Cut up Angels

Bert McCracken stared blankly at the wall in front of him, he had become somewhat mute. The sterile feel of the room was making him drowsy; it didn't feel like a hospital, but a mental asylum. As he was led down the hallways all eyes were on him; not that they usually weren't, this was just different, a lot different. He'd flinched as he took each step, as if he were being hit with a hundred knives the closer he got, and this room- this room was the gallows.

The man in uniform looked at him sternly, sitting down in front of him, eyes narrowed suspiciously. The officer introduced himself, not that Bert had paid any attention and the more he would talk the harder Bert found it to follow his speech. Everything clouded in his head, he could hear shouting, screaming; not the gruff tone of the balding man in front of him. His eyes brows furrowed together, confusion filling his mind the more he struggled to face the puzzle. Suddenly his eyes jolted and everything turned blurry, and soon he could see everything like a youthful child sees colour; vibrant, exciting, beautiful. He saw new beauty.

Then he saw black, everything was becoming tainted and Bert moaned, moving around the room manically trying to fix his painting before it became damaged beyond repair. The tainted staining of reality coming through, when he finally found he could take it no more he began to scratch at his eyes. He knew this was just his mind, another game played on him by the voices that occupied him in his life of solitude. The aforementioned officer grabbed the rock star, bringing his hands behind his back. Bert thrashed around, pulling against the restraint, hurting himself in the process. He barely registered the man call for back-up, nor did he fully realize when they brought the needle down to his shoulder.

A generous shot of sedative.

Five hours passed before Bert woke up. As he opened his eyes, blackness met him. He shivered, surely not again? He pulled himself up so he was sitting cross-legged, rubbing the sleep from his weary eyes. The intoxicated man stared into the darkness; he could see nor sense no light. He stuck his arms out, looking not unlike a plane and circled, four walls surrounded him, all tailored to his exact arm length. He took a deep breath in, trying to swallow the bitter taste of fear; he couldn't panic like last time. It did nothing to help.

He used his arms to find a corner in one of walls and began to methodically feel around. If this were another situation he'd be laughing at the idiocy of himself, but it were not, so he continued. He found himself around two of the four without finding anything and moved onto the third, he wasn't surprised to find nothing; he never really had done. Yet this time he did.

Again he traced over the panel, pulling and pressing the button he could feel. Fed up, he punched at the trigger, and suddenly the wall moved. He closed his eyes, scared of what he'd see. His eyes opened and he explored the room. It was identical to the black room except it was bigger and red; dark, dangerous, blood red. He could only see the faint outline of his hands in front of him, and he couldn't see his shoeless feet.

His face scrunched up and he felt his arms tingle; he was bleeding. He ripped his shirt off, holding it to the giant gash across his chest. Suddenly he wondered whether he would've been better off in the previous room.

Just as he began to make his way across the room to look for an exit, a light appeared. It wasn't a brilliant white light, nor did it seem to look like a certain colour, it confused him. He tried to decipher what was making the room seem brighter, but he could see nothing. It was as if his vision had been enhanced. Like the blur put over the room had been removed, yet everything remained the same shade of blood red. He felt a migraine come on but he made no move to clutch at his head, something else had captured his attention. He moved forward, holding the shirt closer as he moved, each step shooting an excruciating pain throughout his chest. He looked down and grimaced at the sight, fighting his gag reflex.

Stitches were visible from what seemed to be his neck, down his torso to the bottom of his stomach, every step he took a string on the long running lace broke. The blood had began to seep through his shirt, staining his hands. The metaphorical blood he'd always seen to be there finally taking its physical position.

He looked up the outline of two people on the ground could be seen. He took another step forward, instantly regretting it. His arm locked into place and the raven-haired rock star fell to his knees. He wanted to pray and he wanted to cry at the thought. He had no time to dwell, he was distracted by moaning.

He cringed, the picture was finally clear now. It was him, with Sarah. He felt more pain than before, it had nothing to do with the bleeding which did still hurt. The real pain came from the memories. You didn't know a broken relationship until you witnessed the partnership of Sarah Hunt and Bert McCracken.

He loved her, at first. She was his sweetheart the one to pull him through high-school unharmed- well, alive at least. Everyone picked up scars during school. She kept him on the straight and narrow for as long as possible. Then touring picked up, and they fell apart slowly but surely.

He fell back to the bottle, the bed and the drugs. His 'distraction'. She knew exactly what was going on, but Sarah being Sarah meant she'd never do anything about ending them. She was his constant, his neutraliser, his happy place.

