Chapter Summary and Notes:
We walk alongside Skwisgaar as he meets Toki for the first time. His first impression is not an entirely good one.
- The characters are all speaking in their native tongues, so no pidgin English quite yet.
- I apologize if Skwisgaar seems out of character, but keep in mind that he's still young, here. Give him a chance to grow, and we'll soon have the pompous guy that we all love and know.
Skwisgaar Skwigelf had grown quite used to the way that things were in Norway. Though he lived in Sweden - and had, for his entire life - the fact that he and his mother resided so close to the border between the neighboring Scandinavian countries ensured that the two of them spent a healthy amount of time in both nations. Of course, their motives in visiting Norway as much as they spent time in Sweden were completely different, as were their lifestyles. For Serveta, Skwisgaar's mother, it was all a matter of finding the next man that could temporarily satisfy her staggering sexual needs.
For Skwisgaar, it was all a matter of culture.
To say that he had merely submerged himself into the blackened sea of heavy metal music would be a gross underestimation. More accurately, Skwisgaar had drowned in it. Perhaps the time he took in being overwhelmed by its current would have been more drawn out, had he dipped his toes into it first, evaluated the temperature, and then entered at the appropriate speed. However, the way that the waters claimed him was a manner in which other saturated corpses also spoke of. They hadn't been given a chance to consider their options as a tidal wave emerged from the darkness, crashed down upon them, and pulled them back into its depths. After all, this particular body of water was unforgiving, and downright brutal when it wanted to be.
But Skwisgaar never uttered a sound that could be mistaken as non-consensual. He did not struggle for his previous life, for he felt as soon as that wave hit him that it was not worth fighting for. Before that fateful night in Kristiansand, Norway, he had been an awkward nine-year-old boy, who did not bother to make friends in the two years that he'd lived in Eda with his mother. He'd had friends up north in his old hometown, but he had a feeling that, just as he'd nearly forgotten their names and faces, so they had his. He was quiet, which suited Serveta well. Skwisgaar sometimes wondered if that particular attribute of his was responsible for his mother's unwillingness to talk to him, express any affection, or even look at him. He was smart, with the dream that one day he would fly an airplane.
Oh, how things had changed since then.
That night had shed upon him a sensation of power that he was not familiar with. His hands had shaken, he had trouble gathering his breath, and his head and heart had thudded in unison. Excitement coursed through his veins, and he had felt drunk. However, unlike his mother, when she drank, Skwisgaar did not feel angry. He felt like an artist who'd just finished their first painting. He felt like a teenager who had just managed in sneaking a kiss from their secret crush. He felt like a priest who had just seen God. He felt, for the first time in his life, as though he belonged.
That very night, he started saving his money. When they returned home, he removed the Ibanez that someone had given his mother as a gift from its case, and slowly began to play. When autumn came, he enrolled himself in music lessons. When he discovered that he could not read music to save his life, he was not deterred, like his instructor was. Besides, why bother learning to read the music when you possessed the ability to pick it up by ear? This finding had taken him to Eda's record shop in search for music, and eventually to Oslo when he deemed the selection not wide enough. Soon, the sea of heavy metal had claimed him fully for its own. The music and its ideology, rawness, and power surrounded him. His dream to become a pilot took a back seat. His weekends and holidays were spent in various towns and cities as he leapt from band to band. His afternoons were spent holed up in his bedroom with just his guitar and stereo. He made friends. He discovered the alluring nature of the opposite sex. He developed a reputation. He experienced the fulfillment that came with writing and playing original material, and the resulting ecstasy of being well received by a group of complete strangers. He had found his niche.
His path was straightforward, but with many branching trails. Each trail led to the same outcome: success. Even though the paths were laden with weeds, thistles, and uncountable twists and turns, he was moving forward, and that was all that counted. The particular route that he had chosen for now had brought him to the eve of his fourteenth birthday. It had brought him into the company of three other, older boys. It had brought him to a small town a few hours northwest of his home in Eda.
