything I had done to Billie for almost a year would become a scrapbook full of bad memories, decisions, and regrets, and the decision Christian was forcing me to make would be among them.

Gloria, time is not on our side.

I know! I know I should do it, but...

But what? It's not that hard!

It actually is, Christian; I'm killing somebody here!

You're killing him before he kills us. Either us of him will die--it's inevitable and you need to get over it.

I exhaled as I felt my heart race. My impulsive and pockets--full of regrets side knew Christian was right, but my compassionate and logical side knew he was wrong. Both of my sides could agree on one thing though; time was not on our side, so I cracked under the pressure and did what Christian intended.

I looked in all four directions and waited until the coast was clear of all doctors, nurses, and family members. With the bottle of Cynoplorian in my hand, I maneuvered towards a nearby hospital room and walked inside modestly.

The patient was an old woman with graying brown hair and a fair complexion. She was luckily sleeping, so I made my discontent move.

I found her orange pill bottle which contained anti-depressants. I carefully dumped out the Cynoplorian on a nearby table along with the anti-depressants. I put the anti-depressant pill bottle on the edge of the table and tentatively slid the Cynoplorian in the bottle. Afterwords, I did the same with the anti-depressants and the Cynoplorian bottle.

I placed the bottle full of Billie's MPD medication on the old woman's table and quickly walked out of the door.

Good. Now, calmly walk over to the lobby desk; there's a garbage can there. Throw the meds in there, but be subtle. Don't draw attention to yourself because we can't get noticed too much, and be quick.

I obeyed my enemy, and new partner. I tried not to look too distraught even though I was. I was already regretting what I had done, but I Couldn't really take it back or fix it. It was just going to be another one of my over-flowing regrets.

Get back to the exam room.
Hopefully, the doctor hasn't come back yet.

I walked back to the exam room where Billie was supposed to be having his first check-up since starting to take the Cynoplorian. Billie was supposed to be taking two doses a day, but it's been a week and he's only taken one dose since Christian flushed the pills away. I was feeling extreme pressure now because I knew the doctor wold be able to tell Billie hasn't taken the pills, and I needed a good excuse.

Tell him you were having side effects.
Nausea, stomach aches-whatever. Just something that would cause you to not want to take them.

Was nausea one of the side effects?

I don't know. Cynoplorian is experimental, so they don't know all of the possible side-effects yet, so it should be OK.

I nodded, ready to obey. Agreeing with and understanding Christian and his ways was extremely weird, but he was beginning to make sense; There's always a possibility that I've become delusional though, and that was a possibility I was sure I could never rule out.

The doctor came in, looking slightly confused. He was holding Billie's chart as he shut the door behind him and sat down across from me.

"When I took your blood yesterday, I personally ran the tests on it quickly so I could show it to you today instead of having to wait a week to know your progress," he started. He then paused and looked at me questionably. "Are you taking your medication, Billie?"

"Yes," I lied.

What? Why did you become dominant, and why aren't you saying anything about the side-effects?

Oh yeah--I forgot.
Oh well. This is more fun, anyway.

"According to the results of the blood tests, you aren't," the doc informed.

I made a face. "Then why did you even ask?"

He looked at me intently. "Billie, are you yourself right now?"

"Yes," I lied again.

You're screwing everything up, Christian!
He can tell you're not Billie!

The doctor doesn't know squat.
It'll be fine; Armstrong's an easy card to deal, and easy song to play. You're just overreacting, as usual.

"Then tell me what's going on," the doctor persisted. "Are you having side-effects?"

...I was in an exam room with Dr. Gibbs staring at me curiously. I knew I had either been Gloria or Christian, and the normal fright of having a blackout had stricken me, but it wasn't as powerful because there was another fear in my head; I soon remembered vaguely, yet strongly, what it was.

"Billie? What's going on with this? What did you do?"

I just blinked and bluntly, but slowly answered, "I think I killed someone."

Chapter 21 - Where Are You, Gloria?

Be rational, Billie!

This is as rational as I can be right now, Gloria. Christian said rational words can't fix the irrational, so irrational actions must fix the irrational.

Since when have you started listening to Christian?

I could ask you the same thing.

Billie, I regret doing that, but--

Don't you understand that no good ever comes from listening to him? I almost die, my marriage almost collapses, and, now, people get killed!

I didn't know the Cynoplorian was going to kill her.

If you did, it wouldn't have stopped you.

Probably not, no.

OK, so I made a mistake. I'm sorry--

You killed someone, Gloria; this isn't just a little mistake that a weak apology is going to fix.

In actuality, Armstrong, you killed somebody.

If anybody finds out, Billie's disease will be at fault. The doctor thought you were just delirious from not taking your medication, when you told him anyway, so nobody knows it's you.

