It became very hard to get up in the morning. It was becoming harder to find the motivation to leave the bed or to do anything at all. For [Name], it just felt like this dark cloud had consumed her and she's been lost in the fog ever since.
"[Name], get up already!" Her mother shouted from across the hall. There was no sizzling bacon to be heard or the scent of food anywhere. In fact, no one ever really cooked in the house.
[Name] sighed, already feeling nervous about facing the new day, as her sock-clad feet touched the worn hardwood floors of her room. As soon as her body left the sanctuary of her bed, ripples of goosebumps ran through her body. It was a cold world and the girl wasn't sure she wanted a part of it anymore.
The house was old. It was a relic of the past, a family heirloom, passed from her grandparents to her mother. It wasn't much and even at times, [Name]'s mother struggled to pay the mortgage or to renew registration on the only car they own.
It was safe to say that the girl couldn't afford to keep up the new and booming fashion trends of the early 1980s. [Name] wasn't too phased by it. She slowly walked to her cramped closet, pulling out her dark grey sweater. The fabric was the thickest she had, as worn as it was, it was her best bet for California's winter.
She pulled the sweater over her white tank top, then looking for a pair of well-worn jeans and her tattered sneakers. As soon as she was dressed, she heads downstairs to see her mother dressed in her uniform already.
"For Christ's sake, it took you long enough, [Name]. Did you eat yet?" Her mother inquired, looking at her reflection on one of the drying pots on the dish rack. Today was a big day for [Name]'s mother to potentially get the promotion she was breaking her back for.
"No," [Name] replied, looking through the pantry for the cereal.
[Name]'s mother shook her head, frowning, and muttered, "Hurry up. You know how important this day is for me."
It was simple to say: [Name]'s morning had been rushed. When her mother dropped her off at school, the tired girl could've sworn her mother burn rubber turning out of the parking lot.
Today's goal for [Name] was the same one as yesterday's—get through the day.
School has always been another lonely aspect of the girl's life. If there was anything that kept her coming back, it was the insistence of her mother and the school's art room.
[Name] had her portfolio ready, with her newish self-portrait project safe inside it. Today was critique day for Mrs. Matthews's class.
On the other side of campus, James Hetfield has fretted over the self-portrait project.
"Fuck, I'm going to fail," James muttered, angrily glancing at the crumpled art assignment he had. The blond boy couldn't even manage to keep his assignment in his portfolio. In fact, he forgot about the thing, which was probably lounging around under a bed at his brother's house.
Cliff glanced the piece, closing his locker as he observed, "It isn't that bad, man. You're beating yourself up."
"I can't do this, Cliff. I can't express myself through art—I do that through music. I can't draw for shit and I'm still pissed the counselors put me in that class," James rambled to his denim-clad best friend.
"I'm telling you, dude. Stop beating yourself up, you're gonna ruin your whole day like that," Cliff responded.
James shrugged it off, closing his locker, heading down the hall to look for Kirk and Lars before the first period.
—-
"Good morning everyone, I'm assuming we're all ready for today's critique?" Mrs. Matthews questioned, giving a smile to the class of sleepy or panicked teens.
James shied away from his teacher's gaze, trying to hide his assignment with his arms. The project wasn't a literal self-portrait unless you wanted to do that. Instead, James decided to make a collage of things that represented him. He'd never admit it, but he had spent a fair share of time on this thing—cutting up his metal magazines, pictures from that new magazine Thrasher, and anything else he could think of.
"Nice to you to join us, Ms. [Surname]," Mrs. Matthews commented, noticing the tardy girl walking in a few minutes late.
[Name] had rosy cheeks, a bright red nose, and her hair was disheveled. It was clear she came running from outside. James has always found the girl, who was his seat partner, a bit enigmatic and strange.
She pulled her seat out, sitting beside James, placing her portfolio on the desk. She didn't mutter a hello to anyone, or an apology for being late. In fact, James wasn't even sure he had ever heard her before.
[Name] was odd, standoffish, but intriguing, and there was no denying she wasn't a talented artist. James was a bit curious to see what she did. He would be lying if he hasn't peeked at her in the process of doing art before.
This project was a complete mystery though.
The class began the critique with students walking around the room, observing each other's art. James felt a bit distressed at leaving his collage out for everyone to see but he had no choice. He already had a low B in the class and he wasn't risking going down to a C. He's already failing English, so the last thing he needed was to fail art—out of all things—too.
As everyone walked around the room, James lingered at his desk, waiting for [Name] to pull her piece out. It felt like the world was in slow motion for two seconds as the girl's fragile hand's unzipped the portfolio. What the girl pulled out was nothing he had ever expected.