And it would soon bring him to meet a young boy named Toki Wartooth.
Even though it was late May, a chilly wind cut through the air, and hazarded to numb the sore muscles in Skwisgaar's arms and hands. The adrenaline rush that he had felt not an hour ago was beginning to wane, as it always did when he got offstage. The sensation of his blond, shoulder-length hair brushing against the base of his neck did not help quell the shiver that rode up his spine. As he rubbed his arms and set his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering, he couldn't help but wish that, like his band mates, he had brought a coat.
He had hoped to find solace from the weather in the alleyway behind the bar they had just played at. Even though a few minutes of labor had definitely helped him generate a small portion of body heat, he could no longer ignore that the black tee shirt he had chosen to wear for the night was thinner than usual. He hoped that he and the other members of Gognogmug would soon be able to subject themselves to the Godsend of a heater in Tallak's van, now that their gear and instruments had been loaded up. Said drummer seemed also to entertain the idea, but neither he nor Skwisgaar were the one that made the band's decisions. That particular role was left for Arvid, their vocalist and frontman.
"Fuck, that went well," Arvid harshly spoke as he slammed the back of the van shut. "What say we go back into the bar and celebrate?"
Skwisgaar, Tallak, and Egil, their bassist, all exchanged a small look of exasperation. Egil rubbed the back of his neck, and turned away from the conversation. Skwisgaar looked over at Tallak, who then replied with a minor slur. "We can't, Arvid. Skwisgaar's too young. You remember what the owner said. They'd only let him in for the show."
The Singer's dark eyes darted towards Skwisgaar, and for a moment, the fourteen-year-old Swede thought that he was going to lay unjustified blame upon him. However, Arvid merely sniffed in annoyance, and pursed his lips as he then commenced to hum in thought. "Well, I suppose that we could crack a few open at my house. I'm going to go back in and buy some beer, then. My dad's starting to notice that his are disappearing. Why don't you swing the van around front?"
Tallak nodded his agreement, causing Skwisgaar to exhale inwardly with relief. He didn't know how much longer he could hide the fact that he was cold from the others. Of course, they must have known that he couldn't possibly be warm, with the way that he had dressed, but he still felt the need to not showcase his discomfort. After all, the last thing that he wanted was another point for Arvid to add onto the little mental list he carried around, detailing the many ways as to how Skwisgaar was unsatisfactory. Though, perhaps that would keep the older boy from bringing up his age so often ...
Arvid disappeared around the corner, and Skwisgaar followed Egil to the right side of the van. He climbed in behind the bassist, and took his usual seat on the crusty bench inside. The van roared to life, and Skwisgaar sighed aloud as the artificial warmth began to beat against his skin.
"You ought to bring a jacket next time," Tallak eyed Skwisgaar pointedly as he glanced over his shoulder. "Lillehammer is still cold at this time of the year."
Skwisgaar nodded, but did not meet Tallak's gaze. He made a mental note, but not that he would bring a jacket the next time he ventured north for band practice. Instead, he noted that he would tap into his precious Guitar Fund and buy one after school on Monday.
Tallak, Egil, and Arvid did not know what Skwisgaar's home life consisted of. They did not know that Skwisgaar was forced to buy his own meals, mend his own clothes, and wake himself up for school every morning. The only things that they were aware of, in fact, were that Skwisgaar played the guitar, he played it well, and had already been in more bands at his tender age than most middle-aged men.
They had scooped him up a mere two weeks ago, after witnessing an onstage quarrel between Skwisgaar and the rhythm guitarist of the band that he'd been playing with at that time. Skwisgaar remembered the night fairly clearly. That is, until he experienced the odd sensation of having been in the middle of a solo, and then was suddenly berating the other guitarist, who was nearly in tears. He recalled nothing in between, but tensions had been running high between he and Bjorn. When he left the stage that night, he'd found himself immediately surrounded by Tallak, Arvid, and Egil, and was being sold on the idea of joining Gognogmug. He agreed right away, as soon as Arvid made it clear that he would be the only guitarist.