How do you even know that you killed her? I mean, I know her obituary's in the paper and her death due to accidental overdose on Cynoplorian is the big local headline, but how did you know in the exam room that it had happened?

I honestly have no idea. For some reason, though, I knew I had killed somebody.

Maybe your subconscious is beginning to be able to remember pieces of your blackouts.

I don't know; I don't even care anymore. All I know is that I'm going to do this.

Why? It might not even work!

'Might' is better than 'won't'

Do it, Armstrong--I dare you.

Why do you enable him like that?

Because it's entertaining to see him acting reckless. But it's not like he has the balls to do it, anyway.

Billie, this is an experimental drug. If you take too many, who knows what could happen!

I have to do this.

Why?

Because I just got a refill; I have a whole month's supply in that bottle, and if one or both of you tries to get rid of it, I'm going to catch hell again.

And if you take more than two a day, you'll be in hell!
Do you really want that?

Anything's better than this.

Hurry up, Armstrong; my patience is wearing thin. I wanna watch a good show that I have front row seats to.

I really wasn't thinking clearly, but I thought the clarity was crystal at the time.

I didn't want to take too many; just enough so I could hopefully put a dent in this goddamn disease. I decided on six, so I choked two back at a time, washing the small tablets away with a cup of water.

My wife was at the store and my kids were at their last full day of school for the year, which was good, because no one was there to witness me passing out when I tried to walk over to my bed. I collapsed on the floor and feel into a painless sleep.

I began to dream. There was a beautiful girl with short black hair wrapped in a ponytail, messy bands, and dark clothing. She was very pale, which contrasted boldly with the darkness everywhere else on her body.

She was facing me, but turned away quickly. She began walking away from me, but my dream allowed me to follow her from behind.

The young woman began walking faster. The walk became a jog which soon became a full-fledged sprint. My dream was letting me keep up with her quickly, like fire or lightening from my feet was denying physics for letting me run so fast.

My view became sideways; I now had a perfect view of her profile and the brick wall she ran beside. Graffiti suddenly appeared on the wall, and the girl somehow jumped into it--becoming the graffiti. She was vivid and bold as the beautiful spray-painted entity continued racing through the town now via the brick wall.

My mobile visibility came to a halt as my dream prohibited me from the chasing continuum. I watched my graffiti girl continue to race through the heartland until I couldn't see her anymore; she had left me, and, I, for some reason, wanted her back, even though she wasn't real.

...I awoke. For a moment, I wondered why I was on my bedroom floor, but I quickly remembered.

Cool dream, Armstrong.

My heart slightly fell, realizing the small overdose of Cynoplorian didn't get rid of my other personalities.

I don't have any professional tagging skills myself, but it still looks super fun.

Why did you make me dream that?

I didn't--Gloria did.
You always assume that it was me...

Because it usually is. Gloria, why did you make me dream that? What's the meaning behind it?

I know the meaning.

Well. what is it?

You don't realize how quiet it is right now?

What are you talking about?

Oh, Armstrong. I bet Gloria's a little disappointed in you; the dream was such a beautiful visual metaphor.

Gloria? Where are you, Gloria?

I'm surprised there's no echoing, sine it's so empty here now.

Christian, just tell me what happened!

You finally got your wish--
Gloria's gone.

Chapter 22 - This is Why We're on the Edge


"Gloria's gone"

My wife gave me an odd look, but it quickly changed to pure surprise. "Really? That's great!" she exclaimed, genuintley happy as she hugged me hard before giving me a quick kiss. "What about Christian?" she inquired.

Still here!

"Here's still here." I replied.

Adrienne gave me a sympathetic look as she slupped her shoes off and laid down beside me in bed. "He'll be gone soon...we just have to be patient."

I just nodded. I knew she was right, but I was sick of waiting. Sanity is a basic essential for most people, and I miss having it.

"I'm going to jump in the shower really fast," Adie informed. "We can talk about it after, if you want."

I nodded again. "I'd like that," I told her.

She smiled a little and was about ready to leave, but I refrained her by saying, "Thanks...for everything. Your patience, understanding, and forgiveness. I'm just sorry about all of this."

Adrienne shook her head slightly as she sweetly ruffled my black hair. "I'll say 'you're welcome', but I'm not accepting your apology."

I felt my throat dry up as I tried to say, "I know I did unforgivable things, but I just want you to know how sor--"

"No, Billie," she interrupted. "I'm not accepting your apology because you've done nothing wrong."

My eyes narrowed. "I've ben the worst husband and father for the last year, and I have nothing to apologize for?"

"But that wasn't you," my wife persisted. "You--Billie Joe Armstrong, are a great husband and father. Christian and Gloria interfered this year, but it's not your fault; it's not like you asked for any of this. Joey, Jakob, and I know that you're sick, and that you'll be back 150% when you get better."

