Hi I hope you enjoy this, this is a story from , a good friend of mine from the site wrote it.
"Fuck," murmured a gruff voice in the darkness. Its owner fumbled for a light source, at last finding one in the form of a switch on the wall. Mismatched eyes –one scarlet, one dark- took a moment to adjust to the sudden harsh light. The Winnebago was a rather large mess – clothes strewn about, discarded papers littering the floor, various spent cigarettes and empty vodka bottles accompanying each other in a dizzying array of uncleanness…and of course, there was blood.
"F-f-fuck it," Murdoc Niccals reiterated, to no one but himself, clamping a hand firmly over the jagged slash just above his wrist. A glint of metal, and he spied the instrument he had just used to implement said incision, darkened with blood, and resting comfortably on his nightstand. He allowed himself a bitter smile toward the knife, muttering under his breath to the inanimate object. "You almost…fuck," he paused, closing clashing eyes tightly for a moment, until the sharp pain subsided.
"You almost ended it that time, Niccals," he managed to hiss through clenched teeth. Sitting down, hard on his bed, the bassist remained for a few minutes, head bowed hand still gripping tightly at the opposite wrist. "Although," he continued, in the stillness of the room, "I don't suppose it would have made a difference either way." Mentally wincing at his own last comment, he released his grip from his wrist. The bleeding had slowed down to a slow dribble and it still hurt like fuck. "Fucking Christ, I sound like one of those malcontent Goth Kids," he muttered. A short exhale and he opened his eyes halfway, gaze flicking to his wound and then back to the bloodied knife.
"You are going to ruin my life, dear," Murdoc said to the blade, setting his jaw to one side, "But as it's already ruined anyway…"
And he made another grab for the sharpened emotional crutch.
"Oh man, you look awful," Russel said, flipping his sunglasses up onto his forehead. He was practicing drumming on his knees seated in a lobby chair. The bassist breezed past him, dark-sleeved arms folded tightly across his chest, "Murdoc?" Russel tried again, sitting up slightly.
The addressed turned, eyebrows slightly uplifted. His eyes seemed tired- even more tired than usual, the drummer mused- and he himself didn't seem to be all there at the moment.
"Yeah Russ?"
Definitely not all there, "You okay man?" Russel was now standing up, drumsticks in his left hand.
"Wot? Oh. Yes. I'm great, just bloody great. You know?"
Russel nodded, slowly, not exactly believing the reassurance, "Uh-huh…"
"C'mon, Russel man. Don't you be ganging up on me t-t-too," the bassists' voice had lowered from an uncharacteristically-yet-nonchalant-cheery tone, to a deep growl, "I'm not in the fooking mood."
Russel flinched inwardly, "I'm not grillin' ya' muds, just concerned."
"Yeah well, I don't need your fucking pity," the bassist spat. He turned booted heel and continued down the hall, shoulders hunched slightly, arms tightening their grip around his body. The drummer watched him go, sighing quietly to himself. The Niccals was such a loose cannon. Show a little bit of concern and he'd throw it back in your face in the form of an extended middle finger.
Russel sat back down, setting his sticks on the table next to him. He put a hand on his chin thinking. Murdoc had problems, lots and lots of problems. But unlike the rest of the general population of the entire planet, he never spoke about them. The bassist was unique in that aspect, Russel supposed, in that he didn't feel the need to dump his problems on so-called friends. His responsibilities, sure, but Murdoc rarely-if ever-spoke about anything personal. From piecing together various bits of information, the drummer had come to the conclusion that most of Murdoc's problems stemmed from his childhood. Then again, wasn't that where most people's problems began?
He shook his head, picking up his drumsticks again. He began to beat out a pattern on his knees, frowning mildly, "Dropping beats like crazy," he muttered to himself. Russel sighed heavily, knowing that the Niccals and his elusive ways were distracting from concentration on quality drumming.
He paused, stark white eyes glancing idly in the direction the bassist had just walked to. Murdoc had problems, yes, and he kept those problems to himself. That was simply Murdoc's way. But, sometimes Russel wondered how deep these problems ran, and by exactly what means were Murdoc using in order to sort through them. But as Murdoc never said a word about his issues, there was probably an alternative he took to deal with them.
