Before the Band
By: SEES
Edited by: Keru and SEES
Chapter One
It begins with a mother. One who, after so many partners, had an accident and ended up with a son . This didn't stop her from continuing her current lifestyle but it did drain a bit of money- enough money that the family (if it could be called that) was made to leave Eda to Lillehammer, where the cost of living was much less. Of course, it was a smaller town, and it meant taking her child far away from his friends. This would have been a problem if he had any friends.
Skwisgaar was only unhappy with the situation because he had to leave the budding new band that had been forming at school. He was by far the best guitarist they knew, but they didn't know why. He poured all his anger, his frustration, his hate and his (WILL TO DOMINATE ALL LIFE ON MIDDLE EARTH sorry sorry it sounds like that) unhappiness into his guitar, the instrument wailing the sounds his body couldn't make. It kept him from going insane, to put it simply. She didn't even know the name of the school he went to.
"Come on, hurry up. I don't have all day and the truck is going to be here any minute." The woman was yelling into the tiny apartment, where a young, 14-year-old man gathered his meager belongings. It wasn't much- a small duffel bag, containing his clothing and toothbrush, a couple of guitar picks, and a small plastic tuner. It looked more like an overnight bag, rather than one's worldly belongings.
"I'm coming," he called, tucking unkempt blond bangs behind his ear. His clothing was not the most important thing, and definitely what he was leaving alone. What he was not leaving alone was the case that held his most prized item- his guitar. The MetAlien-model Behringer was all black, as even the pick guard was black, and when he felt like taking care of it, he would polish the body until it shone. He carried it in its case, over one shoulder and carried the corresponding amp- Behringer as well- out the door, placing it far away from the wedge heels his mother was wearing.
"I said, hurry! Look, they're pulling up! Get your shit, it's going in first." Servetta Swigelf blew out a long gust of smoke, before leaning over the railing. Her shirt was so low-cut that when she leaned onto the metal the driver could probably see her skirt through the space it left. She pressed one arm against her rather sizeable breasts, which in turn pushed her cleavage to impossible limits. Her son rolled his eyes and turned to get his clothing, silently ashamed of his mother's actions. She would probably invite one or all of them for dinner and have a celebratory fuck for moving to Lillehammer.
Of course, she didn't help, only made eyes at the movers. Her child, Skwisgaar, helped them to avoid a drunken shouting match in the next few days. One actually talked to him other than 'hey you, come get this,' and he thought perhaps that would be the one he would have to drown out that night. He had been unusually inquisitive, asking all sorts of questions about his grade and age.
However, this did nothing but irritate the boy. He knew what he looked like- a typical Swedish boy, in the middle of one of his growing spurts. Wavy blond hair that reached just past his shoulders and a height that most eighteen-year-olds envied, long, thin limbs coupled with defined cheekbones and a high forehead. He was in the seventh grade (of course, this man was an idiot and needed things spelled out for him) and an uncaring attitude that put most people off. This man, however, was not to be deterred, and continued to ask. Finally, he was reduced to small grunts and shakes of his head.
The young man opted to sit in the storage rather than the cab, his guitar resting between his legs. The inquisitive man offered to let him sit in the cab, but he only shook his head, grip tightening on the strap. There was no way he was letting his most prized possession roll around in the back of a moving truck.
After the rather long and bruising ride, Skwisgaar stepped out of the truck and did everything he had just an hour and a half ago but backwards, before retreating to his newly designated room and shutting the door, hoping the walls were thicker here than their last apartment.
Setting the case on his bed, he slowly unzipped it, the sound having a seemingly holy quality. With a certain reverence, he lifted the six-stringed guitar and ran his callused fingertips over the neck and body, careful not to smudge it. The strings sung softly, tingling the ends of his fingers as he passed over them, almost begging to be played. He gripped it softly, slinging the strap over his head and setting it in the familiar place against his ribcage and stomach, his hands falling onto the correct strings by way of habit. It took him a moment to tear his fingers away, a feeling of regret filling him for a moment. He reached up to get his cable, moving as quickly as he could so he could play. The amplifier was plugged into the wall and the cable into both the guitar and amp, and moved to sit on his bed. He placed himself against the wall, before closing his eyes-
and began to play. This was not something to be interrupted, it was something to be watched and understood. He did not need to look to pour his soul into the strings, to make the Behringer cry out as he could not. His fingers moved instinctually, not really playing a rhythm but a song instead, something that spoke volumes but didn't actually say anything. He was high above this world, on another planet where things like words and thoughts didn't exist, only this music, only these sounds-
until his mother banged on the door and told him to keep it down, to turn off the amplifier or she was going to come in there and smash it herself.
After an unrestful night, Skwisgaar dragged himself out of bed at what he considered to be the as crack of dawn to find the school and get himself registered. The two reasons that he even went were his mother and the law. He would be a truant if he didn't attend school while he was under the age of sixteen, and it gave him something to do for eight hours while he was away from his mother. Even though she had a job, she found ways to be home at all hours of the day, and school was an escape from her annoyances.
Skwisgaar found his way to the school easily enough, but he was most definitely not pleased at the distance he would have to walk every day. It was well over four miles and there was no way in hell he was asking for a ride from anyone, least of all his mother. Entering the school, he asked for registration papers and was stared at for a moment by the secretary, before she understood, and handed them to him, looking used to this procedure. He took the pen and sat down at the table, filling in his name, his mother's name, place of residence, the door to the office opening so quietly he barely noticed. The blond boy looked up to see a small child, looking like he was in maybe kindergarten or first grade, closing the door as softly as possible, before stepping forward, and Skwisgaar could see why he came in. His right knee was bleeding profusely, an old scab seeming to have been ripped open, perhaps by a fall. Blood was streaming openly but unlike a lot of little kids, he seemed unfazed by the warm liquid that was soaking into his sock. He hadn't even teared up. He stood and waited until the receptionist noticed him, staring at her with unblinking eyes, cold, dead things that had a sad sort of mystery to them. He did not see them, though, as the dirty hair covered his face. Once she felt the stare and looked up, she didn't say anything, only pointed behind herself at what was assumed to be the nurses station. Skwisgaar watched between checking boxes, ultimately uncaring, and barely looking up in time to see that the kid left, some of the blood cleaned off and a sloppily applied gauze patch over his knee. It seemed they didn't do anything about the sock, and it was dyed an ugly red and turning brown with the dried blood.
It didn't take long to fill out all the information- he had memorized all the information about his family (the term applied loosely) long ago- and turn it in, only to be informed that he would start school the next day. The woman typed up a schedule, asking what his classes were at his old school before printing it off and handing it to him, before falling back into her silent state and stared at her computer, ignoring him. He took this as his cue to leave, wandering around with his guitar on his back until it seemed like the school would be over, before finding a café to sit and play his un-amplified guitar. Today it was mostly strumming, a smooth tune that was an unbroken trill of notes moving up and down the scales, until the store closed and kicked him out. Then, it was a long walk back to the apartment and more trying to block out those all-too-familiar sounds of his mother and the new ones of a different man.
