So, I decided to take the challenge. I know, I'm a little crazy to do it, but hey, it's fun. :P I hope you enjoy the ride, 3
"45 – Shinedown"
Send away for a priceless gift
One not subtle, one not on the list
Send away for a perfect world
He's sitting on the edge of the bathtub in the condo, the door is closed. It's dark outside, he knows, but he doesn't know the time. He's alone, and it's quiet with the exception of his occasional intake of breath. He's dressed in an unbuttoned black shirt, a dark blue wife-beater beneath it. Black skinny jeans cling to his hips with the help of a studded black belt. His creepers are strapped to his legs. He's not sure why he's still dressed, but then again he doesn't really care. It's not going to matter here in a few minutes. At least, that's what he tells himself over and over, because he's still having doubts about this.
He looks down into his hands, seeing two objects. One that means to the world to him. One that he was given. He stares at it through blurring eyes, the gleaming silver plated guitar pick on a sterling silver chain. The engraved name that his baby had given him is still as smooth as the day he got it. Glitterbaby. A tear slips and falls down his face, splashing against his hand that holds the other object. The one that is warm in his grasp, but for a different reason. A deadly reason.
One not simply, so absurd
In these times of doing what you're told
Keep these feelings, no one knows
He's spent the last month telling everyone that he loves them and that yes, he's fine, he's just tired. He's spent the last month lying to them because inside, he just wanted to disappear. But why? He's a talented musician, he's in a successful band with the lead singer being a fucking icon all over the world, perhaps even the universe. What reason does he have to want that to just vanish like a cloud of smoke? What reason does he have to want to be forgotten?
Part of it's that he's tired. He's been so tired lately. Unwilling to do anything. Unwilling to go places because he's tired of being told what to do, how to dress, where to go and what to say. True, fame and fortune is a blissful thing, but the downside is that you're, effectively, the media's bitch. They make the calls and pull your strings and all you can do is comply and put an airbrushed smile on your face as they suck out your soul through pictures and lame interviews, see? He's tired of it.
What ever happened
To the young man's heart
Swallowed by pain
As he slowly fell apart
He stares down at the necklace in his hand again, feeling yet another crystal tear rolling down his cheek. His baby gave this to him at a show. A show in California; Fantasy Springs. God, that was a good show. He can still remember is clearly— the dancing, the singing, the rocking out, the way his baby pulled his hair just right, and how he went crazy from it. He did all he could to keep himself from setting his bass down and just attacking his baby on that stage and just fucking him senseless.
But that's long passed now. That's just another distant memory from a winter with sunshine and glitter. The closer he got to his baby, the more he fell. And when he hit the bottom of love, he was ready to face anything. He could take down the media, the paparazzi, the Catholic mothers trying to pour down their throats that they were sinners. He was ready to face it all, and yet he was afraid. He was afraid that maybe, just maybe… This was all for show to his baby. That this was all a lie to hear the delighted screams show after show. And in that fear, he spiraled away.
And I'm staring down the barrel of a forty-five
I'm swimming through the ashes of another life
There's no real reason to accept
The way things have changed
Staring down the barrel of a forty-five
He shifts his gaze to the second object again, his thumb reaching over and hitting the safety, flicking it off. How embarrassing would that be, to be ready and then find the safety's on, and then have fear all over again? Haha. No, he knows better. Sure, his hands are shaking and his heart is pounding and he can hear his baby's voice in his ear, telling him to stop, but he's ready. The endless nights of lying awake and being so fucking afraid have left him tired. And when he's tired, there's a little voice on his shoulder that whispers such awful things to him. Like his baby doesn't really love him. His baby's just getting attention from the fans with all the touching, the hair pulling, and that the sex is just his way to release that pent up energy. That it doesn't mean anything.