There whole relationship soon fell with their spirits, it became a game of fake it. All about the sex and the drugs. They looked content on the surface, inside however Sarah was falling apart. Unfortunately for all, she was as stubborn as she was nurturing.

She didn't tell him until it was too late.

A light blinded Bert and he found himself another room. Wanting to role his eyes, he felt as if he was high on something, stuck on the top of another high-rise looking down on the city, the colours of life meshing together to create something so beautifully destructive and mesmerizing.

This room was Gray.

Very minimal, the difference with this room; he could see himself and partially the room. It was... lighter? He twitched, did this mean he was coming toward the end, like a system of rooms, light to lighter, Like a twisted version of purgatory? A confidence swept through him and he smiled grimly looking for another exit.

Once again however he felt a pull on himself and he turned in the other direction, to see an exact copy of him leaned up against a wall, high as heaven. Soon however that vanished, he spun trying to find himself again, where did the figure go? What was happening to him, this had never happened before and he was dizzy, confused and most of all lost.

He spun hearing voices it was the figure he had been looking for. Bert McCracken at nineteen stumbling into Sarah's house, falling onto the ratty cream sofa, which was now patchy from the numerous uses of disinfectant reminding him of all the times he'd came to Sarah after a 'night with the boys'. She'd always come in with a mug of coffee and paracetamol. She did this time too.

Bert frowned watching the scene, he'd never seen her do this for anyone else. He'd never remembered what had happened either. She looked upset, pained. As she struggled to work around the drunken rebel. He rambled on and on about things that probably didn't mean much- not that either of them knew, his constant chatter had become so slurred that you couldn't tell if they were even words to begin with.

He watched as she returned from the bedroom and sat on the couch warily, expertly ignoring the overpowering stench of sick. Nailed to the spot he watched as tears trickled down her face, soon mirrored on his own. He'd had no idea that she'd cry over him, he barely lived sober long enough to recall his name, never mind give anything to their relationship. He'd found it had become awkward lately. He didn't even look forward to the sex.

The scene changed and he was confronted by a frantic Sarah. She moved around the room neurotically picking things up from the floor, putting them in their place, before finally moving towards the closet where she pulled out a rope. Bert's eyebrows shot up, before his face quickly contorted into that of horror.

This was her committing suicide.

She pulled the small wooden chair underneath the lampshade, upon which she stood to fix the noose, the small wooden chair wavered beneath her weight but stood nonetheless. At least, long enough for what she intended. Bert's eyes glazed over as he watched wide-eyed as she tangled her neck in the loop.

He screamed her name, tears streaming down his face. He tried to move but he was tied to the spot by his own invisible noose. He pleaded over and over for her to come down. She heard none of it.

She kicked the chair from beneath her. Silence.

Bert can remember being told by his father that silence was the sound of the soul; it could be serene and peaceful or the complete opposite, deathly and depressive. He'd never found much meaning to it. He'd always found it more of his pointless old wise man speak. The things that he was supposed to remember but doubted he ever would.

He began to shake again, tearing at his eyes and face. Clutching at his hair, pulling strands from his head. He felt demented, psychotic. He felt like a murderer, he was a murderer. He killed her, the girl he promised to love forever, to hold above everything and anything.

White took over him, blurring his vision; pure, brilliant, innocent and vain. He opened his eyes again only to find himself signing his statement. The same officer that had sedated him earlier, he was staring at Bert, an expression Bert couldn't read. He didn't like it. Yet he followed the man around the maze of rooms and corridors.

As he walked out the exit of the police station, he breathed in. He didn't care about the high level of pollutant in it from the cars that zoomed through the car park showing the same eagerness at leaving as he did. The stench of greasy chip shops and the pretty dismal building around about. He walked towards his car and on passenger seat he found an envelope that he was certain was not there when he entered the police station.

He pealed it open and found a small piece of torn-off note paper. Churchyard, next week, three o'clock. Sarah's funeral he thought. Who'd sent him this, he knew her family were restraining themselves from killing her and everyone else she knew hated him with a passion. Especially her sister.

He didn't ponder too long, he left for home. For a well overdue date with a bottle of beer and a packet of cigarettes.

Unfortunately for him the following Thursday came rather quickly and he didn't awake until around about 12 o'clock. He'd heard from his friends that they were starting the ceremony with a gathering, that was at 3. His head pounded and rattled as he got to his feet, managing to make it to the kitchen standing.

He opened up each of the cupboards of searching for some form of medication to deal with the hangover he was experiencing. He found some eventually... in the oven. Not that it was ever used, Bert had been staying at Brian Hardy's house, a guy he'd met during high school. It was a temporary stay, just until he'd found somewhere else.

