Musicians/Music Groups Fan Fiction >> Avenged Sevenfold
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Am I insane?
one shot featuring m. shadows of avenged sevenfold
I like to believe certain things to protect myself.
For instance, how his last words were something like "I love you". People tell me I need
to be more real.
I don't do mobile phones. I don't do phones, or computers, at all. I grief, paint. My days are
I wake up, get dressed and eat whatever there is that looks a bit appealing. Sometimes it's just
leftovers, it doesn't really matter. Then, I actually clean for a bit, until it's time to eat my
lunch. I eat and then leave for the cabin in the back yard, where I paint, cry, scream and laugh;
where I act closest to normal, I think. Where I try to live. All for Matt. I eat dinner. And then
stare at the empty space in the bed beside me until I cry myself to sleep.
They've told me that routine is not a bad thing, but that I needn't go to the cabin anymore. I still
go there, it's part of the routine. And there is where I am closest to actually feeling more
"Matt's alive!" they tell me, happy, encouraging smiles on their faces. I know they're
lying. I need to believe what they say, so they can kill me, just like they killed Matt. The
industry did, they killed him.
"He's not alive, you killed him." I always hiss. What scares me is that my answers, my
outside, still answers as angry as when they first told me, but my inside is starting to believe
Maybe they're right. I think when I lay asleep in the king size bed, staring at his side of
the bed again. Maybe I've been acting like a creepy old woman. On one point they agree with
me; I have never seen him or spoken to him in three years. But I don't agree with them when they
tell me what he wrote was true, not something they made him write.
When you read this, I'm gone.
Didn't have the guts to tell you.
So that's the letter he left me. I can tell you why I question this. Three reasons.
Matt never says, no, said sorry.
He didn't return after two years. But they tell me it's because I went that crazy, believed they
kidnapped him, killed him. They told him I was 'not yet ready to meet him'.
"You used to be so pretty, so active, so like us, Laura." Kara tells me,
sitting at our, no, my kitchen table. She looks around the room, a sad look on her pretty
face. "You didn't care about cleaning, you were a mess. You still are, of course…"
she smiles sadly. "…but you used to be the good kind of mess. Why don't you just believe
us, baby? You can get back to our old life in a flash. It's been killing Matt-" I cut her off
when I stand up hastily, the chair falling on the floor.
"Don't talk like that." I snap. "Or leave. This is my house. Please, Kare, just let
Kara. Was my best friend before. Maybe she still is, I don't value friendships or anything anymore.
Brian was hers, she was Mrs. Gates. Or still is, as they all tell me. She tells me.
"Brian asked me to marry him," she tells me the same day. I nod understandingly, in the
same way they nod at me, like I've gone crazy.
They are crazy. I've tried talking sense into her.
"Kara, Brian's gone. He won't be back, never more. You're gonna have to learn to live with it,
honey." I used to tell her, but after a while, when she refused to believe me, screamed at me,
cried, I'd had enough. "Fine," I spat, "one day you'll see I was right."
Her answer, before she left rapidly? "Laura, I will keep telling you, Matt's alive."
"Leave! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE. Matt is dead. He's been dead for three years and I will be alone
for the rest of my life. He's dead, K, and so are Brian, Zacky, Johnny and Jimmy. Just leave me
alone!" She left me, didn't come round anymore for a few weeks. First I thought she was mad at
me, then I figured they took her, too. But she came back.
"Okay, listen." She says, standing at my door, the rain drops dripping from her wet hair,
on the door mat.
"I will, come in." I invite, immediately accepting her back in my life again. I don't dare
to tell her how glad I am they didn't take her. She doesn't take off her coat.
"Take me to the cabin, Laura." She demands, and I take her with me to my sacred place.
Nobody's ever been there but Matt and me. This is where we made love, it used to be our hiding
place. Now it's where I break down.
I don't even bother to put on a coat, I just step into a random pair of shoes and go outside. The
cabin is secret, but I feel things are gonna change today. So I take her with me.
I open the door, my hands shaking as I put the key in the keyhole, twist it and then push the door
open. Only the bed in the corner reminds of the cabin's previous usage. Now, I see the room through
her eyes. In the corner, there's my unfinished work; scattered around the room -everywhere but on
the bed- are my paintings, and pictures. Pictures of Matt, always Matt. Sometimes me, sometimes the
guys, sometimes Matt on his own. The paintings show him, too. Sometimes only his smiling, sleeping
face, sometimes him in full perfection, standing on a stage, sweat dripping from his forehead,
microphone in one hand, or both. I realize two things. Maybe this is crazy, maybe I am a complete
"Devotion." Kara says, carefully walking around the room, looking at all the paintings.
