Right... A series of one shots based on The Unnamed Feeling by Metallica. Well really their video. Yeah I’ll finish Once In A Blue Moon, and begin actually writing Ringing in Your Head (once I get the book). I suppose I’ll republish A Girl Like That She’s Just Bad News, once I finish All the Wrong Reasons. Growl!
Phobias, anxiety, heroin overdose, self cutting, sanatorium, schizophrenia, guilt, pain, panic, claustrophobia, paranoia.
There are a lot of bad things in the world, and some of them have human faces.
It was a place where no one could hear you scream.
The Unnamed Feeling
Been here before (6x)
Been here before couldn't say I liked itThen do I start writing all this downJust let me plug you into my worldCan't you help me be un-crazy
Name this for me, heat the cold airTake the chill off of my lifeAnd if I could I'd turn my eyesTo look inside to see what's coming
Pre:It comes alive (3x)And I die a little moreIt comes alive (3x)Each moment here til I die a little moreOoh, I die I die I die a little more..
Chorus 1:then the unnamed feelingIt comes alive then the unnamed feelingTakes me away
(Been here before) (6x)
I'm frantic in your soothing arms I cannot sleep in this down filled worldFound safety in this lonelinessBut I cannot stand it anymore
Cross my heart hope not to dieSwallow evil, ride the skyLose myself in a crowded roomYou fool, you fool, it'll be here soon
Pre:It comes alive (3x)And I die a little moreIt comes alive (3x)Each moment here I die a little moreOoh, I die I die I die a little more..
Chorus 2:then the unnamed feelingIt comes alive then the unnamed feelingTreats me this wayAnd I wait for this trainToes over the lineThen the unnamed feelingIt takes me away, it takes me..
then the unnamed feelingIt comes alive then the unnamed feelingTakes me awayYeah, it takes me away
Bridge:Get the fuck out of hereI just wanna get the fuck away from meI rage, I glaze, I hurt, I hateI hate it all, why why why me?
I cannot sleep with a head like thisI wanna cry, I wanna screamI rage, I glaze, I hurt, I hateI wanna hate it all away(Solo)(Return to Chorus 2)(Return to Chorus 1)
Thanks to unencouraging parents everywhere for giving their children the will to show them up. – Kurt Cobain
He saw heaven. He was sure of that.
It was March 9 1993, a cold Tuesday morning. It was supposed to get warmer during the day, but you wouldn’t have believed it at five AM in that freezing motel room. The window had been left open to air out the stench of cigarettes and sex. The room itself looked like a tornado had swept through it. Half eaten food was buried into the crappy carpet, empty beer bottles were everywhere and clumps of dirty clothes were strewn out all over the place.
A twenty-six year old woman was asleep in a black lace nightdress on the bed, her brunette hair spread over the sheets; like some princess in a fairy tale. Next to her was a warm impression in the bedding where someone had recently lain.
It was like the opening scene of a horror film; there was a dead body in the room.
Missing from the bed was twenty-three year old Jasper Whitlock. In the early hours of that morning, Jasper had taken a small plastic bag of China white heroin, prepared it for the syringe and injected it into his arm. This in itself was not unusual, he was struggling with his drug habit and using regularly for months. But as everyone slept, Jasper had either recklessly or intentionally used far more heroin than was safe. The overdose had turned his skin a blue-green hue, halted his breathing and made his muscles stiff. He had slipped off the bed and landed face down in a pile of clothing.
The woman woke with a jump, searching for her partner sleepily. When she spotted him she almost threw up, but she managed to recover her composure and roll him over. She began resuscitation, which unfortunately would become commonplace for her. She threw cold water into his face and punched him in the solar plexus to make his lungs move air. For a while there was no response, but she kept trying, never giving up. When she finally heard a gasp, she tried to revive him by splashing cold water and moving his limbs. Within a few minutes, he was sitting up, talking and stoned; he had an almost smug smile on his face.
Maria ran to the bathroom, and threw up almost in relief. As she sat on the bathroom floor clutching her stomach, she cried. She remembered the first day she met him, all smiles and laughter. If he was using any drugs at all it was only something mild like marijuana. There was alcohol as well, always alcohol. She had been sober for a month when she met him, cold turkey from the heroin. Within months she had heard him fighting with his friends, those who wanted to try heroin, just once. He would scream at them, “Why do you want to die?”
He was trying to stay away from heroin for her, but he was always curious. She knew this and didn’t try to lie to herself about it. If he tried heroin, and continued to use it, she would use it. She was weak, and going cold turkey again would be too difficult. Heroin was always her drug, she was never into weed or cocaine, and they were only steps leading her to heroin. It was her sister who made her quit the first time. She begged Maria to try to stop after finding her in an alley strung out completely after nearly overdosing.
Unfortunately, Jasper was just as weak as her and after six months of dating, he had begun using. Within two weeks, she had joined him occasionally. She wanted to take it slow, to try to keep it social. He on the other hand, did not rather, he began using it regularly, claiming it helped him. It was sick; he actually believed heroin helped with his depression.
This was the first time he had used so much. He had never overdosed before. She shook her head in disbelief. He didn’t just overdose, he died. She could not let that happen. She shuddered at the thought of what would have happened if she had not woken. She loved him and it was the kind of love that was impassioned, powerful and utterly devoted, the kind that you know in the beginning that it will break your heart and end in tragedy. She did not want this to end in tragedy.
