"oh nm, geocities is sucking incredible ammounts of anus right now"
-probe
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| Before the Show | | | Author: | | | IP: | dsl-KK-0XXXX | | Date: | 12/24/04 07:12 | | Game Type: | Starcraft | | Labels: | Text Only(1), Fan Fiction(1) | | Report Rating: , # of Ratings: 0, Max: , Min:
Lifetime Rating for Desert Demon: 7.7353 | | Too many shows. Far too many shows. Too many drugs.
Too much sex. Too much rock and roll for one guy to handle. He'd burned
out. He wasn't even thirty yet.
He was sprawled on his bed, recovering from his
worst trip in a while. The show was in an hour and he could barely
move. He could barely remember the words he had to sing, the chords he
had to play. He could barely think. The thought of the sea of fans
screaming his name made his head swim.
Too many shows.
His Gibson Les Paul stared at him from across the
room. He looked at the clock. The hour was ticking away. The show was
drawing nearer. The apprehension was growing. He couldn't face the
crowd in this state. He could barely get his hands to move as he needed
them to. Getting on stage would be humiliation...for him, for the band,
for everyone. He couldn't face it.
He rolled off the bed, stumbling as he tried to
stand. He made his way to the bathroom slowly, carefully. The floor
waltzed below him and the doorframe wouldn't stand still, but he made
it in. The toilet seat was up, and the bowl was filled with his vomit.
He leaned over it, the noxious smell filling his nostrils.
He vomited again. And again. The bowl reeked of his bile, and he stared at it sullenly.
Was that all that was left of him now? A toilet bowl
filled with vomit. It was the most solid thing he had. The rest...some
fake image. Some persona he'd made up for the stage to entertain the
crowd. It had become him, consumed him. The copy of Rolling Stone on
the dresser had a photograph of that persona on the cover, an interview
with that persona in the pages.
It wasn't him though. He was living a lie. No one knew him, it seemed. Not even him. No one really could. There was so little to know.
A toilet bowl filled with vomit. The queasiness of
the drug trip. An ugly, unshaven face with shoulder length hair. Too
many piercings. An arm with the scars of needles as he shot himself up
with heroin. He remembered a time when he didn't need the drugs to feel
alive. When he still existed as a person. The first band, back in high
school, with his friends. When he could get up and play as himself and
not as this fucking act.
His life was a fucking act. A one act rock opera
with an intermittent, cacophonious score, opening with a bad cover of a
long forgotten Pink Floyd song, burned out of his brain by the needle,
and progressing into worse and louder music as he fell deeper into the
hell that was his mind.
He was burning now. Burning in what he had made by
trying to be cool, trying to be what everyone else wanted him to be.
What he wasn't.
Too many shows, and now he was just a toilet bowl full of vomit. It stared him in the face.
Was that all that was left of him now? A toilet bowl
filled with vomit? He retched at the stench of it, trying to bring up
more.
It was all that was left of him now. He'd
burned away the rest with heroin and crack in the last few years. The
music wasn't art anymore, it was just sound. There wasn't enough
substance left in his frail body to create art. He was a shell. He
could scream now, not sing.
Oh, how the mighty had fallen.
Too many shows. Too many drugs. Too much sex. Too
much rock and roll for one guy to handle. He'd burned out. He wasn't
even thirty yet.
Twenty-fucking-eight. Too early to be leaning over
the toilet, unable to get up. Far too early. He should be living his
life, not sitting here, dying. He wasn't supposed to be a shell on his
knees now.
He'd been in love, but never had a substantial
relationship. He didn't have what it took. He'd burned it all away in
the nights, with wild drug trips and wilder sex. He was a fucking
shell, and he hated it. He hated it so very much.
He pulled himself up, and washed his face. The taste
of vomit was in his mouth, but he didn't have the strength to wash it
out. He stared at himself in the mirror. His shell. His...he didn't
know anymore. The words were gone too. He couldn't articulate what he
felt. The lyrics to the songs he was going to sing ran through his
head, all meaningless screaming of subhuman emotion. Nothing real. How
was he so famous? Was the world that shallow?
He mumbled to himself. He couldn't understand the
words...they weren't words. He didn't have enough in him to form words.
He was a shell.
The show was in half an hour. He couldn't take the
tension. He couldn't take the pressure. He stared at the sink as tears
began to flow down his face. What had he done? How could he have thrown
it all away?
He went to the dresser and took out his gun. He took
out a pen and some paper and scrawled a note. He went into the bathroom
and locked the door.
A toilet bowl filled with vomit.
Was that all he was now? A toilet bowl filled with
vomit? In minutes he would be less. The show drew nearer and he didn't
have the guts to face it, to face the monster he'd made himself into,
to face his demons and last another night. He'd fought all he could. He
was tired now. Tired of fighting for a lost cause. He was going to go
to blissful sleep.
His life was a fucking act. A
one act rock opera
with an intermittent, cacophonious score, ending with the loud
percussive crack of a pistol and the fading sobs of a thousand fans
when they found his bloody body face down in his own bile.
He pulled the trigger. The curtain fell.
A slight mood change from last time; I hope you don't mind.
dedicated to those who have fallen...may you rest in peace
The incoherent babble of an idle mind...
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