Holiday Blues

The winter morning sun rose slowly, peaking out behind clouds and not doing much to warm the earth. The rays fell upon a king sized bed, its covers bundled up around the sleeping form in the middle.

This flat, and its contents, belongs to Bill Kaulitz, former singer/songwriter. Only a few months ago he was on tour, living it up and singing his heart out. Now, none of that exists. All of it, all that the four boys from Magdeburg had worked hard for, was thrown out the window because of a stupid mistake that Bill was sure he would regret for the rest of his life.

A long sigh came from the sleeping teen. He slowly opened his eyes, becoming conscious of the world around him. Stretching, he sat up, another sigh escaping. He rubbed his eyes, his raven hair falling into his face as he tried to think of what had awoken him.

An annoying buzz came again from the bedside table. Looking over, Bill reached out for his phone, his joints cracking. Bill didn’t need to check the ID. Only one person ever sent him texts in the morning. Clicking the phone out of hibernation, Bill went to check his inbox. His eyebrows knitted in confusion as his phone lit up again.

It was a call.

Emotion prickled at Bill’s nose. How could he have? Was he trying to rub it in his face?

Swiping the back of his hand under his now running nose, Bill answered with silence, hoping Tom would get it through his thick head.

“Bill?” Tom asked, his voice thick with worry. “Are you there? You haven’t been answering—“

Bill knew this pause was Tom’s brain catching up to his actions.

Tom cursed and with that, the call was disconnected. Bill gladly hung up, still pissed that his brother, of all people, could’ve forgotten.

His phone vibrated again, this time with a text.

Sorry, was all it said.

Bill didn’t respond. He got out of bed and padded into the kitchen to begin his morning routine.

Bill spent a good majority of the day ignoring his brother’s texts. He lay in bed, thinking of all the good times he’d had. All of the amazing concerts, the fans and the traveling. He missed the smell of the bus and his bandmates’ voices. He missed the vibrations, the nerves, the adrenaline high and the sheer amazing afterglow’s of performing.

But what Bill missed the most was singing. He missed hearing his own voice falling into place with the music. He missed even the thought of being able to open his mouth and sounds would pour out, words would tumble and fumble through the air as they worked their way into coherent lyrics. The way his vocal cords hummed in his throat or the way he sometimes fell off pitch. Everything.

He’d give anything to have his voice. Anything.

Bill rolled over, smashing his head into the pillow, tears welling up behind his eyes. His sadness turned into rage quickly. He was so angry with himself. How could he have been so blind to his own body’s warning signs? How could he have risked everything like that?

His anger swelled and his thoughts became loathsome. He was so caught up that he punched the bed, hoping that it would solve something. He tried to scream, but nothing happened. That just fueled his anger to the point where he stood beside his newly disheveled bed. Bill’s chest rose and fell rapidly. His fists clenched tightly beside him. He tried to growl, to express his anger, but only he heard a whispered rush of air. Frustration mounted. He opened his mouth, letting out a silent scream.

Why did this have to happen to him, of all people?

Bill shook with anger, the rage and frustrations mounting to a dangerous level. Bill kicked out, not knowing how to get rid of all this emotion. He sent a pillow across the room, watching as it came crashing into his vanity, knocking the products off and onto the floor. Shoving on his old Adidas’, Bill turned on his heel, stomping past Tom’s room. Bill roughly pulled on his pea coat and slammed the door behind him.

Bill hated the person he’d become. He hated himself with every fiber of his being. Even Tom, his own twin, hated him.

That’s why he’s at Mom’s, Bill thought bitterly. Tom ran to Mommy because he couldn’t handle his brother, couldn’t bear to face the fact that it was all over. That their dream, the one thing they’ve worked for since they were seven, was gone with a nasty cough. And of course, Mom’s on his side, as always. Her favorite, Tom Kaulitz.

Mouthing a curse, his growing hate mounted. If he doesn’t want to be near me and accept it, then I don’t need him, either. I don’t need anybody.

With that, Bill pushed Tom from his mind. He continued on down the busy street, toward the train station. He didn’t think about where he was headed, or what he was going to do, but he needed to get away.

Bill’s feet splashed in hidden slush puddles, coating the bottom cuff of his pant legs with a frozen, salty muck. The world around him was disgusting. It was in that state where it was just warm enough that some of the snow off of the streets would melt, but still cold enough that it would snow an icy rain, coating everything in slush or ice.

Central Park was filled with carolers, their groups bundled up and splashing along the paths of mud. Bill stomped past, despising their happy songs, his hands forming into fists in his pockets. How could they be singing happiness when he was so angry, distraught, miserable?

Another troop of carolers was headed in Bill’s direction, the looks on their faces full of intent on trapping him with a song. Anger pounded through him with each heavy thudding step. Bill broke through them, ignoring their disgruntled noises and pressed on.

Bill reached the station with a red, dripping nose, purple lips and frozen fingers. He numbly pulled out his Eurail pass and boarded the train, finding an empty compartment. He threw himself down against the window. Arms crossing, his hands found a warm haven stuck in his armpits.

Even in his anger, Bill was smart enough to wear layers, bundling up in shirts, long and short. But maybe he shouldn’t have worn his old band hoodie, the one only he owned, with the bands symbol boldly sewn on, underneath his pea coat. Someone was bound to recognize him, try to talk with him and make him sign autographs. He didn’t mind all that much, signing autographs at least, but it’s the things that they say and the memories they bring up, even the questions they ask that bother him.

It wasn’t new news to the fans that the surgery hadn’t gone well. Hell, he was still reading all of the get-well-soon cards and hope-it-all-goes-well-we-miss-you letters. What was new was the fact that they decided to break up, call it quits and disband. The breaking up wasn’t something that Bill had ever thought was going to happen. He always felt so confident and so at ease with Georg and Gustav, even their crew. But then again, he wasn’t expecting to get a vocal cyst, either.

The disbandenment had been hard and emotional. Gustav was adamant that it would work, that they would figure something out; they would not go their separate ways. How could they be a band without a singer? Would they just replace him? Would they tour the world and see Tokyo without him, leave him behind to work on new material in the studio while some one else sang his lyrics, his thoughts, emotions… his soul?

With his hood up for insulation, Bill rested his head against the window and looked out. He curled his legs up under himself and made himself comfortable.

Bill watched the landscape pass by as he sat in his lonely compartment. His eyelids became heavier and heavier as the trees, endless plains of snow, and houses flashed past.

A few hours later, Bill awoke. The lights overhead had turned on making it so that he couldn’t see outside. A kink was in his neck from sleep so he pushed himself up into a sitting position and stretched. His ankles and knees cracked loudly. After some persuasion, his joints were loose. He slumped down in his seat, again, contented.

A yawn broke out, wide, long and silent. His anger had melted away with the sleep, but he wasn’t going to head back home. No, he was going to go someplace where nobody knew him. Bill wasn’t sure that this was possible by train, but he’d like to think he would be able to blend in just a bit. At least enough to be alone.

Curling back into a ball, Bill looked out the window at the night sky, to the stars, groggily wondering what Tom was up to, and if he really did hate him.

A drink would be really nice right now, Bill thought longingly.