So here is the beginning of the rewrite of “Worse Than Being A Fairy Tale” — fixed and title shortened. Maybe this is an interesting beginning? I don’t know. Enjoy.
…
June 2008
He kept thinking about the scabs on his wrist, the series of scabs forming a line on his wrist…multiple criss-cross lines adorning a skinny arm, mainly the delicate wrist — but it didn’t bother him. They bothered him on minor levels because they distracted him easily — he couldn’t help thinking about them sometimes — but at the same time…they didn’t bother him because he liked the feeling every time his thin fingers ran over the scars. His fingers lingered, felt, and lingered some more, wondering where the end would be. So he thought about touching them, but knew he couldn’t. He needed to scavenge for them; he knew where they were. The skin-colored bandage covering the scabs bothered him the most. He didn’t want to hide anymore — so he hated the coverage.
This isn’t about his scabs — or the damned bandage obscuring his view.
This is about him. It’s about the kid on stage, the little boy having trouble not looking into the crowd. It was his first time on a stage, less than a foot away from the crowd, an audience riddled with ruthless teenagers — other kids on fire. They didn’t cheer because his soft, touching voice swayed them to and fro; his voice encouraged them to just hang about and move along with the melancholic music. Their fire was mild, but they loved the new music. This new kid on the block with a nice band to back him up was fresh — his lyrics were strange. His words chilled the crowd, sending out shivers and sweat.
He sang lowly and gravely, emphasizing just the right word and phrase, driving the angst-ridden teens into a languid, lethargic despair. Those who didn’t fall so easily didn’t really hear the words; they just listened to the beat, danced, thrashed, hyped…ready to knock a few people over.
“Curtains drawn
The show goes on
Prowl, stall, crawl
What’s going on?”
He found himself trying to keep up with the melody, his voice playing catch-up, the other members strumming and beating without difficulty. They stood as anxious as him.
“Don’t believe him
He’s just a tale
A stupid fucking fairy tale”
He offered unnecessary emotion — because the words themselves were simply enough. They were emotions in themselves. The words were nothing compared to what he really felt inside.
“Lover
You’ve done it again
Tempt the innocent into oblivion
Watch the life leak out a fractured drain”
He trembled, but he had no reason to tremble. The audience oscillated along with him, feeling the unspoken words, relating. This was just another escape for them all.
“Monster
You’ve done it again
Cut the boy’s eyes out
Stab his heart through a spindly, frail chest”
He evoked everything he could, and the crowd ate it all up like a sick puppy, lapping it up ravenously. His words were mantras; they were the fountain of youth. The lost teens didn’t know.
“Coward
You’ve done it again
Scramble through the darkness
Fight the urge to turn back and catch your breath”
He felt the slap across his face as if it were yesterday, a sort of recurring loop unwilling to leave him alone — but it was really a year after the too-often incidents. He could feel the slap burning his skin, an angry throb on his face. Oh man…could he feel it.
“Wrest from your shambles
Rebel in disguise
Your awful guise is pure affection
An honest charade of relentless souls rest upon your dead”
He overwhelmed himself with memories — all of what occurred in the past year. He knew it would eventually catch up to him. He prayed to the god he didn’t believe in silently with his touching words, hoping it wouldn’t be now.
“Afraid to turn away
The memories won’t fade
Of those eyes like stone,
Clawing in the shadows,
Always seeming to know”
Were those tears? No, they were just sweat. The salty streams moved down his face, little rivers too tired to continue. He would worry over the makeup later — maybe never. The crowd reached up to him — but he couldn’t return its sweet gesture.
“In your craven dreams,
In your lurid head,
I wish you could see that now
There is no reason to run”
The moment of temporary despair evaporated just as quickly as it began. His anxiety, horrification, and stupor disappeared. The crowd’s hard feelings went away as well. His throat hurt, if anything — he wanted the end to find him. He wanted a quick snap.
“You’re never going back.”
His set ended.
…
Author’s Note: original lyrics written and tweaked by yours truly from an original poem, “Therein Lies the Battered Tale.” I let Bleeding Sorrow borrow them. ;3
Laurenz's Fiction: the short, the long, and the craziest of fiends. 