She slowly got off the floor and made her way back into the room. Jasper was lying on his side on the bed. His dirty blonde hair was all over the place, he had not washed it in a week, and he was in clothes that she was pretty sure he had been wearing for the last couple of days. She climbed in beside him, making sure he was asleep and turned him on his side so that if he threw up he would not choke. She could not sleep now; it was too scary what had happened that morning. She could not believe that she had survived it, that he had survived it.
It was his first near death. He died in the privacy of his darkness but was resurrected by a force of love.
Mary Alice Brandon
I curled up as much as I could with my arms and legs strapped to the bed. I felt tears leak out of my eyelids. I shivered; I could never be warm in this place. My hair was gone, cut on the first day. They said it was for delousing purposes, but it didn’t stop them from cutting into my scalp with the rusted scissors so much that there was blood pouring down my face. This is not the place you come to get better. This place makes you lose your mind.
It all started with the mirrors. I could not have a mirror near me; I didn’t have one for vanity purposes in my room. I couldn’t. I avoided them around the house. If I looked into a mirror I could see the demons that were speaking to me. They would laugh at me, come nearer trying to touch my hair. But mostly they whispered about how they would like to hurt me, to make me scream. My mother helped me keep my secret by keeping me quiet if I mentioned the voices near someone. Her grandmother had the same ‘condition’. They say she killed herself out of sadness when her husband died. But I know that the monsters got her, just like they were trying to get me. It was easier when my grandmother was around; she remembered how her mother was and could remember how to keep the demons away from me for a little while. It was all kept very quiet. My father could not know and neither could my sister. It was our secret: my grandmother’s, my mother’s and mine. But when she died, my father decided that it was time I grew up, and I had to move out of my childhood bedroom. I moved into the one room that I always avoided- the one with the mirror that could not be moved.
After my mother died, my father made sure that I did not see my grandmother again. He never got on well with her, and he thought she was influencing me too much. With my secret-keepers gone and the mirror in my room, the demons came back - and they brought friends. I could see them through the mirror, all over the room, crawling up the walls and peering over me as I tried to sleep. Only my screaming would send them away. Unfortunately my screams alerted my father. He called on doctors and priests. They had no answers, as I would not tell them anything about what I was seeing. My mother had made me promise that I would never say anything about the demons to anyone. I keep my promises.
Things got progressively worse. More demons appeared in the mirror and I could see them coming towards me, coming to get me. I punched the mirror until all the glass fell out and my hands were covered in blood. The demons were gone for now, but it was the final straw for my father. He sent me here.
He has left me here to rot.
The doctors here are cruel, cruel monsters; they do not do anything to make the demons go away. They shock me with electricity until I black out with pain. They starve me. They jab me with needles and pins until I bleed. They do other things too, and block my mouth with their hands so I cannot breathe, so I cannot scream.
Their treatments do not make the slightest bit of a difference. The demons flourish here. They love the cold, damp, dark rooms. They love to hear my screaming in agony and to taste the blood streaming down my skin. They love the holes that the pins create. They love my misery.
The doctors believe that sunlight is the cause of my illness. They tie me to chairs and beds for days at a time in complete darkness.
I am going to die here.
There are men here called helpers. They are the ones who are meant to give us food and keep us from disease. But they do not help. They are just as bad as the doctors. They leave food on the ground when I am tied to the bed; my food goes to the rats. I am thrown into baths of dirty ice water when they cannot ignore the stench of my sweat, blood and urine. They also like to do other things, although unlike the doctors, they like to hear me scream.
The demons like the helpers.
I hear the others at night. The demons love it when a new person arrives here, they like their screams. The patients- who, like me, have been here for a while- know that screaming is useless. All it does is make you weaker.
There was one man who was unlike the others. He used to wash the blood off my skin carefully. He would put ointment on the holes in my skin, to stop infection. He would untie me from beds and chairs. He showed me sunlight once, it made the dust in the room sparkle and glimmer and it made the air taste differently. He used to try to help me to eat, but by the time he came along it was too late for me. I could not eat; anything I tried to would not stay down. So he would douse my dry, cracked lips with water until I could drink drops of it. He knew that I was slowly starving to death. Sometimes at night he would give me something other than water. It burned my throat as it went down, but it made the pain and demons go away and it helped me sleep. His eyes used to fill up with tears when he had to drag me to the doctors. I used to scream at him, beg and plead with him. “No, no, no more pins in me. No more, please no more pins in me.” I would scream desperately.
Then one day he left and never came back. This was the day I knew that there was no hope.
I curled up as much as I could with my arms and legs strapped to the bed. I felt tears leak out of my eyelids. I shivered. All I could see was darkness. I was getting weaker, I could not feel anything. There was no pain anymore, and the demons had quieted down. They were waiting patiently in the hidden corners of the room. They ignored the scent of my tears; they knew that they could get more out of me than that. They would not have to wait long now. It was what I had been waiting for since I first came here. I was dying; I could feel it.
I was finally bleeding out.
Beta 1: Is this a (completed) one-shot?! This is amazing. It just made me feel Alice's pain the entire time I read it. It is absolutely heartbreaking to hear her describe how the doctors tortured her in the asylum and the vampire that was her small ray of hope, show kindness to her, and then he was suddenly gone. Great job. I had very few errors to correct, and they were not major in the slightest bit.
Beta 2 – I’d like to read the other one-shots that go along with this – it would be a great setup for a story, or just a standalone as it is. Good job with the description! Really, you only have minor usage errors. Just remember that when in doubt, a simple sentence is better than a run-on! For a title, depending on what the other one-shots are about or if it’s just for this one, how about something like “Craving Death” or “Wasting Away”? Something to convey the desperation/hopelessness. Good luck J - LC
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