They had been surprised as to how quiet Skwisgaar truly turned out to be. Or, that was the impression that he got, anyways. The fact that they seemed alarmed by how little he spoke told him that, when he had fought with Bjorn, he had showcased a false inclination towards extreme anger and a raised voice. Plus, his throat had been sore afterward, and his voice slightly raspy ...
It was strange, because he never let his emotions overtake him. In fact, he hardly ever even harbored such strong resentment. He'd just always had a difficult time in getting along with other guitarists when they were playing in the same band. Maybe with all the adrenaline and testosterone coursing through him in that moment, the slight twinge of irritation that he usually felt in the pit of his stomach when Bjorn messed up the guitar lines that he'd written had been blown out of proportion. It certainly wasn't normal, after all, that he'd acted that way.
He'd been mildly amused at how Gognogmug tiptoed around him for their first few practices, but they soon caught on that Skwisgaar was not perpetually outraged. They relaxed - all but Arvid. When he had learned that Skwisgaar would not lose his temper over the most trivial of things, his snide remarks began. Skwisgaar had a very good feeling that, just like every other band he'd been in, this one would not work out.
Skwisgaar was brought out of his thoughts when the passenger door ahead of him slammed shut, and Arvid's gruff voice greeted his ears. "Let's get out of here. I think the guy at the counter might suspect my ID was fake."
Skwisgaar's blue eyes traveled out the window again, and landed upon the bar's adjoining liquor store. Sure enough, the shopkeeper was glaring suspiciously out the front window, and seemed to be considering calling them back. However, before the man could make up his mind, Tallak had slammed the van into gear, and they had left the place in the thick, black smoke spurting out from the exhaust pipe.
They hadn't been driving for more than fifteen seconds when Skwisgaar heard the tab being pulled on Arvid's first beer of the night. As their singer commenced to down it all in one go, Skwisgaar sunk further down in his seat. Next to him, Egil did the same. Neither of them appreciated Arvid very much when he was drunk. He made it his mission while inebriated to pick on Skwisgaar, and ever since Egil had stuck up for him the weekend before, he too had been shown no mercy.
Arvid burped loudly when he finished his beer, causing everyone else in the van to wrinkle their noses in distaste. That was another thing that they did not like. Arvid was not a well-mannered man to begin with, but all politeness and consideration became forgotten in this situation. He then crushed the beer can in his hand and tossed it over his shoulder, narrowly missing Egil. Tallak frowned at Arvid, unimpressed with the fact that the singer was littering in his vehicle. "I hope you're going to pick that up."
"Later," Arvid waved him off before detaching another beer from the six-pack.
Tallak opened his mouth, probably to argue, but then merely shook his head in defeat. Skwisgaar did not blame him; it was utterly pointless. Arvid might say that he would tend to it later, but when later came ... all in the vehicle knew that it would be Tallak collecting the offending, aluminum can.
Skwisgaar watched without interest out the window as the scenery passed him by. Their gig had been early, and so night had not yet fallen upon the town. He looked at the people that wandered the streets, and couldn't help but feel as though something was out of place. The people that had roamed the town in the daylight hadn't looked like this ...
As though on cue to answer his questioning mind, Arvid grunted. "Can you believe those weirdoes? You'd think they'd have the common sense to wait until night had completely come before they started flocking toward that church."
Tallak and Egil muttered their agreement. Tallak scoffed slightly, and smirked at the singer. "Didn't you try to get into that building, once?"
"Ja, a few years ago," Arvid replied unabashedly. "I wanted to see what kind of a faith it was. Judging by the way they're dressed, I bet you that they're some sort of derivative of the Satanic church."
"Laveyan, you mean?" Egil asked with furrowed eyebrows.
Skwisgaar could see Arvid shrug. "Don't think so. They would have let me in, then, wouldn't they, if I showed interest?"
"What did they do?"