I just stared at her, speechless. I felt like I did when I wrote 'Redundant'--'I love you's' not enough, I'm last for words. It was remarkable because I haven't felt like that with her for what seems to be an eternity.

I couldn't think of anything else to sy, thought, so I told her I loved her, even though it wasn't enough. She told me that she loved me too, and she kissed my hand. She later left for the shower and I was left alone around midnight in my bedroom that I had passed out in just a few hours earlier.

All of a sudden, a melody struck me followed by a simple lyric. I pulled out a notepad and pen from my end table and scribbled down some form of what I had imagined.

'My beating heart belongs to you', was the only lyric I had thought of. I sort of stared at the words for a while as I tried to think of something to add. A few long seconds later, I had jotted down about half of a song, and I was just beaming with pride. I mean, I hadn't written a song in ages, and this one actually had some potential.

A little too mushy for my taste.

Anything that isn't about killing puppies, molesting children, or burning a town full of people around is too mushy for you.

True, but since Gloria's gone, can't you make things more interesting?

I'm sick of all this black and white.

Sorry, but I don't feel like indulging you, and I really don't feel like seeing you happy.

You're such a wet blanket--almost as wet as Gloria's.
It's disapointing, because I thought that we could be best friends.

I can't really be friends with a voice inside my head; at least, my sanity wouldn't allow it.

Fuck your sanity.
It draws too many lines and prohibits you from having fun.

It may, but it keeps me sane--hence the root word--and it keeps me alive, and life is a pretty important thing.

Sanity's never done you any good. All it did was force you to be labeled by a disease and be excluded from a washed-up, greedy, and aimless society. It made you into an outsider, and being on the outside looking in sucks a bit, as I've noticed.

Sanity may be a detriment right now, but that's just because i'm sick. I'll appreciate what sanity I'll have left when you leave my subconsious.

I just don't see that happening.
I plan on crashing in this sub for a long time.

Cynoplorian doesn't seem to agree with your ideal.

It actually does, Armstrong.
I got rid of GLoria first, which was nice, because she was an emotional wreck who couldn't be trusted as a heartless schemer, but it left me--Christian Armstrong: diabolicism extraordinaire who still has a few tricks up his sleeve.

You can't possibly have another plan in the works.

In the words of the Go-Go's, "Our Lips Are Sealed." I guess it's, 'my' instead of 'our' since Gloria's--

I learned over time how to ignore Christian. HIs rambles became a distant buzzing sound as I drifted off into a painless sleep once again. I had wanted to talk to Adrienne, but I didn't see that happening at least not tonight.

Good. My annoyed gland needs a rest.

You really are something you know that?

Something special?

No, not at all.

Oh well. I figured I'd give it a try.
You could've humored me, though.

No, because that would be indulging you; weren't you paying attention earlier?

Yeah, but like I said, I'd figure I'd give it a try.
Weren't you paying attention?

I'd really like to go to sleep, Christian.

I'm aware.
You can tell that I am by how effectively well I'm keeping you awake.

Since you're just a personality, and technically me, wouldn't you want to help me instead of hurting me?

No, not if I'm self-destructive.
Gloria was carrying your touch; I was the one who wanted to burn everyone down with it.

But why?

Because I'm the enemy.
I find being on the other side of 'vs. Armstrong' to be much more vindication than the shoulder for you to cry on.

I just shook my head a little and sighed.
I couldn't get anywhere with Christian and I was sick of trying.
I fell asleep, though, as soon as I tuned him out.

Chapter 23 - Life is Calling


You have two sons?
Is your sperm sexist or something?

I smirked, but ignore the subversive voice in my head as I continued to poke around at the piano keys by fits and starts. I was playing the song I had written about Adrienne a few weeks ago, and Christian seemed to be despondent about the whole thing.

Since Christian wasn't real, he could only see the things that I could and he caught the glimpse of a photographed picture of Adrienne and my sons that sat on a table in my den, and Christian had to question it, obviously. I was still trying to ignore him, but whether I kept it up or ended up talking to him, it didn't matter anymore.

Why not?
Did you take my advice on sanity?

No, but I did take my last recommended dose of Cynosporian this morning. You should be on your way out of my subconcious's door any minute now.

Not if I have anything to say about it.

You don't because you're not real. The Cynosporian is going to kick your fake ass, and you don't have the time or intelligence to work up a master plan.

You're really mean today, Armstrong; you're acting like me.
Are we in 'Freaky Friday' or something?

I smirked again as I continued to play my new grand piano. It was the newest addition to my instrument collection and I've been playing and learning since about the time Gloria disappeared.

You jammed on that goddamn acoustic and now you're playing a piano. What's up with the wussy instruments?

Well, what do you suggest?

Get an electric and plug it into an amp that's on eleven; like I played last year.

