Doing the music meme again, but just to get into an ETHM mood. I want to do that contest at the EdgarVargas club over on dA, but my hands feel so uninspired. I can't draw, I can't write. I need to force life into some ideas. So here I am. At three o' clock in the morning. When I have work tomorrow. YES.


Song One: Take The Long Road And Walk It – The Music – 5:43

"Do you mind if I put some music on?" Edgar asked politely, gesturing to the old player in the corner. The woman only stared at him with bulging eyes, her mouth sewn shut. He assumed she wouldn't mind, and pressed PLAY.

The sweet, tinkling sound of a lonely piano filtered through the air. He closed his eyes, letting it wash over him. "Ahh, I do miss playing," he whispered, his scarred, broken fingers following along with the music. After a few minutes the piece ended and a new one begun. The pause between startled him back to reality.

"What was I...?" His eyes landed on the woman suspended from the ceiling. "Ah, yes." He walked over to her, gazing up into her white face. "Hello, Devi."

The woman twitched, clearly torn between wanting to scream at him and wanting to ask how in the hell he knew her name, but silent because of the heavy string stitched through her lips. He felt morbidly curious today. What did she want to say? So he reached for one of his smaller blades and cut her mouth free. She moaned, blood dripping down her chin, dripping onto his upturned face.

"Why?" she asked finally.

He smiled at her. "Johnny mentioned you once." He dropped the knife and picked up some incomprehensible torture device. "I wanted to meet you. This seemed the best way."

(I cheated and paused the song because I liked where this was going. This also has nothing to do with the song. Whee.)

Song Two: Date Rape – Sublime – 3:37

Tess glared sullenly from her dark corner of the club, nursing a strong drink. She didn't even know why she'd bothered coming out tonight. She always ended up alone, the laughingstock of all her old friends who wouldn't even look her in the face anymore. She almost didn't mind, sometimes. They were all so damn stupid.

But the alternative wasn't much better.

Someone sat down across from her. She jerked her head to look. A tall, thinnish Hispanic man with glasses and a goatee. It was too dark and smoky to tell for sure, but it looked like he had strange, crisscrossing tattoos across his rather severely angled face.

"Hello," he said pleasantly.

She stared at him. "What do you want?"

"I wanted to talk to you."

"Why?" Here it came, the retarded pick-up line.

"You've got that look."

"Excuse me?"

He leaned forward, the finger of his right hand massaging the knuckles of the left. "You don't look like an idiot or an asshole. You must have been one of the survivors. Your name is... Tess, right?"

"What are you talking about?" How the fuck did he know her name? Who WAS this guy anyway?

"Johnny C. He kidnapped you, right?"

"...What is this? Is this some kind of joke?"

"I would be some kind of sick bastard to joke like that about Nny." He extended his right hand. Closer, she realized that what she'd mistaken for tattoos were in fact brutal scars. "My name is Edgar. Edgar Vargas. Johnny killed me."

Her fingers twitched, automatically reaching to shake his hand but she forced it down. "How--"

"It's a long story." He let his hand fall as it had become clear she wasn't going to touch him. "Unfortunately, this isn't a meeting for pleasure. I've got a few people to call on still tonight."

"What, what the fuck are you talking about?"

"Oh, didn't I say? I'm sorry." He laughed, smoothing his hair out of his eyes. "You see, They picked me because Nny took such a liking to me. I'm Johnny's... Well, I guess you could say I'm his clean-up crew."

Tess shook her head. This guy was crazy. Fucking iinsane./i She didn't know how he knew all this, but she didn't want to stick around and ask. Anyone who'd rip themselves up that badly was obviously unhinged to a fantastic degree. She made to get up but a long arm shot out and grabbed her shoulder, the knotted fingers digging deep into the flesh. She gasped, too shocked to do anything else.

"I'm really very sorry," he said, "but I'm afraid I can't let you go."

(I paused this one too. Liked where it was going, wanted to see what I could do with it, but mostly just to laugh my ass off.)

(Skipped a Combichrist song. No lyrics, but such a good song.)

Song Three: Who's Your Daddy – Benny Benassi – 7:18 (Oh god I don't think I can do this.)

It was funny. Ever since he had come back from the dead people seemed to pay more attention to him. People seemed to like him. They consciously sought him out when previously it had been as if he was invisible. People wanted his opinion, his advice. Shit, people made smalltalk just to hear his voice. It didn't matter what he said. People fell in love with him at the first glimpse of his face out of the corner of their eyes.

At first he had been scared. He simply wasn't used to the attention. He had grown up expecting to live a life of general monasticism, perhaps even joining the priesthood when he was older and had done everything he'd felt he wanted to accomplish in the world. It had scared him, all these eyes and hands focused solely on him. Briefly he had wondered if these people were sick fetishists, going after him because of his "body art," compliments one Johnny C.

Then he'd realized that dying had woken something up in him. A switch had been flipped, and some hidden facet of his personality had come to life, making him irresistible. After a period of adjustment, he'd even started to enjoy himself.

And then it had gone all wrong.