"Just turned me away," Arvid snipped. "I told them over and over again that I wanted to come in, but they just kept pushing me back."
Tallak narrowed his eyes in thought. "I heard a rumor once that you needed to be born into their faith in order to belong to it. Maybe that's why you weren't allowed in: your parents don't belong to the church."
Arvid chortled cruelly. "It's just as well. Can you imagine having to wear those robes all year round? They wouldn't be good for any season, as far as I think. I mean, they'd be too thin for the winter, too thick for the summer ... they might be comfortable, on a night like this, though."
Arvid stopped speaking as the pull on the van became more obvious, and they were soon turning into his driveway. The house was dark. Since it had a garage, Skwisgaar did not know if Arvid's parents were gone, or if they were just in bed. It hardly mattered, though. He had only seen his parents once since he started playing with Gognogmug. The band spent most of their time down in the basement, either drinking, sleeping, practicing, or smoking pot. Skwisgaar had yet to actually take a toke of Arvid's weed, but that was only because he didn't need to in order to get high. The basement was so teemed with smoke that merely poking your head into the doorway leading down to the second level was enough to get a hit.
Skwisgaar threw the van door open when they came to a complete stop, and went straight for the back. He grabbed his own guitar case, slung it over a shoulder, and then did the same for Egil's bass. He grabbed the bass drum, and slowly began to make his way towards the front door, where Arvid fumbled with his house key. Once he had gotten the door unlocked, he passed by Skwisgaar to grab a load, too. The Swede invited himself into Arvid's home, and immediately made for the basement. He balanced the drum between the wall and his chest while he opened the basement door, and was soon hit by the strong, stale smell of marijuana. There was no point in trying to hold his breath, as he'd discovered the first time he'd come here, and so went about his business as normally as possible. He set the drum down in the corner, and placed the guitars against the wall. He ran back up the stairs and back outside to grab two more loads consisting of amps before he collapsed lazily onto Arvid's broken couch, leaned back, and shut his eyes.
Arvid mimicked his initial action, throwing himself onto the opposite end and opening another beer. As Egil and Tallak sat down on the other furniture, Arvid tossed them each one of their own. Skwisgaar heard three cracks, and then Egil speak. "Cheers."
There was a brief silence as the three older boys drank to their successful first gig. A few smacking lips and a small burp followed it, and then a soft chuckle. "Kid's dead asleep, I think."
"He put on a good set, though," Tallak quietly told Arvid, as though worried he'd wake their retired guitarist. "He deserves to sleep."
Skwisgaar could tell by the hesitation that Arvid thought otherwise. "I figured he'd want to celebrate with us."
"Just give him a few minutes-"
"Skwisgaar," Arvid sternly spoke. "You awake, still?"
Skwisgaar's head lulled to the side, and he opened one eye. He made to voice a response, but Arvid was talking again. "Do you want a beer? I got enough for you."
He shook his head, and closed his eye again. It wasn't so much that he was tired, but that he had no desire whatsoever to face Arvid when he finally became drunk. He was well on his way, judging by his developing slur. If Skwisgaar fell asleep, or at least pretended to be out for the night, he could maybe avoid the inevitable.
"All right." To Skwisgaar's surprise, Arvid didn't sound angry or annoyed at all. "More for me then, I guess."
The stillness that followed this proclamation voiced the others' thoughts perfectly. 'Great.'
Skwisgaar opened his eyes wide enough to see through his eyelashes. To his left, Arvid was opening another beer. Across from him, in a ratty recliner, Tallak eyed Arvid warily. Skwisgaar could see why; lines became more and more pronounced on Arvid's forehead as he pounded beer after beer back. This could only mean one thing. Pretty soon, Arvid would be well and ready to begin one of his infamous rampages or rants. Skwisgaar wondered what the subject would be, for it couldn't possibly be he or Egil. They were both, as far as Skwisgaar guessed, now feigning slumber.
Arvid frowned at the floor, and crossed his arms across his chest. "I'm out of beer."
