Broken Strings

The first time he felt the horrible biting feeling inside of his chest was when they were in New York, working on the new album. He was sitting in the kitchen and Skinny and Nightmare were in the next room. Skinny was joking, making Whiplasher impersonation and failing miserably, though it still got Nightmare laugh.

He smiled a little, Nightmare's laughter was his favourite – the guitarist sounded as if he was choking, gasping for air and then laughing until there was no air left in his lungs; before it all repeated until Nightmare's tummy was hurting and he calmed down. Just like now, he could hear the man gasp in faked pain, before he spoke the words that started this all: ”Oh stop being stupid and start working on the song or I will kick you out from the band, you useless bitch.“

He missed the hints of laughter in Nightmare's words, he missed the sarcasm and playfulness and the lack of seriousness in his voice. All he could understand was that he needed to start working on songs otherwise he would be kicked out from the band. It was childish way of thinking, but that's how his brain worked sometimes. He took out words from sentences, found his meaning between them and wouldn't let anyone explain that maybe, maybe they didn't mean what he thought they did.

In many ways he was like a little kid. He was younger than all of his band mates, not just few months younger, but years younger. They all acted like his parents in a way, even if Nightmare was the one nicknamed ”daddy Nightmare“. They explained lots of things to him, too, because of the ”eeer I don't get it“ expression Skinny loved to impersonate as well. And just like a little kid, all too often he didn't listen to anyone and didn't want to accept other people's opinions.

He knew that writing a song wasn't going to be an easy thing. He wrote some songs before he joined the band, but they wouldn't fit this CD at all. In fact, they wouldn't fit Deathstars either. The songs he wrote before weren't huge or epic; they wouldn't fit the great concert halls and football stadiums; they wouldn't fit the lyrics about lost innocence and darkness.

Yet Nightmare's words echoing in the back of his mind didn't let him forget about it. He shut himself in the hotel room, bringing his guitar with himself. He seated himself on the bed, taking the instrument in his hands. Tracing its lines, he stared at the wall opposite him, trying to come up with a melody, a guitar riff; anything. But everything that crossed his mind he could link to a song that already existed; the song that was on their previous CDs or that belonged to some other band. Sometimes it took him few seconds to realise that his thought was just a copy of someone else's work, sometimes it took him minutes; but every single time the tiny hopeful happiness turned into desperate anger. He was angry at himself.

With every minute that passed, every hour, he felt more and more desperate. He started to pace across the room, his hands fisted at his sides, his short nails dug in his palm. He felt a strange mix of anger and panic; the energy inside him was bubbling, wanting to get out somehow. The quick steps across the small room weren't helping; he could still feel it running through his veins even if his feet started to hurt.

He sat back on the bed, again taking his guitar. His hands were shaking as he touched the strings. ”Come on,“ he whispered, hitting one string after another, each riff getting stronger, heavier, as if it was the guitars fault. When he managed to break one of the strings, his fingers aching, he screamed, throwing the guitar on the floor. Its neck broke and it made a noise that sounded like a mock of the guitar riff he was so desperately trying to find.

The scream alerted Whiplasher, who opened the door of the hotel room. The singer looked more angry than worried as he poked his head inside, already in pajamas. ”Fuck, Eric. What's your point?“ he asked and the boy realised he had spent 13 hours in the hotel room.

And all he had were pieces of paper covered in crossed out notes and a broken guitar.

He looked at Whiplasher, his face twisting in a grimace. He knew he had to look horrible, but for the first time in his life he didn't care. He didn't care that he had no make-up on; he didn't care his hair was laying flat against his head, the strands not longer kept straight with the hair spray. All he could concentrate on was the tight feeling at his chest. He was scared... no, not scared. He was terrified that he would be kicked out of the band, because he was unable to write a single fucking song; a single fucking riff.

”I just wanna stay in the band,“ he said, his voice sounding high pitched and foreign even to his own ears. The last word made his voice break, coming out almost like a choked sob. He covered his mouth in horror, only now realising his eyes were swimming in tears. He blinked, sending the salty droplets down his pale cheeks.

”I just wanna stay in the band,“ he repeated, no longer trying to hide sobs as Whiplasher stepped to him, taking the boy in his arms. His knees gave up the second he felt the singer's arms around him, and he shook his head. ”I don't wanna be kicked out, but I can't do that. I really can't... Andreas, I tried, but it's... I can't, I just broke my guitar and it sucks so badly... just...“ he kept babbling, gasping for air and choking on his own words.

”Shh,“ Whiplasher whispered, the confusion perfectly clear on his face as he tried to calm down the hysterical boy in his arms. ”Eric, what happened?“

”I just wanna stay in the band, please,“ he kept repeating like a kind of mantra, a prayer, as if he believed that repeating it over and over again would make it true. He fisted Whiplasher's T-shirt the man wore instead of pajama top, grabbing onto it as if it would save him. He swallowed another wave of his own tears. ”Andreas, please, I just wanna stay in the band. Tell... tell them I don't wanna go, this band is my life... please, please...“ He was overreacting, acting overly dramatic; but he wasn't really aware of that. He was in some state of horror, Nightmare's words still as real as the second they had been said aloud.

”No one is kicking you out of band, silly boy,“ Whiplasher said as he finally understood the meaning from the quick, choked babble. He shook his head, though, looking up in Whiplasher's eyes – his frantic, reddened eyes meeting Whiplasher's calm, wondering ones.

”He said I have to write a song, otherwise I'm useless and, and they would kick me out. He would kick me out, ask him... ask him.“

”Who?“ Whiplasher frowned, unable to believe any of the band members would say it like that. ”Eric, who said that you have to write a song or you will be kicked out of the band?“ Whiplasher's voice was contrasting to his so strongly, the singer's words calm and strong while the boy's sounded high-pitched and fragile. Hysteric. Just like he himself.

”He... he said it to Skinny... I heard him, I did... Andreas, please, he did,“ he kept babbling, his voice coming out more and more slurred, as if he was drunk. But only thing controlling his body was the biting, tight feeling at his chest that made it difficult to breathe. ”He did it, he said it, go-“

The slap came out of nowhere, cutting his sentence in the middle as he felt Whiplasher's hand collide with his cheek hard. He stared at the man, his mouth still forming perfect 'o'; Whiplasher looking back at him, his chest heaving as if he did something very tiring just now, his hand falling down.

”No one is kicking you out of band,“ Whiplasher breathed out, not sounding so sure and calm suddenly as he turned on his heel and walked out. The singer closer the door with much more strength than necessary, the loud noise snapping him out of the trans.

He brought his hands up to the reddened mark on his cheek, brushing a path with his fingers along his jaw to his lip. He felt wetness around the piercing, and when he glanced at his hand, there was a little blood on the tip of his middle finger. He wiped it in his pants, shakily moving to the bed.

He was full of anger, guilt, fear and shame as he tried to fall asleep. But most of all, there still was the awful and never-leaving tight, biting feeling in his chest.