Through his foolishness, through his arrogance, through his stupidity, through his drunkenness, someone had died. The hangover had erased the majority of that night, but he doubted he would ever forget the glazed eyes staring up at him from a growing pool of blood.

Johnny's eyes.

Enough time had passed for him to admit to himself that after the shock, he'd felt a thrill of pleasure, of revenge, of justice, maybe even divine retribution. No one else in the car called the police, and later when he'd brought that night up no one could remember what he was talking about. The event was never mentioned in the paper or on the news. He'd gotten away with it.

But things had stopped feeling right anymore. Now, it was all... incomplete. As if he'd started something that needed to be finished, wouldn't leave him alone until he did.

Somehow he'd found Johnny's house.

Somehow he'd gotten into the basement.

Somehow he'd picked up where Johnny had left off.

He could still be invisible when he wanted to.

(This took like half an hour because I had to make a goddamn orgy song into an ETHM thingy only vaguely alluding to sex. That and I laughed. SO HARD. Just kept thinking of Scriabin. HA.)

Song Four: In My Memory – DJ Tiesto – 6:06

He felt curiously nostalgic lately. He kept thinking about that summer, after he'd come back from Heaven. He kept thinking about Johnny. He kept thinking.

Could he have done it differently? Did it really have to end the way it did?

He couldn't decide. Either way, he couldn't change the past, so it didn't really matter.

He'd like their talks up on the hill best, where no one could bother them. Nothing ever happened. They just talked, for hours, until the sun had long since risen and was glaring into their eyes and sometimes even then they'd just retreat into the car, sometimes Johnny's, sometimes his own, and keep talking.

He wished he could remember what they'd spoken of as well as he could remember Johnny's face. So expressive. Johnny could never hide anything from him.

In life, and in death too.

(Apparently ETHM likes to kill JTHM. I LOVE IT.)

Song Five: Stop a Bullet – Black Light Burns – 3:37

Edgar wiped his hands on a spare towel, not that it did much good. His hands always stayed red no matter how much he scrubbed them. He really needed to invest in some disposable gloves.

"Hey."

He turned to see Johnny descending down the stairs. "Oh, hi. Where were you?"

"Felt like a walk. What's up?"

"Oh, nothing. Just found someone who looked liked they'd be worth it."

Johnny leaned in to get a better look at the face twisted by fear even in death. "Oh? What'd she do?"

"You tell me."

"What?" Johnny dropped his freezy to catch the book suddenly thrown his way. It landed without spilling. "H-hey! This is my die-ary!"

"I know."

"What the hell were you doing with--"

"I felt like something to read but the car wouldn't start again. It was there. You write about her all the time. It's kind of sickening."

It took Johnny a moment to catch on, his mouth half-open and his forehead crinkled. Then it clicked, and his face fell apart. "Y-you didn't. Tell me you didn't do it."

Edgar took off his glasses so he could wash his face with cold water from the spigot. "Well obviously I did. That's her, isn't it? Unless she's got an identical twin sister she didn't tell you about."

Johnny dropped his die-ary and ran to Devi's mutilated corpse, screaming incomprehensible words. Shook her, gripped her face, tried to pour her half-liquidated bowels back inside her. Edgar cleaned his glasses, put them on again, and watched the scene impassively.

Finally Johnny seemed to accept the fact that Devi would not be getting up ever again. He rounded on Edgar. "WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?! HOW THE HELL COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME? YOU SICK FUCKING--"

Edgar quietly aimed the gun at Johnny's face, pointblank. Johnny twitched and his voice choked, his face a myriad of conflicting emotions. "Shut up."

"I--"

"Shut up."

Johnny shut up.

"I'm done. I don't want to see you ever again. I don't care if it's an accident. If I see your face, if I glimpse you out of the corner of my eyes, I'll destroy everything good that's still left in your life. I'm done with you."

Tears were beginning to spill from Johnny's eyes. "I'll kill you," he managed in a mangled whisper, his arms hugging her body close.

Edgar laughed. "As if you could?" He dropped the gun on the table and walked out of the room. "I think I'll stop by Squee's house before I go. Good-bye, Nny."

(A continuation of the first one? What the f! I listened to this one like six times 'cause I wanted to see what'd happen.)

(Skipped a DDR song.)

Song Six: In Fate's Hands – Red Jumpsuit Apparatus – 3:29

It had come to him a year ago, in the New Year's crowd. A sudden realization, an epiphany, if you will.

He remembered turning to look at the others, at Devi, at Todd, at all his friends gathered close to celebrate the start of a new slate. They were all so happy, so unconcerned about the future, living for the present and nothing else. They hadn't realized.

No one else had felt it that night.

The fireworks exploded high above, blinding streams of color bleeding across his eyes. He'd stared, unblinking, into the finale, his ears throbbing with the delayed sound waves. It had been beautiful. He'd felt clean for the first time in years. As if his crimes were at last absolved. He'd felt that, maybe, if he told the others, they wouldn't turn from him in horror, wouldn't scream, wouldn't treat him as they had treated Johnny.