Tallak visibly braced himself. This was it - the first red flag for the night. "Well, I'm sorry dude, but I've had too much to drink. If I get pulled over drunk again, they're going to take my license away-"
"Well, my record is clean," Arvid cut him off as he hoisted himself to his feet. "Give me your keys."
Tallak's hand went immediately to his pocket. "No way! You've had way too much! You'll crash it."
Skwisgaar decided at this that it was time to 'wake up'. Now that he knew he would not be Arvid's subject of degradation for the evening, it was safe. Egil did the same, he noticed.
Arvid took a step towards the drummer, who immediately put his hands up in defense. Skwisgaar could nearly hear his buzzed brain thinking. "Look, if you want some bad enough, we could walk. It's not like it's very far to that other place-"
Arvid slowed in his advance. Through the fog that the alcohol had provided him, he processed this proposal. Finally, after a tense moment, Arvid slowly nodded. As the man relaxed, Skwisgaar saw that his fists had been clenched at his sides.
The singer glanced around the room, and when he saw that everyone's attention rested on him, he jerked his head in the direction of the staircase. "Come on, let's go, then."
Without a second glance back, he left them. Egil grunted as he stood up and followed. Skwisgaar was behind him, but stopped with one foot on the bottom step when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. Skwisgaar turned back to face Tallak, and found the drummer holding his thick coat out to him. "Here, you're going to need this."
His blue eyes studied the coat before hesitantly taking it. He could feel his cheeks flush ever so slightly, and he made every effort not to make eye contact with Tallak. "I don't think-"
"I've got a sweater. You'll need this more." Tallak clapped him on the shoulder again before brushing past him in pursuit of Arvid and Egil. Skwisgaar watched after him, holding the man's jacket forlornly in his hands. When Tallak had disappeared, his gaze fell down onto the article of clothing he held. The longer he stared at it, the closer his eyebrows moved together.
He cursed Tallak for being so kind to him all the time. Skwisgaar had learned early on in his venture to be a guitarist that he should not grow close to other members in his bands. He never stayed long, and the more detached he was from them, the easier it was to tell them that he had found a better deal with some other hopeful group of musicians. Gognogmug was going to be hard to leave, when the time came. Arvid, he would have no problem whatsoever letting go. In fact, he hoped that once his time in Gognogmug had run its course, he never saw the putrid man again. Tallak, however ... might be harder.
"Hey!" a harsh voice came from the top of the stairs. "What's taking you, down there? Let's go! I'm starting to sober up."
A lurch of the stomach accompanied Skwisgaar's sneer. However, he did not dare defy Arvid when the prospect of unwanted sobriety loomed before him. He was not sure if the man would be inclined to bring him physical harm in his state, or not. So, instead of arguing, he threw Tallak's coat over his shoulders, and ran up the stairs to join the rest of the band.
They stepped back into the chilling night, and were on their way down the street once Arvid had locked up the house behind them. Arvid laid trail, and so the others merely followed at a healthy distance. The Norwegian wind pummeled against them, and Skwisgaar pulled Tallak's coat tighter around him. He wished briefly that he had a toque and some mittens, but these had been items that he chose not to purchase. Every time that he made to dip into his Guitar Fund, he reminded himself of what he wanted more than anything in the world. In his mind, suffering through the cold, Scandinavian winters would be well worth it when he was finally able to pawn off his Ibanez and indulge in a Gibson.
A sniff of annoyance was heard from the front of the group, and Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. He kicked a rock off the sidewalk, and watched as it disappeared onto the street, away from the streetlamp. He prepared himself to ignore whatever Arvid was about to say, but words never came. Instead, an arm shot out as Arvid came to a stop. Skwisgaar looked up at him in confusion as it connected with his chest, but then saw how intently the singer was staring ahead. Skwisgaar followed his line of vision, and soon saw what had caught his attention.
