I just realized that I never write Green Day stories, haha.
So I decided to write one! Whoo!
This fan fiction is pretty nonfictional. I'm going to try to document Green Day's history from Sweet Children to who they have become today. It may not be perfect, but I'm going to try my darnedest.
It will be in Billie Joe's POV, unless otherwise noted.
I don't own Green Day, obviously. If I did, I wouldn't be writing stories about them.
Nothing's changed, but everything's going to.
How could everything possibly stay the same? Cancer that metastasized killed my father on a September day one week ago, and his death has left a black cloud inside of my head. It's left a void inside of the house I'm growing up in, now sheltering six children and a widowed mother. A house that's never been a home - especially now.
I guess I should feel an impact, but I don't. Aren't I supposed to be a royal wreck; blubbering my sorrow to whoever will listen, or completely inaudible through salty tears? Or maybe I'm supposed to have a blank stare accompanied by a traumatic silence. Maybe I should've been curled up in a corner or the funeral home, locked in the fetal position instead of being the eleven year old son of a dead man who's the most put together of the group.
However, it isn't that odd when you look at all the facts. I mean, I loved my father and I always will, but I didn't know him that well. He was a good husband and a decent father, but I never saw him that much. He was a truck driver, and he was always working. If he wasn't, then he was hanging out with his jazz buddies and smoking pot instead of worrying about taxes or his family. Those adult things were irrelevant when he was inhaling the green, and my father seemed to be the champion at procrastination.
He did good in his short life, though. He helped produce five children, and accepted my half-brother, Alen, as if he was his own. He made my mom happy, and brought home the bacon everyday. He did his part in this family, and I'll miss his sorely, but, right now, it just seems too surreal. Maybe it'll hit me harder when I'm older.
I wasn't going to dwell on my father's mortality forever, though. He died, and I can't fix it, so I'm not going to spend years of my life blaming myself for an effect I didn't cause.I think my mom will...on the contrary, I know
my mom will. She thinks everything is her fault, which makes her some kind of narcissist because if she thinks everything's her fault, then she must believe that she controls everything. I love my mom; I guess I'm just too fastidious, but she is a proper narcissist now. She runs everything now, at least in the Armstrong household since Dad's gone.
It's a strange feeling that I'm unwillingly accepting for the sake of my sanity. If I don't accept the fact that my father's dead, then what do I become? What do I do? I no longer have a father figure, and I'm not going to pretend that there is no truth within that statement. That would lead me down a spiral of deceptions, fabrications and misunderstandings, and I wouldn't want to lead a life like that.
I sat in my bedroom, pondering all of this while strumming the blue stratocastor my father had given me for Christmas. It was the greatest gift I had ever received, and probably the best memory I have of my father. I remember the day clearly...
Christmas, 1981. The six of us kids were dressed in itchy holiday sweaters - even Alen who was old enough to do just about anything he wanted. The gift giving and receiving began mid-afternoon as I anticipated anything other than clothes or empty cards, but I didn't expect much. My dad was a truck driver, as I mentioned, and my mom was a waitress, so the income wasn't too thrilling, especially when you add in six children into the equation.
Clothes, cards, records, and a few other mediocre materials later, I thought it was time to eat Christmas dinner, but I thought wrong.
My dad pulled out a beautiful blue guitar that he got from his jazz buddies buddy or something; at the time, I could've cared less who instrument used to belong to. All I knew was that I had a guitar - a nice
one, even. All of the strings were intact and I couldn't find a single scratch. It wasn't a third generation hand-me-down; it was mine
. My very own guitar, and it looked way better that the guitars on TV.
I remember when I was 7 or so, and my brother David was playing a guitar he used to have, and I really wanted to play it. I couldn't, though, because my fingers were too small. I ended up learning piano instead, which I hated for years. Guitars are way cooler than the piano. I remember trying to stretch my fingers out, hoping it would somehow increase their length.
I broke out of my flashback as I still sat on my bed, holding my guitar the way Dad told me. I strummed a melody I had thought of in school the other day, but was unable to finish. Irritated, I put the guitar away and sprawled out onto my bed, staring at the ceiling.
I began counting the tiles as my eyes grew heavy. I thought about calling my friend, Mike, but I'd have to choke back 70 pixie sticks to keep up with his immortal hyperactivity.
Mike was this guy I met a few months ago who became my pal in minutes. We love the same bands, and we both play the guitar. He always brings his guitar by and we practice together, attempting to not sound like dung. We've gotten pretty decent, though. He taught me a couple things, and I taught him a few. It was just so cool to hear two guitars playing at once, harmonizing and creating something beautiful.
I sighed as I counted the 56th tile on the ceiling. When I reached the 114th, I decided that I need to find a more productive thing to do. I was weary and tired, but I was also lonely and sore. I needed Mike to cure me.
I called him and he rode his bike over. He had left his guitar over from the night before, so we jammed together. Mike had gotten really good, but I still sort of sucked. I had gotten better over the months, though, so I should stay optimistic, I guess.
My dad told me that practice makes perfect, and I suppose that adage could be true. I wouldn't know unless I tried.
That was when I realized something. My father enforced music into my life, and I was going to fulfill his dreams for me now since he was gone.It was what he would've wanted, and I couldn't complain. I loved the guitar, and my father was my catalyst now. He was my motivation and the source of my devotion.
I would do this for him.