The Deaths Of Saint Jimmy

7. Split Person

Tré was on his couch with Mike. Mike was asleep on the other end. Tré was watching television, some old sitcom. Billie was laying on the recliner, his eyes on the screen. “I feel weird.” Billie said quietly. Tré looked over at him. “I’m not even tired.” Billie said.

“Just try and sleep.” Tré said. Billie nodded and curled up. He surprisingly fell asleep rather fast. Tré did too, even though he was supposed to stay awake.

                                                                                                ***

“T-Tré!” Mike squeaked, his voice was in total panic. Tré sat up, he could see a dark mass over where Mike was.

“Dirnt?” Tré mumbled, still half asleep. Mike let out a weak screech and kicked his legs out. Tré sprang up and went to go turn on the light. He heard loud feet running somewhere. When he turned on the light and spun around, Mike was on the ground.

“Oh my fuck, it hurts!” Mike yelled. Tré ran over to him, Billie wasn’t in his seat. He knew Billie couldn’t leave, all the doors were locked and alarm locked, almost impossible to break open.

“What happened, where’s Billie?” Tré asked. He rolled Mike onto his back, his eyes were all bloody. The corneas were torn, layers of eye crap was sliced, eye lids were torn.

“It was Billie! He attacked me!” Mike said. “I can hardly see!” Mike cried. Tré got up.

“Stay there, I’ll get you a wet towel.” Tré said. He dashed to the kitchen turning on every light as he went. He bent down to open a cupboard and Billie lunged out of it. Tré jumped back quickly, narrowly avoiding a kitchen knife Billie had grabbed.

“Quit running!” Billie said harshly, he lurked closer to Tré who was backing up. “You’ve got nowhere to go!” Billie cawed.

“What the fuck are you doing, Billie?” Tré asked. He backed up into the wall. Billie was about to stab Tré.

“Why does everyone call me that? My name is fucking Jimmy, damnit!” Billie snapped. Tré dropped down as Billie stabbed. The knife went straight into the wall and stuck.

“No! You’re Billie Joe Armstrong!” Tré shouted as he scrambled away. He saw Mike trying to work the house phone blindly. “Hurry, Mike!” Tré called. He got up and was about to dash when he felt a slash across his forearm.

“You don’t fucking know me. You’re mistaken.” Billie said venomously. He shoved Tré back against the wall, the knife against Tré’s throat. “Let me tell you who I am.” Billie growled.

“O-okay!” Tré choked out. He could faintly hear Mike talking to the police on the phone.

“I am Saint Jimmy, the son of rage and love. The Jesus of Suburbia!” Billie spat. “Now who are you? Tré Cool right?” Billie asked. Tré flinched as the knife cut a little. He heard sirens which wasn’t very surprising because the station was down the road. “Shit! I knew I should have killed him!” Billie said, he was open. Tré quickly shoved him, Billie slashed the knife and cut Tré’s chest.

“He’s your friend!” Tré said, he made sure to pin Billie down after shutting off the alarm. Police barged in and took Tré off of Billie. They pulled Billie up and pushed him against the wall. Paramedics rushed to the living room for Mike.

“You alright?” Sheriff Greg asked Tré. Tré shrugged and looked at the cut on his arm. It was deep. His chest wasn’t as bad though. “How did this happen?” Greg asked.

“Mike said he was possessed, I said it’s a personality disorder.” Tré answered. “Billie Joe…is Saint Jimmy.”

“He’s no Saint.” Mike said, his eyes were all wrapped up, he was on a gurney. “Come visit me in the hospital, okay man?” Mike asked as they slowly walked him out to the ambulance.

“A disorder is more likely.” Greg said, Tré nodded. “We’re going to take him in.”

“I figured.” Tré said.

“I’m sorry, Tré. This must be hard.” Greg said. Tré nodded. “You should go to the hospital and get stitched up.” Greg suggested.

“Okay.” Tré replied.