It was the church that the people had been moving towards earlier that evening. Candlelight could be seen through the stained windows and quiet chanting heard, but this was not what had captured Arvid. It was what sat on the front steps, or who, more accurately. Skwisgaar squinted into the darkness, and saw that it was a little kid, probably only a few years younger than himself.
As his eyes adjusted, Skwisgaar came to assume that it was a boy, even though the length of the kid's hair would have been considered more acceptable for a girl. It was not the kid himself that compelled Skwisgaar to speak, but what he was holding. "Pfft, look at his grandpa's guitar."
Arvid smirked and looked at Skwisgaar appreciatively. For a moment, Skwisgaar assumed that Arvid would take the comment in stride, and they would continue on their way to the liquor store. Instead, though, he chuckled, stepped off the sidewalk, and began to make his way towards the church. "Come on. This could turn out better than getting drunk."
Egil made a sound of disgust. "Arvid, no. He's just a little kid-"
A glare silenced him.
Beside Egil, Tallak anxiously tucked a loose strand of hair in behind his ear. He watched Arvid as he steadily tread along the beaten path. "We should try to stop him ..."
It was unanimously decided, and so Egil, Tallak, and Skwisgaar followed Arvid. However, their singer had been quicker, and by the time they'd reached the church, he had already begun his taunting.
"Do your parents go to church here?"
Skwisgaar was surprised that Arvid's harsh voice did not cause the young boy to jump where he sat. Instead, he stopped casually strumming his guitar, and slowly brought his gaze to meet Arvid's. Given the immaturity about his appearance and his miniscule size, Skwisgaar mentally placed his age as somewhere around ten.
Arvid crossed his arms. "Well? Do your parents attend this church?"
The boy failed to answer. Instead, his pale blue eyes moved away from Arvid and traveled over the other band members, who loomed unwillingly in the background. They had merely grazed Skwisgaar when Arvid snapped his fingers impatiently in front of the boy's face. "Don't speak much, do you?"
He laughed cruelly, and glanced over his shoulder at Skwisgaar. The guitarist's eyes remained stuck on a speck of dirt they had found on his left boot. He didn't want any part of this, bullying a small child. It was reprehensible. Besides, what if they got into trouble?
"Maybe this will loosen your tongue."
Skwisgaar brought his attention back to the scene before him. His mouth fell open when he saw Arvid step forward towards the boy, and rip the guitar from his grasp. However, instead of yelling at the older boy to give it back, crying about being stripped of his possession, or anything else that Skwisgaar was sure he'd do in this situation, the kid continued to sit in silence, his face blank and unreadable. For all the emotion that he was showing, nothing was out of the ordinary.
Arvid became frustrated quickly, irritated at his inability to force a reaction from the young boy. This did not end his endeavor, though. "Wait a minute ... I've seen you walking around with that guy with that hat. You're the reverend's son, aren't you? How come you aren't in there, drinking pig's blood with the rest of them?"
Nothing.
"Let's go, Arvid," Tallak whispered. "Give him back his guitar, and let's get out of here."
Skwisgaar gauged the note of uncertainty in Tallak's voice. Was he unsettled by the kid's antisocial nature? He didn't blame him, really, if this were true ... it was a little odd.
Arvid seemed torn. It was apparent that he wanted nothing more than to bother this kid further, but his lack of effect had discouraged him. His eyes darted back and forth as he weighed his choices, but before he could make up his mind, the double doors at the top of the stairs opened.
Having been concentrating on Arvid's ploy, Skwisgaar failed to realize that the chanting ended some time ago. As he looked up at the equally stunned congregation with wide mouth and eyes, he urged his feet to carry him away. With the multitude of looks he was receiving from the church members, he didn't even think that stopping at Arvid's house would suffice. In fact, the thought of sprinting the two-hundred kilometer distance back to his mom's house in Eda seemed all the more appealing in this moment.
From the crowd above, there emerged a woman. She descended the stairs towards the small boy, and placed a hand upon his shoulder. Her gaze never once wavered from Arvid, and the intense lifelessness behind her pupils had pushed even him back a few steps. Skwisgaar waited for the woman to say something - anything - but just like the boy, she seemed incapable of speech.