"You're devoting your life to him."
And for the first time, I feel like someone understands all of it. I don't care if these are crap
paintings, it isn't about the quality. It's about what every single one of them expresses; love.
Pure love and need.
Those feelings have been suffocating me since he left, and, I realize now, as I not only look at the
cabin with her eyes, but at my life, too, that I needed to express those feelings, and I simply
couldn't think of him leaving me. The rest is history. Because Kara tries to look at the matter from
my point of view, I finally dare to do the same with hers.
I start laughing. She turns at me with a shocked expression and I can see he wondering if I've
really lost it this time. And maybe I have, because after I laugh at myself, my laughs turn into
sobs and my knees buckle. I fall to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably. She runs up to me and kneels
down to my level.
"What's wrong, Laura?" her voice sounds worried. "Oh, don't lose your mind. Please,
talk to me."
"You're right." My voice sounds strange, not like my own. And in fact, it is. It's my
normal voice, this is the real me again. "I am devoting my life to him. And now I- I'm starting
to believe you. All of you. I'm going mad." I whisper. But wait, I was mad. Or am I
still? I just don't know anymore. "One thing I do know is that I need to get rid of these
paintings, burn them or something. I need to let it go."
"Don't burn them just yet, Laura." Kara says in a happy voice. She smiles at me.
"Just wait a few minutes, I need to get something…" I can just catch the last word
she says, as she is already running through the back yard, off to get whatever it is she needs to
get. I start collecting all the paintings and throwing them on a heap, around the standard with the
unfinished one of Matt, sleeping again. He just looks so peaceful like that.
The job is remarkably quick done, due to the strange new waves of energy pulsing through my body. I
stand panting, looking at the heap of memories and I realize that all of a sudden they have no
meaning to me anymore. I was insane, they need to be burned, burned! Burned!
"Burned!" I whisper violently as I reach for the box of matches that always lays in the
cupboard. The door opens, but I don't even notice. I grab a match from the box, hold it firmly in my
hand and strike it. Just as I'm about to throw it on the pile of paintings, a strong, oh so
familiar hand grabs mine, pulls the match from my grip and blows it out behind my back. I stand
there, frozen. I feel like my life's stopped as I try to understand what is going on, but my brain
needs more proof. More, more, more.
"Don't burn our memories, Laura. Don't burn me out of your life, don't try to forget me."
It's that voice, the one I recognize, even after three years that makes tears roll silently down my
face. I thought I forgot. I kept painting him, too, to remember his face and to keep remembering it.
But I seemed to have forgotten his voice. Oh, his voice.
I turn, slowly, to postpone the moment where I see his face. But it comes anyhow. For what seems
like forever I take in every aspect of his face, I stare at that oh-so-familiar, slight smile. I
stare at him gazing down at me, and I feel… alive.
"Matt." I whisper. He nods. And that's the starting signal for me to throw my arms around
his neck and cry on his shoulder. I cry, and he holds me there, firmly, and I know it's because he's
scared we'll have to part again, too, because so am I.
"I'm never gonna let you again." He mumbles in my hair, his voice sending chills running
down my spine. He doesn't let go of me after I stop crying. He still holds my hand as we walk back
to the house, he still holds me as he drags me to the master bedroom, and he holds me throughout the
"I think we're safe now, Matt." I giggle the following morning after I've waken up with
his arms around me, after I've watched him wake up. He smiles, and his dimples show. Oh, his
beautiful dimples. He cautiously unwraps his arms from around me and stretches them above his
'Will you ever leave me again?' I want to ask, but then I realize I already know the answer; he
won't. Instead, I ask the question that's been bothering me for a few years.
"Matt?" he nods, a smile on his lips. "Am I insane?"
"Does it matter?" A warm feeling rushes through my body and I realize, after three years;
I've don't only have my sanity back, but more importantly the love of my life and my mere reason for
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The preceeding was a work of fiction. Any statements regarding any person, place, or other entity (real or imaginary) is the sole responibility of the author of this work of fiction. Fan Works Inc. takes no responsibility for the content of user submitted stories. All stories based on real people are works of fiction and do not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. All stories based on other copyrighted works are written with authors knowing that these works violate copyright laws.
Please see the Terms of Service for more information.