Another shake of his head and Russel turned a determined grimace to his drumming, pausing momentarily to flip his sunglasses back over vacant eyes.
Murdoc muttered to himself as he crossed the threshold into the café, heavy boots clunking on the well-worn title. "MC Grandmaster Twat indeed," he said to himself, throwing a glance over his shoulder. Russel was out of sight by now, out of mind a well, the bassist mused.
"Oh hey! Good morning, Murdoc," said a voice that was to cheerful for to early in the morning to belong to anyone with half a brain.
The Niccals turned his attention to the café, stopping to lean a hand against a counter top. Mismatched eyes narrowed slightly. The blue-haired keyboardist stared right back at him with his set of blank eyes, coffee mug in hand. Murdoc merely grumbled a reply, turning to the counter to scrounge up some coffee for himself, Black of course.
"Did'ja sleep well?" 2-D inquired further, blissfully unaware of the fact that Murdoc had very little patience at that moment.
The Satanist continued on his java hunt, scowling at the poor selection, "No I didn't," he responded tersely, "Where the fook is all the bloody coffee?"
2-D blinked over at the bassist, dazed eyes crossing slightly, "Oh I fink this is the last cup." He offered said mug to Murdoc, eyebrows slightly raised, "You want…?"
Murdoc paused for a moment, then snatched the mug out of the vocalists hand, suppressing the urge to splash him with the scalding liquid, that would be wasteful. He closed his mismatched eyes with a frown, taking an experimental sip.
"You're welcome," 2-D said cheerfully.
Murdoc grumbled in response, 2-D opened his mouth to say something else, but Murdoc interrupted him sputtering out coffee. "How much sugar did you put in this bloody thing, Stu-Pot?!" It had taken a few moments for the sickeningly sweet taste to register in his brain.
The vocalist seemed to think for a moment – but it was sort of hard to tell. Murdoc waited impatiently, jaw set, pouring the coffee into a nearby sink while 2-D was gazing up at the ceiling forefinger to his chin, "Um…let me fink…"
"Wotever, Face ache. It doesn't matter now. You've ruined my morning," Murdoc muttered, setting the mug down on the counter with a controlled 'slam'. "Even more than it already was, anyway," he added stalking off to a table, hands clenched at his sides. He sank down in a chair, almost lacking the energy to even kick a booted foot onto the tabletop. Arms folded across his chest, Murdoc leaned back with narrowed eyes, preparing himself for a full day of brooding.
2-D wandered over after a moment, munching on a granola bar, "Wot do you want, tosser?" Murdoc hissed, sinking lower.
The vocalist blinked a few times, sitting down across from the irritated Satanist, "Murdoc, is somefink bothering you?"
"Wot, other than your annoying self in my personal space? Not exactly," he growled sinking even lower.
"Come on, Murdoc," 2-D pleaded, lifting his left eyebrow slightly, "You c'n trust me, you know," he added, leaning forward.
The bassist couldn't help but chuckle at that. He quickly moved his foot off the table, sitting up and simultaneously slamming a fist onto the tabletop. "Let's get one thing straight, Stu-pot," Murdoc snarled, his voice lowering as he leaned in closer to the vocalist, clashing eyes narrowing, "I. Do. Not. Trust. Anyone."
2-D blinked rapidly at that, stammering, "b-b-but, Murdoc…"
"Nononono, 2-D. No one. Not you. Not anyone." He raised his eyebrows, sitting back with a nonchalant grin, "You see? Makes it e-easier that way."
The vocalist deflated slightly, his sunshiny-ness slowly disappearing, "Makes wot easier, ek'zactly…?"
Murdoc lifted an eyebrow, "Why, it makes it easier to tell your enemies apart from my allies, dullard." He paused, to kick his foot back onto the table, leaning back again, "If I don't trust anyone," he clarified slowly, "then everyone will by my enemy and the world is the safest place if you know everyone hates you, rather than j-j-just guessing on about it."
"Makes the world a much more depressing place too," the singer responded.
"Well yes, 2-D, that's sort of the point."