He twists the necklace chain tighter around his fingers, the silver plated pick pressing hard into the palm of his hand. He knows the etching is being imprinted into his palm. He can feel it. The curves of the gee and the edges of the tee's. He presses it harder into his hand, hoping that maybe his hand will twitch and one of those edges will cut his hand. But he doubts that it's going to happen. He raises the object higher, staring at it for a moment before pressing the barrel to his temple, closing his eyes. He sees his baby's face, and more tears roll down his cheeks.
Send a message to the unborn child
Keep your eyes open for a while
In a box high up on the shelf
He's driving down through L.A., heading for Hollywood. His heart is pounding furiously in his chest and he's shaking from head to toe. He hopes to God that by pushing eighty miles per hour at two in the morning he's going to make it on time. He's thinking a million things at once and he's coming to the same question every time: why couldn't his baby just talk to him? His heart swells as he thinks of all the times that he'd touch his Glitterbaby, and the blond would smile warmly. But he could always see that the warmth didn't reach those beautiful brown eyes.
No… His baby's eyes were vacant half the time. And just last month, the vacancy was getting worse. He swallows hard, making a sharp turn and heading down another street. A shortcut, because he can see up ahead that there are a lot of people blocking the streets. Fucking club goers. Don't they understand that he's trying to get home? That he's trying to get to his baby before it's too late? Apparently not.
Left for you, no one else
There's a piece of a puzzle known as life
Wrapped in guilt, sealed up tight
Another sharp turn, and he's heading south-west. He's gotta make it there on time. Otherwise… God, he doesn't want to think about it right now. He really, really doesn't want to. He can feel the weight of the note in his back pocket. The ink's bleeding through and soaking through his clothes, seeping into his skin and making his blood thick. Fear. Anxiety. Grief. He blinks back the tears that well up in his eyes and his mind is swirling those five words that are making him shake so badly…
I'm sorry. I love you.
God, Tommy… He… His baby can't… Another sharp turn, and he's rolling down the street. He's not sure when he's going to see the comfort of the giant block letters sitting up top on a hill, the lights making their white paint gleam. But he's hoping that it's soon, because this is killing him. What is he going to do if he goes home and finds that he's too— no. He'll make it. He has to make it. He has to pull Tommy into his arms and tell him that he loves him. He has to.
What ever happened
To the young man's heart
Swallowed by pain
As he slowly fell apart
How long has he been avoiding it? How long has he been ignoring the pain in Tommy's eyes? He loves his Glitterbaby, he loves him more than life itself. So why was he ignoring it? Was it because he wasn't sure how to deal with it. Was it because he was afraid that something was going to happen between them? Fucking hell! This is happening right now, and it's all his fault. If he… If he loses Tommy… Fuck, he can't think like that now. Not with the tears rolling down his face and the L.A. streets dark.
"Fuck, Tommy, you'd better be alive when I get there…" He tells himself, swerving in and out between the few random cars on the streets, uncaring that they're all blasting their horns and swearing at them. He doesn't hear it. He only hears the beating of his own heart quickening in his ears as he finally sees those block letters. So close to home. He can make it, he knows that he can.
And I'm staring down the barrel of a forty-five
I'm swimming through the ashes of another life
There's no real reason to accept
The way things have changed
Staring down the barrel of a forty-five
He shakes his head and lowers the gun from his temple, shaking and breathing hard. He… he can't do this. There's something in him that's telling him not to. To just wait, wait five more minutes. And then he can decide whether or not he really wants to. He inhales shakily, the full breath not quite reaching his lungs. He has to breathe more than once, and that causes his anxiety to rise. Fuck, he's not sure if he can do this…
'He doesn't really love you… All those touches, those kisses… It's nothing to him.' He squeezes his eyes shut, whimpering. God, he could really use a drink right now. But he doesn't want to leave the bathroom. It's the one place that doesn't force reminders of his baby into his face and down his throat. Sure… Adam's makeup bag is on the counter by the sink, and it smells like Adam in here, but there's no clothes, there's no bed… That's what he's avoiding the most right now.
He swallows, shakily putting the gun back to his head, his finger on the trigger. The tiny, devilled voice is whispering in his ear… 'He doesn't love you. He won't miss you. You'll be free from this fear and this pain… Just do it.'