The police had claimed Sarah's house and seeing as he paid nothing for accommodating the spare bedroom, he had no right to the flat and it had been released back to the owner. In between hangovers Bert had been searching for a job and a flat. He could barely stand staying in the dingy apartment Brian owned, it smelt and it was virtually impossible to find a thing inside.

Anyone who had met Brian would think of Bert as an Angel. However, he wasn't he was a murderer. The thing that had made him change his mind from going to said victims funeral. Her suicide note ripped him apart, he'd repeated it over and over in his head until he fell into his drunken stupor. The doorbell rang and he walked towards it, opening it finding nothing but another envelope on the ground with Bert McCracken written on it. He opened it up, finding an official invitation to the funeral.

He stared at the patterned border. Lines that intertwined, complimenting shades of purple on a white background. The text all in black bare the Sarah Hunt, which was in a bigger font and the lightest shade of purple used on the border.

It looked much like something that'd come from the Hunt family. They were rich, overly rich. Something Sarah had held against them due to her modesty. He smiled, but like all his recent showings of emotion, it was short-lived.

Brian stumbled behind him knocking into his shoulder as he peered over at the card in his hand.

“Aah, so you going or not man?”

“Think I'll miss this round dude. I don't think there'll be too many faces pleased to see me there”

“Bert, its a funeral- people were never going to be happy. Besides, there has to be at least one if you got sent an invitation. Then there's the fact that this isn't about them, its about Sarah. And she would want you there”

“I'm not too sure, Bri. I don't think she would any more” Brian shot the rock star a look before walking away.

“Well think about it. I'm getting coffee cos I'm fucking stoned”

It was half past two when Bert decided he'd go. Which left him enough time to splash water on his face, run a comb through his hair and chuck on his best leather jacket, before speeding off to the church.

He arrived finally and sat a good two or three minutes outside before finding the nerve to walk inside. All of the attendants were dressed there best, probably having spent a good 200 dollars on what they were wearing and would have bought it especially for the day, only to be thrown in the back of their wardrobes, never to be worn again. Bert however looked how he felt, a mess. He wore loose fitting black jeans and a Black Sabbath t-shirt which was thankfully hidden by his jacket.

Sofia, Sarah's sister walked towards him. “Well at least its black” she remarked sarcastically, this meant that her father was alerted to the presence of him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in obvious distaste.

“This is Sarah's funeral is it not?” He asked trying his best to be polite. Or as polite as possible.

“You, have no right to be here, you killed her!” He shouted, his face was colouring, borderline purple. Lydia smacked him gently.

“I don't think you should be at my daughters funeral, you obviously were nothing but a bad influence on her, not to mention you show up here looking like you've came straight from a bar. No, I don't think you should be here at all”

“Just about” Bert mused thinking about the scale of alcohol in Brian's house. “You're right though, I was a bad influence on her and she was nothing short of saint to me. However I didn't kill her” He said surprising everyone, himself included. “I cared for her however and I reserve my right to be here. I after all have an invitation.” In conclusion he pulled the card from his pocket. Lydia stuttered, not being able to find words to express what she was thinking.

“I sent him it” Sofia spoke “Bert might not be a saint himself, but he did do good for her, at least I think he did; he made her happy. And anyone that actually knew her -which I'll say most of you don't- would know that, that was a rare occurrence. I don't think anyone here dislikes Bert McCracken more than me, yet even I have the nerve to say that if anyone outside of this family has right to be here, its him.” With that she turned on her heel and returned to her seat at the front of the church. They all followed.

Bert took a seat at the back of the church, preferring to keep away from the people he'd pissed off. Watching and listening carefully to the priest for the first time in his life. He listened as her dad made a heartfelt speech on what an addition Sarah was to any community. His mother made a speech that was filled with tears and sobs amongst words of admiration. He felt a certain happiness in his stomach. He'd been able to know her and see the best of her. And the worst of her he reminded himself.

At the end of the ceremony, he waited patiently for the family to crowd around the grave and then the nameless people who had loosely known her, who stayed for barely a minute. Finally when he was sure no-one else would come, he made a move towards the grave.

He stood at first, muttering things under his breath, tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. Then the floodgates gave in and out they poured. He dropped to his knees, head in hands. No-one dared come near the rock star at first, they just watched him curiously. It was only a good three minutes later that Sofia dared go near him.

Even then they did nothing but sit. Bert McCracken had finally realised just how much Sarah Hunt meant to him, and he almost wished he didn't.

It was that night he vowed to fix things, it was that night he held a gun to his head and it was that night that he dropped the gun to the floor, next to the small broken wooden chair.