Disclaimer: I do not own William Murderface. He belongs to Metalocalypse and thus Brendon Small.
Warning: I do NOT promote self-destruction or self-mutilation. Rated T for the the emotions and heavy material.
They called him Murderface; with a name like that, how could the bassist be known as anything more than a fat, useless, violent crybaby? No, he knew that everyone always thought so low of him. He knew how they talked about him behind his back. Even as a child, the other children all teased him about his parents, or lack there-of. "Why don't you cry to your mommy?" they called after him as he ran from their mockery. "Oh wait, she's dead!" It was under those circumstances that William first did it; he ran home to his grandparent's house while they were gone and stole the first piece of cutlery he found. He did the same thing that he did now, almost twenty years later.
His skin tingled as he placed the blade of his favorite knife next to it. The hairs on his outer arm rose as he firmly pressed the edge deeper in, cutting his very flesh. Murderface then pulled blade swiftly across, causing a thin red line to form. From the line came the most beautiful of red rose petals, silky to the touch. They bubbled up from under the cut, then found a trail down his pale skin. Several more beads of blood came from the scratch, all trailing down until falling to the floor.
Blood and tears. It was the story of William's life. No one else had ever figured out what he did to himself after everyone was sleeping or passed out, no one cared to know. When he was young, he'd considered himself a white rose; so many redeeming qualities, so many reasons to live. Now he felt like a red rose, stained over the years the blood of his past and the blood of his future. Stained by the death that plagued him in his crucial years of his young life. Eventually, he longed to be called by his surname; he longed for people to hear his name and recognize the violence and insanity associated. During his teens, he was proud to be William Murderface.
But he aged, his youth diminished and with it left his pride. It was then that he turned to self-mutilating more than once in a while; his tiny apartment was soon filled with the stains of blood from himself and others who he chose to take his wrath out on. Anyone walking into his abode may have confused him for his gory father if the fact of his disturbed suicide wasn't so well-known.
Dethklok fed his macabre interests. The music fueled his violent tendencies, provoked the wrath within him. Blood was the only thing on his mind when he played the songs. It wasn't long before the alcohol and drug overdoses got to him and he began reopening the old veins to satisfy the old needs. His senses reawakened and he was alive. Perhaps that was the real reason why he turned to it once more as Dethklok was flourishing and his life was good. Perhaps the need came back because he was used to an easy life; he'd begun to fall asleep again, he needed fuel to continue on. Murderface was deep in the darkest corner of his room when he found the old blade, not his favorite knife, but the first one he'd used to ever cut himself before.
The same old tingle arced across his body as soon as cool metal made contact with warm flesh. All of the blood in him rushed to those veins as though begging him to release them from the prison of his arteries. And he felt good when the warm liquid began to flow from his wrist. But…the feeling didn't last. Once more he felt empty inside. He slumped down to the chilly floor and waited for nostalgia to overtake him again; it didn't take long. He longed for numbness, but relief never came. He was on fire with emotion, but not the sort he wanted. William Murderface was alone once again.
Strangely enough, William found himself thinking about that damn rose again. Could he ever become a white rose again? Or was he doomed to be stained forever? Longing filled his soul as he contemplated his state of being.
Perhaps…perhaps he could achieve things. Perhaps he didn't need his blade anymore. He was William Murderface; he was strong enough to overcome all of it. He tossed the knife across the room with a proud smile. Blood and tears didn't have to be his future after all. He could overcome all of the obstacles that threatened to take away his spirit. Never again would he be forced to take the measures he once had to feel good, because he was proud to be who he was; perhaps it wouldn't take so much to be a white rose again.
William Murderface smiled again and marched out to face his obstacles head-on.