80's Band Oneshots/ Imagines

James Hetfield x Lars Ulrich- Until The End

Anger is easier to feel than heartbreak. To keep it inside. Lock it up. The pain doesn't fade, it just becomes easier to ignore.

Anger is easier to let out, people don't judge you as much, don't look at you like you're some broken toy.

It's easiest to take it out onstage, scream it out, thrash around. That's how they got their name isn't it?

It's easier to just take a drink, and another. Head fuzzy, pleasantly unaware.

Fingers slip, that's okay, it was just one note.

Where you sleep at night doesn't matter when you can't tell where you are. Anywhere is just as comfortable as a bed if you're tired enough.

You have to numb yourself to numb the pain. Fall into the cycle. Wake up, throw up, fall back down.

He has to tell himself he didn't care. He was an asshole anyways.

Only in the most fragile hours does he let himself feel what's lurking underneath all the booze and anger.

He misses her. The world feels colder without her, sharper, more dangerous, cold, cold, cold.

He should call his sister. Maybe tomorrow.

He misses his friends. Did he have friends? Maybe a long time ago, before he left school. Now it's just a series of blurry faces and random couches. He should call his old band mates, the ones from leather charm.

Maybe tomorrow.

Let the cycle continue, wake up, read the newspaper, the world is still going to shit. Put it down

Wait

Personal ads, maybe he should place one. Yeah, that's a desperate way to find friends. How pathetic.

What about this one? It's been a while since he jammed. Maybe he should call this guy.

Maybe tomorrow.

His sister is worried about him. He's worried about himself too. But he can't tell her that.

I'm fine Deana.

No you're not, please just come home, Dave and Chris are worried about you too.

I'll call you later.

Another drink, smash the bottle. Blood on his palm. Doesn't look too bad, wrap it with some tape.

Sobriety begins to find its way back in. A sharp pain in his chest creeping back.

No, please no.

Another drink, it doesn't go away. Unfocused, unsteady, stabbing away at his insides.

Nothing left to break, can't scream. It feels like he's boiling from the inside. He's not a broken toy.

Play, just play until it goes away. Take his fingers, let them bleed, cut open on strings. Anger into something more, something less.

Write it down, on shitty napkins with broken pens. Words, angry, sad, melodic. Face it.

Call that guy from the ad.

He plays like shit, cymbals falling over, an embarrassed laugh, apologies muttered over and over.

Whatever. Feels nice to jam again

Want to grab a drink?

Fine.

It's the first time in a while he's had a real conversation with someone his age. This guy's accent is weird.