And then the earthquake had struck.

In a great sweep, thousands of human lives were extinguished as skyscrapers collapsed, the ground opened up, and fires seared across the city. Out of all the people who'd been at the Square, Edgar had been the only survivor. Later, at the hospital, Edgar had woken to find Johnny at his bedside, staring peacefully out the window. He must have made a noise, for Johnny's eyebrows twitched and he looked down at him.

"You're awake," Johnny had said.

"Where...?" There were so many questions. He didn't know where to begin.

"Ssh, it's alright." After a second of hesitation, Johnny placed his hand on Edgar's. It felt cool even through the bandages. "That was a neat trick though. How'd you do it?"

"Do what?"

Johnny stared at him. "The earthquake. That was you, wasn't it? It had to be. It had that Edgar flair of your's written all over it. How'd you do—Edgar? Edgar! Edgar!"

(Um. Sure. Secretly, Edgar is a Super Saiyan.)

Song Seven: Other Light – Finger Eleven – 2:50

"I've got something I need to tell you."

"Not now, Edgar. I'm in the zone."

He watched Devi paint. It was coming along well.

"It's kind of important."

"Not now. This is the best I've painted in weeks."

He opened his mouth to try again, then closed it. "Later, then?"

"Sure. Fine, whatever."

Edgar closed the door behind him and went to wash the blood from his hands.

(Kind of phail, yes?)

Song Eight: Straight Lines – Silverchair – 4:16

Edgar found respite only when he played his piano. Only then did he feel whole again, normal. Like he could finally breathe. It would probably be better if his hands weren't so ruined.

Why that machine? Why did Johnny have to kill him in the one machine that completely obliterated his hands? It was like the universe was out to get him. And of course, thanks to the ineptitude of Heaven, he'd been revived sans the ring finger of his left hand. That combination made for wonderful playing indeed.

Sarcasm.

But despite his handicaps, despite the guilt that burned the names of his victims into his soul so he could never forget them, he could play. He played and he played and he played. He played until his ruined hands cramped, resembling claws, and the pain became too severe to ignore.

And by that time his Wall probably needed painting anyway. It worked.

(Poor Edgar.)

Song Nine: A Place for My Head – Link Park – 3:04 (I forgot I had this band on here, HA. Gawd, emo musics ahoy.)

He sat on a park bench, eying the moon with a disinterested gaze. The night was beautiful, but he couldn't pay attention to it. He was waiting for someone to walk by. Anyone really, didn't matter. He just needed someone to feed his Wall with.

Idly he wondered how Johnny had done it for three years. He'd only been doing it a few months and now he was pretty sure he knew what Hell was like. Killing another human had taken some getting used to. He didn't think he was used to it yet. Maybe just blocking out the horror a part of him still felt. But that was nothing to his Wall always, always feeding on him, absorbing every last bit of him at a pace so slow it could be described as brutal, even agonizing.

Maybe Johnny hadn't known how to feel for it when he'd been under the System.

Edgar envied him.

(These are getting progressively shorter because I am TIRED.)

Song Ten: Tug-O-War – Chevelle – 4:32 (What's with all these songs that make me think of the goddam Wall srsly.)

Edgar Vargas slit the youth's throat and bled him out into the already half-full trough. That should do for now, should appease It's thirst.

He left the body where it hung and went to business.

Hours later, after a long, burning shower and some food, he sat down at his piano. A fine layer of dust covered the keys. He hadn't tried this in some time. He'd been taking care of his Wall, he'd been doing everything It required and then some. Shouldn't he get something in return? Just a little of his creativity, his inspiration, his music?

He blew the dust off, rubbed at a curious stain on the seventy-third key just hard enough to remove it, not to inadvertently cause the hammer to strike. He wanted this to be perfect.

Was everything ready?

As ready as he could get it. Couldn't tell how this would turn out. He never could. Slowly, with exaggerated care, he let his scarred fingers rest against the keys. His thoughts calmed, his body relaxed, everything smooth. Something simple first. A scale. Concert C, to make it ridiculously simple.

C D E F G D-- no.

C D E F G A B C. Back down again. C B A G F E D C.

There. That wasn't so hard. He tried a few more scales, then ventured into some more complex warm-ups. A few slip-ups, his fingers rusty, but he soon found his old rhythm.

He smiled. A harder piece now. He selected one of his favorites, slow and poignant and full of meaning if you knew how to listen. He got through five measures before his hand cramped and he had to take care of that.

Tried again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

He slammed his hands against the keys, the discordant, violent sound filling his apartment. Let his head rest against the wood and he stared down at the ivory rectangles that mocked him so. "Please?" he whispered.

No.

"I--"

The floor hummed. His Wall was hungry again.

Edgar sighed and sat there a minute longer. All he wanted was to get through one piece. Just one. And It wouldn't give him even that.

He knew what Johnny meant now. Too little too late.

(I feel sad now. By-the-by, he was totally trying to play Illusion, by VNV Nation.)


The birds started singing at 5:26 a.m. This would have been SO much easier if my shuffle wasn't phail. A.N.