Yeah, and you made my fingers bleed.

Jesus bled when he was crucified.

Can you just be quiet so I can concentrate on this?

Why do you ask when you already know the answer?

I sighed, but still played. Christian was now just an annoying hiss; I didn't fear him at all or the thought of his plans or the blackouts he caused me to have. My doctor said my progress indicated I should be completely MPD-free a while after I take my last dose. My sanity just needed to survive a while longer, and then everything will go back to normal.

As normal as life with your annoying wife and foolish kids can be.

As long as it won't be filled with sleepless nights and neurotic days anymore.

Oh, c'mon, Army.
I'm not all that bad. We've had some good times together, right?

Army?

We talk all the time - we sing, we laugh...

We try to kill each other...

Right! And isn't that a blast?

Um, no, it isn't. Do you think igniting my mother-in-law on fire, placing my marriage on eggshells, straining my friendships with Mike and Tre, and causing me to lose my sanity is a blast? ...Actually, don't answer that.

But wasn't it all exhilarating?

When I think of 'exhilaration', I think of good, positive, and exciting energy, and you trying to kill me is not my idea of good, positive, or exciting.

You really disappoint me, Armstrong.

I ignored Christian once again as I wrote a few more lyrics to the song I had been writing for Adie. I read it over and sang the song inside my head and I realized that it was complete. All it needed was a title, so I read over the lyrics to see if there was an obvious one in there, but I couldn't find one; I was going to have to make one up.

Call it 'The Wussy Piano Song.'

It's your last night on Earth, Christian; don't you want to spend it wisely? Right a few wrongs or something?

No, not particularly.
You could give it a Christian-related name; that would make up for it being so terrible.

And what do you suggest? Diabolical Demon? Satanic Serpent? Venomous Vagrant?

Those are all fitting, yes, but what about 'Last Night on Earth'? That way, you'll always remember the wonderful, unforgettable, and sensational last night you spent with Christian Armstrong.

How about no? I don't want to incorporate you into my music; that would just be ridiculous.

You're such a buzzkill.

That's what I've been told. I've also been told that Cynosporian takes effect about an hour after you take a dose, so it'll be lights out for you in a few minutes.

There was a pause, and Christian didn't say anything for a few long seconds, which was very odd and unlike him.

So...this is it?

I was caught off guard by his slightly sentimental question, but I guess the inevitability finally sunk in. Maybe he finally realized that he's not indestructible or invulnerable; that he's just a weak and helpless voice inside of my head that can't stop a medication from destroying himself, no matter how assertive or maniacal he is.

This was my last chance to fuck you over; to do something bold and evil, and it all went to waste because I was stubborn enough to believe I could survive the treatment. That I could beat it...deny it.

I didn't respond to him. I knew Christian, so I assumed this was some kind of weird, last minute scheme to screw me over, but the honest and precarious tone of voice he had made me wonder if my assumption was wrong.

This year has been insane, and your life is calling. I shouldn't be here, but I got tossed into a concoction of destruction against you...and it's unfair to you. Maybe I went a little crazy...and maybe Gloria was right. I really don't know anything anymore.

I still didn't reply. I don't think I would have been able to work up a response ever if I tried.

I'm sorry, Armstrong.

That caused me to smile, realizing that the night Christian apologized to me would be...well, the last night on Earth.

Do you honestly expect me to believe all of that, Christian?

This time, he didn't respond to me, and, for some reason, my heart dropped.

Christian?

I still received no reply.

"Christian? Christian, are you there?" I asked aloud, but was still left with nothing.

I checked the clock which read a little after two in the afternoon. My heart fell farther down into my intestines when I recognized that it had been over and hour since I took the last of the Cynosporian.

I swallowed hard. "Christian?" I asked once more aloud. "Are you there?"

No answer.

He was gone.

I still sat at my grand piano where my fingers continued to rest on the keys. I moved them forward, but they slid fast due to the panicked sweat that also was on my clammy palms. The sweat was caused by an anxious realization I made which was the fact that Gloria, and now Christian were gone.

I was alone. Nobody else was in my head but me. I was no longer classified by an idiosyncrasy , and it felt so liberating.

I looked back over at the paper with the song I had written for my wife of twelve years; it was still nameless, but I changed that quickly.

The piano had a thin line of dust near the back, but I was not scared. This song was not in the finest level of perfection either, but I still labeled it 'complete', so I was not afraid of imperfection anymore either. It wasn't until I scribbled the title 'Last Night on Earth' in the top margin of the thin loose-leaf when I recognized that I was using the small, slender, yellow writing utensil with lead and eraser shavings that I apparently didn't fear anymore either.

And all of this made me pretty damn happy.

______
FINISHED.

What an amazing story! It totally kept me on the edge of my seat all the way through.
Great job!