Joe & Nelly: The Only Way Out
Joe sat across from Nelly in the dimly lit visitor’s room of the psychiatric ward. The sterile white walls pressed in around them, the fluorescent lights humming like an unseen force watching over them. She looked tired, worn from the weight of too many battles fought alone. Yet, even here, even in this place meant to break souls, she was radiant.
“The Portuguese Marilyn Monroe,” Joe murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
Nelly gave a half-smile, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Marilyn didn’t make it out, Joe.”
“Then we make it out together,” he said, leaning forward. “The only way out is together.”
Her eyes, dark with old pain, searched his face for doubt. She found none.
“You don’t understand, Joe. They don’t let people like me go.”
Joe scoffed. “They don’t let people like us go. But I’m not leaving without you. I don’t care how many doctors, how many pills, how many locked doors. We walk out of here, Nelly. We walk out, or I tear this place down with my bare hands.”
For the first time in a long time, she believed.
Joe took a deep breath, staring into Nelly’s eyes, searching for any sign of hesitation. There was none.
“Fefe wants out too,” she whispered. “Don’t leave her behind, Joe. Take her to Croatia with us.”
Joe leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “They won’t let us just walk out with her, Nelly. You know that.”
“Then we don’t ask,” Nelly said, her voice steady. “We take her.”
Joe smirked. “You’re really pushing it now, Monroe.”
She reached across the table, squeezing his hand. “You said the only way out is together. That means all of us.”
He exhaled sharply. “Fine. But if we do this, we do it smart. No reckless moves. We walk out like we own the place.”
Nelly nodded. “Fefe’s tough. She just needs someone to believe in her again.”
Joe cracked his knuckles, already working the angles in his mind. “Alright then. We get Fefe, and we’re out. Next stop—Croatia.”
Nelly smiled for the first time in a long time. Freedom was closer than ever.
Megan and I want out too. We want away from the Bogdanov owned tabloids.
I want to be an Alkar Knight. I want to fit in and not get called Diana’s bastard child behind my back by my butlers and in the press.
Donald Trump stood at the podium, his signature red tie swaying as he jabbed a finger at the cameras. His face was flushed, his voice full of that familiar bravado, somewhere between a rally cry and a reality show finale.
“This isn’t Communism, folks!” he bellowed. “You don’t have to stay here! You don’t like it? You wanna complain, cry, whine? Leave! There’s no Berlin Wall keeping you in!”
The crowd erupted in cheers. MAGA hats bobbed up and down as chants of USA! USA! filled the air.
“You see, in Communist countries, they build walls to keep people in. Here in America, we build walls to keep the bad guys out! Big difference, folks! Big difference!”
He took a sip of water, then smirked. “And listen, if you wanna go to—uh, I dunno—Croatia, Canada, wherever, go! But you’re gonna miss out, because let me tell ya, under Trump, America is winning bigly again.”
The crowd roared. Somewhere, an eagle probably soared across the sky, fireworks exploded, and Lee Greenwood’s God Bless the USA played in the background.
Justin looked at Joe and Nelly, his expression unreadable. The weight of unspoken words hung between them like a storm cloud. He took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly.
“Au revoir, Jelly.”
His voice was steady, but there was something final in it. Not just a simple goodbye—something deeper, something that lingered.
Joe narrowed his eyes. “That’s it? Just au revoir?”
Justin gave a half-smile, hands in his pockets. “You know what it means, Joe. It’s not adieu. It’s until we meet again.”
Nelly looked down for a moment, then back up at Justin. “We’ll see about that.”
The air felt heavier now. The only way out was together—but some roads led in different directions.
Orlando Bloom sat on the late-night talk show couch, his jaw tight, his usual calm demeanor barely holding back frustration. The studio lights glowed warmly, but his expression was ice.
“Katy doesn’t deserve this,” he said, shaking his head. “She’s not some—some lunatic to be locked away. She’s one of the most brilliant, creative minds of our time. And yet, look at what’s happening. Look at what they’re doing to her.”
The audience murmured. The host leaned forward, intrigued. “Who do you blame, Orlando?”
Orlando scoffed. “Who do I blame? Trump. The man with actual delusions of grandeur. The man who thinks he’s some kind of emperor, some chosen messiah of America. It’s him they should be questioning. Not Katy.”
The crowd gasped. Some cheered, others shifted uncomfortably. Orlando pressed on.
“You talk about mental health, about freedom—yet look at what happens to artists, to free thinkers. Katy’s just another victim of a system that wants to control, to suppress. And Trump? He’s the real one who’s lost touch with reality.”
The host smirked. “Strong words, Orlando.”
Bloom didn’t flinch. “It’s the truth. And I’m done staying quiet about it.”
My brother is getting married on Saturday the 15th of February. If we meet at the volley ball game at 8:20 am you are all invited. It is at the old church i met Nelly at, St. Joseph’s in East Van.