(no subject)
Title: The Black Hole
Author: Nihilism
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own, not insinuating.
Comments: Just something I let flow out of me. A little memory-type thing. Nothing spectacular. Based on some stuff I've heard about Mr. Ness.
The walls were black, but they had little or nothing to do with the nickname given to the place. The Black Hole. A one bedroom apartment in the dingiest, dirtiest, most desolate part of Orange County. Michael was the original tenant - that is to say, his name was on the not-quite-legal lease agreement - but at any given time one would find a multitude of nameless kids encased inside the black walls. It was impossible to reach the bathroom without tripping over a few drugged-out bodies, even at noon.
But right now, he was alone.
Michael stands in the center of the room, glaring at the blank black wall across from him. The knife makes a smooth, whishing noise as it sails through the air; clunk and twang when it hits and swings back and forth. As if confused about it's sudden entrapment, plunged an inch and a half into the sheet rock. As if trying to escape the prison. The freedom of flying through the air, carefree, only to meet a sudden stop, still shivering with energy. Michael sometimes feels the same way.
He crosses the room, plucking the knife out of the wall, then steps back to throw it again. A methodical, mind-numbing activity. Designed, perhaps, to keep his thoughts from becoming to loud. But it's failing horribly. His meth-and-alcohol laced mind is functioning at rates that should be unheard of for the amount of both substances he's consumed.
They'd left, Rikk and Frank. They weren't too pleased with the thought of bringing a new member into the band - especially a member who knew nothing of his instrument. But Michael is convinced that Dennis will make a good addition, he knows Dennis, really knows him. Fuck the Agnews, for all he cares they can go off and sing their stupid songs about stupid fucking amoebas in their own stupid fucking band. They'll never have the impact that Social Distortion is bound to have on the punk movement. That is, once Social Distortion finds a new drummer and a bassist.
Michael doesn't quite know what he's so angry about. Maybe it's because he's only sixteen, he shouldn't be worried about paying rent. Not that he's really worried about that, his job at the pornography store down the street takes care of it well enough. Maybe it's because he should have to be the only member in a band that actually gives two shits about what they're doing. Maybe it's because he shouldn't have to be the only member of the band, period. Maybe it's because two of the people he had trusted to stick by him just walked out the door without so much as a "Good riddance." Maybe it's just the meth amphetamines.
He's stabbing at the wall now, less controlled movements with the knife. He finds it strange that this started without his knowledge or consent, but it feels good to drive the blade into something so solid and ungiving, so he doesn't stop. Maybe he's imagining it's Frank or Rikk. Maybe he's imagining it's the principal who politely suggested that he not come back. Maybe it's his father, who just let his mother die and replaced her not even six months later with a fucking Barbie Doll. Most likely, it's himself.
The motions of the knife in the wall speed up. His fist is curled tightly around the metallic handle of the switchblade, and each subsequent thrust sends a fierce shudder up the length of his forearm. The sounds of each hit become so close together that they're scarcely separate anymore. He's planning on tearing the entire wall down with just one switchblade and his fear and rage as the tools.
The knife hits the wall at an off angle, clatters against the scratched black paint, and slices into his left index finger. How deep the cut is, he can't tell, because the world is suddenly spinning. Everything around him is fading in and out of focus as he falls to the floor. His injured hand is curled against his chest, pouring blood across his chest, and all he can focus on is the warm fluid seeping from his veins and how completely obscure it feels. To be this full of anger and pain, to be so wound up with hatred, and have absolutely none of it come out with that blood. He's faintly aware that his right nostril has also begun to bleed.
He fights to keep his eyes open, his breath is so shallow and sparse that it sounds like a rapid-fire set of hiccups, and he's not sure whether the wetness on his face is sweat, blood or tears. Or a mixture of all three. Things have begun to be more out of focus now than in focus, but the floor beneath him feels good. Solid. Comforting. There's a sound from the hallway, like a door slamming, but he can't be bothered to get up and find out if that is indeed what it is.
Just as his eyes completely give up on focusing and close, there's the sound of Dennis' voice. It's scratchy and warbled and distant, like a record played on a set of blown speakers.