Mixed mediums—charcoal and watercolors. All cool colors too. James wasn't too sure how the girl managed to make watercolor coexist with charcoal but it was magnificent. However, he never felt so aghast before.
[Name]'s self-portrait was terrifying. It displayed a girl ripping herself out of a scrawny, dark
bone-like creature. It looked awesome, almost like a cover out of Kirk's horror magazines. The awe ended as soon as James remembered this was a self-portrait and not a comic cover.
James didn't forget the piece, even after the critique was long over and as the school day gradually went on. Even as he bullshitted around with his bandmates, skateboarded around Lars's garage, James couldn't rip the image away from his kind. All he wanted to know was: who is [Name]? Why does she see herself that way?
James was sure he wasn't the only one who wondered that. The girl was vague to explain her piece, but it was enough for Mrs. Matthews to talk to her after class.
Who was she? How would he talk to her?
—-
It's been almost a week. All it did was fucking rain and rain. James was a bit tired of it. How was he supposed to shred in this weather?
It was even worse in art. Whenever James would hype himself to speak to the aloof girl, she wasn't there. But it's been a week and no one has seen [Name] in any of her classes.
It wasn't until this Friday did James bother to ask Mrs. Matthews if she knew anything.
The rain kept pounding against the windows of the class. It was another grey day, almost just as dark as the portrait.
"Hey, uh, Mrs. Matthews?" James questioned, sounding a bit timorous. He hated this class, especially because he was anxious about Mrs. Matthews. The lady was older and had a mean-streak when necessary.
"Yes, James?" The teacher responded, placing the chalk against the board. She was surprised to see James, out of all students, approach her.
"I was just wondering if you knew where [Name] went? She's been gone almost a week," James asked, glancing at [Name]'s empty chair.
Mrs. Matthews's smile seemed somber, "Oh. That poor girl, she's really troubled, you know? I've tried to talk to the counselors and her mother. From what I've heard from the office, she's in the hospital. The lass caught pneumonia."
"Oh, that sucks. Um, thanks for telling, Mrs. M," James replied, feeling shocked at the news. Pneumonia can be a big deal.
The girl never leaves his mind nowadays, even as he ran to Cliff's truck. The rain was still pouring down hard and none of the boys were prepared for it.
"I'm so damn sick of this rain," James complained, his blond hair matted and soaked.
"Tell me about it," Cliff muttered in reply, turning the engine on. From the distance, the two could see an energetic Lars and Kirk running towards the pickup truck.
"Only those two idiots would be happy about this weather," James commented, snorting in laughter at the wild expressions his other best friends made.
"Let's gooo," Lars shouted, opening the door, and jumping inside. Kirk was quick to follow his lead, the two making a mess of the back.
"Dude, you're getting mud everywhere," Cliff, in an exasperated tone, told Lars.
"Sorry," Lars replied, but from the cheeky grin on his face, it was clear the Danish little shit wasn't anything but sorry.
The four teenage boys, safely made it to Lars's house, thanks to Cliff. From there on, just like every other Friday night, the boys had jammed, messed around, and wrote more songs.
Lars and Kirk were inside Lars's house, helping Mrs. Ulrich with something, while Cliff and James lounged around the couch. After a moment of silence, a break from jamming, James decided to speak up.
"Hey man, I got a question to ask," James said.
"Shoot," Cliff responded, urging the blond to continue on.
"You know [Name] [Surname], right? The weird and shy chick?" James asked, feebly explaining the girl.
After a few moments of pondering, Cliff nodded, "Yeah man, I have English with her. She's been gone for a week or some shit."
"Yeah, I know. She's my seat partner in art and I decided to ask Mrs. Matthews about it. Apparently, [Name] is in the hospital with pneumonia." James rambled, explaining [Name]'s absence.
"Damn, that blows," Cliff responded. That was the end of the conversation about [Name] as Lars and Kirk came back with food.
Even later that night, James kept thinking about the girl. Rolling around the messy sheets of his bed, the blond decided to find the girl and visit her.
—-
James has always disliked hospitals. The place reminded James of bad memories. Plus, it smelt too clean and antiseptic—it felt unnatural to him. Of course, there was some good to these places, but it couldn't outweigh the lingering death he felt in the place.
"Room 205...206...209...212—bingo," James muttered, looking at the plaque that listed [Name]'s room number.
All the sudden, James felt incredibly nervous. He wasn't too sure what he'd say or how she would react. He was even tempted to turn around and leave the awful place, but some kept him from doing so.
Taking a deep breath, James knocked on the wooden door, opening it to see a very pale [Name]. The girl was coughing harshly, her face flushed red, and looked terribly tired. Her breathing was rushed as if any moment was the last breath.
[Name], despite looking miserable, appeared very shocked. The silence consuming the room was very awkward and to a lesser degree, even painful.