A hand closed around Skwisgaar's upper arm, and he realized that Tallak was pulling him back towards the sidewalk. "Let's leave."
Skwisgaar couldn't think of a better idea. Once Tallak had prompted him, he found himself running across the lawn, closely followed by the rest of Gognogmug. He did not stop, slow, or glance back over his shoulder until Arvid's house came into view. When they reached the entrance, Arvid fumbled shakily with his house key. After stepping inside and slamming the door behind him, he sunk down against it.
Skwisgaar bent forward onto his knees as he attempted to catch his breath. He became aware that Tallak's coat was suffocating him, now that they had arrived at the warm house. He peeled the leather off his sticky skin, and dropped it listlessly onto the floor. He looked over at Arvid, his mouth agape with unspoken words. He didn't know what he wanted to say, but knew that their singer would not be spared some form of the phrase 'I told you so.'
Something was wrong with Arvid, though, and this rendered Skwisgaar speechless. He'd never seen the man so vulnerable or afraid, before. He shook from head to toe, and a fine layer of sweat shone on his forehead. He clutched his knees to his chest, and stared wide-eyed at a discernable spot on the wall opposite. He rocked back and forth ever so slightly, and muttered incoherently under his breath.
"Dude, are you all right?" Tallak quietly asked.
"Did you hear it?" Arvid replied in a forlorn voice. "Did you hear what she said to me?"
Skwisgaar furrowed his eyebrows as he recalled the night's most recent event. As far as he could remember, the woman hadn't spoken a word to him.
"What are you talking about?"
Arvid shuddered and shook his head. He did not want to talk about it anymore, as far as they were concerned. "Never mind. Maybe I - Maybe I'll just go to bed."
Tallak, Egil, and Skwisgaar watched as their singer rose shakily to his feet and stumbled towards the hallway. They remained in the kitchen as they listened to him noisily descend into the basement, and then heard the soft slam of his bedroom door. They glanced at each other with uncertainty, and then slowly made their own way to the lower level, where they too would try to sleep and forget about their odd night. Their earlier gig was forgotten - it felt like days ago that they had been on stage.
Skwisgaar claimed the couch that he'd been sitting on earlier, and closed his eyes immediately upon resting his head on the armrest. Another chill was present along his spine, but this time, it had nothing to do with the coldness outside. In fact, the last things that he saw before finally losing consciousness were the icy grey eyes of the reverend's wife and the pale blues of her strange son.
Skwisgaar awoke quite suddenly in the night, and realized after a few brief seconds of disorientation that something was most definitely wrong. The dark basement was alight with screams, pleas, and a loud, repeated banging. He jumped up from where he lie, and looked around with bleary eyes. Two silhouettes stood against Arvid's bedroom door, one pounding ruthlessly against it, and the other yelling at the top of their lungs.
"Arvid! What's going on in there?" It was Tallak, and he was frightened.
A long string of expletives followed this question, nothing of which actually answered it. Skwisgaar tried to get his bearings on the situation, but it was not easy with his still-tired mind. He flinched as a loud bang came from within the bedroom. It sounded as though Arvid had run headlong into the wall. Scurrying followed, and more light pleading. "Don't kill me, please, don't kill me ..."
Tallak was as startled by these words as Skwisgaar was. "Arvid!"
"Don't kill me, don't kill me, don't - oh ... oh God! What are you doing!?" This was followed by an ear-piercing screech and what had to be flailing limbs. When the air in Arvid's lungs ran out, sobbing and heavy breathing succeeded his previous noise. "Please ... I didn't know, I didn't know-!"
And then there was silence.
Skwisgaar could nearly smell the fear of his band mates. Now that his mind had been roused, he too began to feel it. He ran forward, and joined Egil and Tallak as they began trying to break down Arvid's door, but if the blood seeping out from underneath it told them anything, it was that there was nothing that could be done.