My God, Michael, what have you done...
Author: Nihilism
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own, not insinuating.
Comments: Just something I let flow out of me. A little memory-type thing. Nothing spectacular. Based on some stuff I've heard about Mr. Ness.
The walls were black, but they had little or nothing to do with the nickname given to the place. The Black Hole. A one bedroom apartment in the dingiest, dirtiest, most desolate part of Orange County. Michael was the original tenant - that is to say, his name was on the not-quite-legal lease agreement - but at any given time one would find a multitude of nameless kids encased inside the black walls. It was impossible to reach the bathroom without tripping over a few drugged-out bodies, even at noon.
But right now, he was alone.
Michael stands in the center of the room, glaring at the blank black wall across from him. The knife makes a smooth, whishing noise as it sails through the air; clunk and twang when it hits and swings back and forth. As if confused about it's sudden entrapment, plunged an inch and a half into the sheet rock. As if trying to escape the prison. The freedom of flying through the air, carefree, only to meet a sudden stop, still shivering with energy. Michael sometimes feels the same way.
He crosses the room, plucking the knife out of the wall, then steps back to throw it again. A methodical, mind-numbing activity. Designed, perhaps, to keep his thoughts from becoming to loud. But it's failing horribly. His meth-and-alcohol laced mind is functioning at rates that should be unheard of for the amount of both substances he's consumed.
They'd left, Rikk and Frank. They weren't too pleased with the thought of bringing a new member into the band - especially a member who knew nothing of his instrument. But Michael is convinced that Dennis will make a good addition, he knows Dennis, really knows him. Fuck the Agnews, for all he cares they can go off and sing their stupid songs about stupid fucking amoebas in their own stupid fucking band. They'll never have the impact that Social Distortion is bound to have on the punk movement. That is, once Social Distortion finds a new drummer and a bassist.
Michael doesn't quite know what he's so angry about. Maybe it's because he's only sixteen, he shouldn't be worried about paying rent. Not that he's really worried about that, his job at the pornography store down the street takes care of it well enough. Maybe it's because he should have to be the only member in a band that actually gives two shits about what they're doing. Maybe it's because he shouldn't have to be the only member of the band, period. Maybe it's because two of the people he had trusted to stick by him just walked out the door without so much as a "Good riddance." Maybe it's just the meth amphetamines.
He's stabbing at the wall now, less controlled movements with the knife. He finds it strange that this started without his knowledge or consent, but it feels good to drive the blade into something so solid and ungiving, so he doesn't stop. Maybe he's imagining it's Frank or Rikk. Maybe he's imagining it's the principal who politely suggested that he not come back. Maybe it's his father, who just let his mother die and replaced her not even six months later with a fucking Barbie Doll. Most likely, it's himself.
The motions of the knife in the wall speed up. His fist is curled tightly around the metallic handle of the switchblade, and each subsequent thrust sends a fierce shudder up the length of his forearm. The sounds of each hit become so close together that they're scarcely separate anymore. He's planning on tearing the entire wall down with just one switchblade and his fear and rage as the tools.
The knife hits the wall at an off angle, clatters against the scratched black paint, and slices into his left index finger. How deep the cut is, he can't tell, because the world is suddenly spinning. Everything around him is fading in and out of focus as he falls to the floor. His injured hand is curled against his chest, pouring blood across his chest, and all he can focus on is the warm fluid seeping from his veins and how completely obscure it feels. To be this full of anger and pain, to be so wound up with hatred, and have absolutely none of it come out with that blood. He's faintly aware that his right nostril has also begun to bleed.
He fights to keep his eyes open, his breath is so shallow and sparse that it sounds like a rapid-fire set of hiccups, and he's not sure whether the wetness on his face is sweat, blood or tears. Or a mixture of all three. Things have begun to be more out of focus now than in focus, but the floor beneath him feels good. Solid. Comforting. There's a sound from the hallway, like a door slamming, but he can't be bothered to get up and find out if that is indeed what it is.
Just as his eyes completely give up on focusing and close, there's the sound of Dennis' voice. It's scratchy and warbled and distant, like a record played on a set of blown speakers.
My God, Michael, what have you done...