James sheepishly gave the girl a grin, sitting on the chair nearest to her bed, "Um, hey—bet you weren't expecting me."
[Name] nodded, still looking shocked and feverish, "In all honesty, I wasn't expecting anyone, James."
Shit, why did James put himself in this situation? He should've just left the girl alone.
"Oh, why's that?" James asked, feeling stupid.
[Name] shrugged, laying back down against her pillow, "Don't have friends. Not that I mind you being here, but why are you here?"
James wasn't too sure what to say, so he blurted out, "I can't stop thinking about it—your self-portrait."
"It was a shocker, wasn't it?" [Name] replied, giving James a pensive smile.
"Do you really feel that way?" James couldn't help but ask. The curiosity was eating him alive.
"Yeah, I do. No one has really asked before, no one has ever cared. I feel so alone," [Name] confessed, breathing a bit harder.
"I care. You know, I think you've been on my mind lately because I saw something in that drawing that I've related to—that loneliness." James revealed.
"You're lonely?" [Name] inquired, staring at James with glossy eyes.
"Not always. I have my friends—my band and they're there for me. I know that now. But before them, a few years ago, it was just me. My mom died of cancer two years ago and my dad isn't around. I live with my half-brother," James explained, revealing parts of himself he usually kept to himself. There was the strange, enigmatic aura that told him [Name] knew what he felt.
"I'm sorry," [Name] told James, before adding on, "It's just me and my mom. I never knew my biological dad and the closest person I had as father figure died when I was ten—car accident. My mom's been detached and astringent since then."
"Yeah, I guess we're both coming from shitty backgrounds, right? You don't have to let that consume you though. You don't have to be alone anymore," James said.
"Yeah, you're right," [Name] replied, giving James a small smile.
The next twenty-four hours were the longest. James spent the day with the girl, and as closer he got to her, the more he noticed how bad she looked—it was scary.
James tried not to think about it, even when [Name] would cough and wheeze. Sometimes, the nurse would try to shoo him out the room, until [Name] insist he'd stay.
At first, the two talked about shitty things, like [Name]'s relationship with her estranged mother. But now the two were talking about anything and everything—favorite music, movies, [Name]'s art, and James's band.
"I'd like to hear you guys sometime," [Name] told James, who laughed.
"You don't look like you'd be into to fast and hard stuff," James replied, snickering at his own innuendo.
[Name] rolled her eyes, laughing, "You'd be surprised, Hetfield."
The laughing was followed by more coughing.
"I'll tell you next time we play a gig. It'll be fun," James replied, trying to shove down the lingering concern he had. That cough sounded bad.
"I bet. It's not every day someone can say they were seat partners with a future rockstar," [Name] said, smiling at the blond.
"You're such ass kisser," James responded, blushing at the comment.
"Ha, what can I say? I aim to please, Hetfield," [Name] answered, the cheeky grin still on her face.
It was so refreshing to see her smile. She looked beautiful when she smiled, as cheesy as that sounded.
And once you got the shy girl to talk, she'd never shut up. [Name] started rambling about anything she could think, feeling happy she had someone to talk to. It pained her to see James get kicked out by her nurse, claiming visiting hours were over.
"I'll see you tomorrow, [Name]," James said, waving bye to the girl.
Tomorrow never came, not for [Name].
James wouldn't know until tomorrow morning when he tried visiting the girl. He even brought one of his older acoustic guitars, thought he would play her something.
He never got the chance. He never got the chance to take her to the show or introduce her to the band.
Septic shock. [Name] died from septic shock, and for only truly knowing the girl for a day as a friend rather than a classmate, James Hetfield never felt so distraught.
That day he had seen [Name]'s mother. For a woman that was described as distant and callous, she looked like a grieving mother at that moment. She looked hysterical, crying to the nurse, "She's all I had and now she's gone."
That was painful to see.
It was even worse, seeing people mourn about her in the school hallways as if they were friends with her. In reality, no one started caring until it was too late and she was gone, including him. It made James feel sick to his stomach and bitter. He wished had befriended her sooner.
It wasn't fair. Maybe, just maybe, had she not gotten sick, they would've been a thing too. She was so damn cool, even pretty when you stopped to really look at her.
James would never know what could have happened, and for years, it would keep him up wondering about the what if's.
The first one is: what if she lived?
Author's Note:
Hi everyone, I apologize for not updating or finishing requests. I've been swamped with college but I hope to do some writing this weekend. As for this imagine, it was unrequsted and impulsive quick-write on my part. I re-read Sarah's Hybrid Moments and got emo about James, which inspired me to write this, so thanks Sarah!! I know for sure that James is OOC in this but it be like that sometimes. Lastly, I apologize for any grammar, spelling, and punctuation.