When The Concert Ticket Became A Beautiful Memory

A 17 year old version of me is in love with Black Veil Brides. Her experience is told below.

Note: I do not own Black Veil Brides, Baskin Robins, or the First Midwest Bank Ampitheatre. I'm lucky I can afford a pack of gum, let alone big names like them.

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1. The End Of School

I hear the alarm beeping. It's 4:50 in the morning. I drag myself out of bed, turn off the alarm clock, and head to the bathroom to start my daily routine. I don't understand why I put so much effort into my appearance; it's not like anyone ever notices. It's the last day of junior year at least. After today, I'm free for the next three months.

After the morning ritual of showering, doing my hair and makeup, and packing snacks for the day, I get onto my computer and go to a ticket purchasing website. My fingers, memorizing the pattern, quickly make their way to the Black Veil Brides concert scheduled for two weeks from Saturday. Tickets were reduced overnight. It's only $20 now!

I find my wallet and count every bit of loose change. I'm still two bucks short, but it's better than the seven dollars it used to be.

I make another plea to Mom, dropping to my knees, going on and on about how I need to see my babies, how I need to thank them for saving my life, Again, she gives me her standard answer: We'll see.

At 7:50, I grab my car keys and make my way to school, stopped at the gas station for gum.

At school, everyone is going crazy. The seniors are partying and crying, realizing this may be the last time they see some people for the next 10 years. I see a few Theatre friends and tear up, just like I have the past two years. They say they'll come back; they never do.

I go to my locker, remembering I'll never use it again. I'm fine with that. I hate having my locker in the language hallway.

The day drags by; I can only think about the concert. All I want is to see Andy Biersack live, just once. I could die happy if I just got his autograph...

The thoughts of the concert are interrupted only by the ringing of class bells and the hugs of friends.

At lunch, seniors continue to cry. My friends and I take refuge in the back of the cafeteria. Ian sits next to me, unusual. I just let action take its course. I gave up on school relationships; whenever I tried to make them happen in the past, I usually messed them up.


"So," he says, "we need to hang out this summer." I can't tell what definition of "hang out' he meant. "I'm having a bonfire Sunday. Feel free to come."

I zone out for the rest of the day. I don't ask people for hugs or for numbers after the final bell rings. I just want to go home, find the final two dollars, and buy my concert ticket.

As soon as I get home, I go on the computer and look up the tickets. Something about the page is different now.

"Sold out" replaces the "Purchase tickets now" area.

"No," I whisper. "No, please, god no!" I fee the tears puddling up. "This can't be real! Stop lying! I can't even, no!"

My parents walk into the room to their 17-year-old daughter, crying on the floor over a sold out concert. This is kind of a normal sight for them.

"Alexis, breathe," Mom says.

"No! The concert...sold out...your fault. Why wouldn't you just buy the ticket?! I had almost all the damn money!" I fall into a hysterical crying fit and can't manage to say anymore.

My parents walk away and pretend nothing ever happened.

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