Everyone's pointing their fingers
Always condemning me
He pulls on the wheel hard, the car swerving up to the sidewalk by the condo. He's breathing hard as he practically kicks the door open leaving the car running and available to be taken as he runs to the doors, pulling them open and climbing the stairs three at a time. He doesn't have patience for the elevator. And right now he doesn't care that he and Tommy live on the eighth floor. He can make it. He's pushing himself hard enough to make it.
Five floors up, he's getting tired and he's out of breath, but he keeps running up the stairs, sweat forming in the roots of his hair, his hands shaking as he grips the rail to pull himself up another flight. Six. God, he's so close. He's hoping he's gonna make it. He has to make it. For his baby. For himself. God, what's he going to do if he finds Tommy… Seven.
And nobody knows what I believe
I believe
Tears roll down his face as he stares at the bathroom door, his hand shaking, the barrel of the gun cold to his skin. He chokes on a sob, pressing the necklace deeper into his palm. He glances down, seeing a bead pooling between his fingertips, staining them red. Looks like he gets what he wants after all. He's bleeding around the necklace. Funny. It doesn't look nearly as pretty as he imagined that it would have.
"Adam…" He whispers to himself. "I love you…"
And I'm staring down the barrel of a forty-five
I'm swimming through the ashes of another life
Eight! Fucking finally. He pulls open the door from the stairwell, rushing inside and down the hall, uncaring of the sound his boots makes as he runs passed doors that don't belong to him. He's breathing hard, pumping his arms at his sides as he turns left, running down the hall. He's the last door at the end, straight ahead. Fuck, this hallway feels like it's stretching on for forever and a half, and he's on the verge of tears when he grips the handle, turning it and throwing himself into the condo. The unfortunate part is that there are seven different rooms in this place. Not much, but he's running out of time.
"Tommy? Tommy, where are you?" He shouts, not seeing his baby in the living room or the dining room. He knows Tommy's not in the kitchen, he would have see Tommy's shadow on the floor. He rushes to his left, shoving open the first floor bathroom. No Tommy. He kicks open the spare bedroom. Still no Tommy. Fuck!
There's no real reason to accept
The way things have changed
"Glitterbaby!" Adam screams, climbing the stairs to the loft-y area of the second floor. He has two options. The bedroom to his right and the bathroom to his left. He turns right, running to the bedroom and stumbling inside. Tommy's nowhere to be seen. He checks both sides of the bed and by the dresser. Nothing. He turns rushing to the doorway. One last room. One last place. He's confident… until he hears it.
A gun shot, rippling from the bathroom that's just twenty feet from him. He feels his knees shake and he stumbles forward again, crashing against the bathroom door and shakily turning the knob. Maybe… Maybe there's still time. Maybe it's just… It's just his imagination. He didn't hear it. He's going to go in there and find Tommy fine and well, and he's going to embrace his Glitterbaby and tell him over and over that he loves him.
The door is shoved open and Adam stops, staring with wide eyes. No… He— Tommy… His Glitterbaby, his Glitter Baby. He tries to grab onto the door, the sink, anything, but he fumbles and nothing and falls to his knees, staring. Tommy… No, Tommy, Tommy!
All he can clearly see is the blood, and how beautiful Tommy looks dressed like that. Fuck, he looks as if he's sleeping. His eyes are closed and his face is so relaxed and Adam can't suppress the agonized scream that's ripped from his throat as he reaches out, touching his baby's face. Glitterbaby's still warm and soft to the touch. The gun lies inches from his right hand, his left wrapped with a chain. Adam uncurls Tommy's hand, finding the silver plated guitar pick stained with blood, the etching cut into his palm.
"Tommy…" He chokes, shaking with sobs as he rocks back and leans against the bathroom wall, pulling his baby into his arms. Tommy's head rolls, and his face is buried into Adam's neck. The singer chokes again, sobbing and shaking. His baby… He was too late…
Staring down the barrel of a forty-five…