His head felt like somebody had hit it against a brick wall; the sunlight pouring through the window behind the couch and through the open doorway didn't help either. He got up from the sofa, shut the front door, then made his way down the hallway and to the bathroom at the end of it. The room was small, pathetically small at that; it hardly had room for the bath tub let along the sink and the toilet, he grabbed one of the pill bottles from the medicine cabinet hanging over the sink. He took out three of the white tablets popping them into his mouth and swallowing them figuring his saliva was enough to keep himself from choking. He put the bottle back on its shelf, shut the door, and on his part a bad decision he looked at his reflection in the cracked mirror.
"Fuck I look like shit" He muttered as he looked closely at the man staring back at him.
It wasn't like he had been a beauty queen in high school, but this was just pathetic. He even had a few gray hairs, he was too young to have shit like that going on. He ran his fingers through his shaggy black hair, it felt almost too greasy; he reminded himself to bathe, eventually. His skin was ashen, but now it was beginning to get a bit of a green color to it that only seemed to happen when he stayed out in the sun too much; he considered worrying about it, but he didn't care all too much. His thin lips were chapped and cracked, his teeth were gnarled and sharp; his eyes that once were both a doe brown were now mismatched. One eye still an innocent color, he had to laugh at associating the word innocent with himself. The other eye was a bright ruby red, if he had known that many people and if any had given two shits then somebody at some point would have asked why his eye suddenly turned red. He would have lied and told them it was a contact, because the truth would result in a trip to the psych ward.
He felt a bit pissed to be honest when he thought about it; he had sold his soul to be famous and here he was in this shit hole. He turned away from the mirror and left the room, he went to the room across from the bathroom, his bedroom. A small smile crossed his lips when he saw the only other thing in this life that he loved setting on his bed.
"Hello beautiful"
He sat down on the bed carefully picking the bass up and setting it on his lap. El Diablo; at least he had gotten this out of the deal, a sore eye, a promise to rot in Hell for all eternity, and a beautiful black and red bass from Satan himself. He began strumming the strings feeling a bit more relaxed at the sounds the instrument made as his fingers hit the right chords; at least his bass enjoyed him touching it. Shit it had been years since the last time he'd touched somebody and they fully enjoyed it, usually they just faked it, and pretended they didn't find him a gross waste of their time. He closed his eyes listening to the melodic sounds coming from the instrument, he felt a strong connection to it almost like it worked based off of his feelings and his thoughts. When he was angry the beats were heavy and metal sounding, when he was sad it was like listening to some crappy break up song on the radio, and moments like right now the bas only produced relaxing sounds to fit its owners state of mind. His mind wandered into questionable territory for a moment as he thought about what used to be the third thing he had loved more than anything in the world; fuck he had really loved him, still did in a way. Nobody had ever treated him like that before, been so caring, and patient with him and his bull shit; it had felt so good to sleep with the blue haired man's arms wrapped around his waist and his face buried against his chest.
Past, that was the past now and he was better off to not think about it anymore.
He opened his eyes and sat the bass back down on the bed, he got up and left the room returning to the living room. He went over to the answering machine seeing that he had three missed calls meaning that more than likely over half of his guesses had been right, he hit play then made his way into the kitchen in search for booze as the messages began playing.
"First message; Niccals you were supposed to show up to work today or did you forget? Boy you haven't been here for nearly a week, I'm really sick of your shit, don't even think about coming back you're fired. End of message"
Shocking, eh he hadn't liked that job too much; hell he hated jobs in general. Working wasn't entertaining especially if it was at some stupid factory surrounded by a dozen or so over weight old men who did nothing but insult him. He wasn't meant for actual work, he was meant for greater things for that and the Devil had promised him greater things.
"Second message; mate where the fuck are you at? We've been at Jimmy's house for two hours waiting for your sorry arse to show up and you haven't yet. We got a gig tonight if you haven't forgot, I bet you're drunk off your arse right now aren't ya? Just show up at the club tonight. End of message"
Adam his latest band's guitarist sounded annoyed, Murdoc smiled a bit at picturing the want to be Goth with his shitty dreadlocks and his stupid sunglasses standing there yelling at the phone. He hated his band mates, they were good people to buy drugs from, but they were boring and their musical talent practically didn't exist.
"Third message; hey little brother, just wanted to see how you were getting on. Dad told me you're still out on your own, I bet you're doing real shit without us to take care of your sorry ass. I'm not sure when I'll get out, probably a few more years; I really can't wait to see you again, I still owe you for putting me in this fucking place. I'll be seeing you. End of message"
The last one made him uneasy, he grabbed a half empty bottle of whiskey and began drinking from it. Maybe if he drank enough of it then he would forget about that last message as well as most of his childhood. He knew Hannibal would be locked away for a good while, he'd already been there for three years; after all the shit he had been charged with there was no way he could be let out sooner than about seven years or so. He couldn't help but feel that familiar fear, he always felt this uncomfortable fear when he thought about his brother. He often did everything that he could to not think about him, but somehow the bastard always found a way to lurk back into his mind. Murdoc finished off the bottle, he lay it down on the counter then went back to the living room. The booze wasn't helping his migraine, neither were the phone messages he had listened to, and thinking about Stuart didn't help him at all. He felt like shit especially with all of these memories going around his head, maybe he should have asked for the Devil to reap him of his memories; he didn't want them anymore they were fucking killing him.
