Preserving My Youth
Summary: I, Murdoc Niccals, am afraid of aging. I'm afraid to die. I'm afraid of disappearing. (Slight murdoc/2D)
I squint as the bright light is beamed into my eyes, placing a hand over my sensitive red one. In any other situation, I would grumble and protest, perhaps start a fit. I'm good at tantrums, and getting what I want. I'm a rock star. If I don't want green M&M's in my bowl, I won't have them in the bowl or I'll throw a fucking fit. What I want is what I get.
I get whatever I want, no matter what the cost is to anyone else. With our first paycheck, I bought the Winnebago instead of paying the bills. Every whore, slut, groupie I've ever wanted, I got, even if it meant breaking some boyfriends' hearts or it cost more money then she was worth. My image not tough enough? A black eye, wounded pride, migraines for 2D.
Even though the light is so bright, so white, everything else around looks so much darker in contrast. The walls are yellow, the flag seems dipped in shadows, and the knives give off a glint that make my blood run cold. The water is running in the kitchen, plates and cabbage patch kids put off to the side, as cold as it can possibly go. The water's also running in the shower, the door open and the water freezing. I shift in the soiled mattress, mumbling something along the lines of 'Satan, my head hurts...', I don't remember anymore.
(Loss of memory comes with old age, they say.)
"Is there an' offering 'low the bed? An', an', th' cross... it's..."
I sigh, my head falling to the side. I feel old. I feel so old. My beer gut hangs over my white briefs, the ones I got for this occasion. My skin looks sallow in the light, and my flesh is wrinkled.
I watch as my fingers move slowly, making random motions. Skin stretches over bone, and I swear I can actually see inside myself, my worn muscles moving according to how my nerves tell them too. Veins clogged with Satan-knows-what, bright blue and spidery, a highway to pump my blood through my thirty-nine year old body.
The slight movement of his body, which is next to mine, makes me jump. I chew my lip, staring intently. Was he awake? He had taken five blue pills and two of the big white ones, which was a guaranteed combination to put one into a deep sleep. Also known as a coma. 'Been into one before, brain ache...' I think, as I tentatively flatten down 2D's blue spiky hair, onto his forehead which is beading with perspiration from the bright light above. His eyes are closed, and he looks peaceful. Ignorance is bliss.
(My god what have I done to you, dullard?)
I look at brain-ache, and it's deja vu all over again. Last time I saw him like this, he was bandaged up and I was sitting next to him, holding his hand just to feel his pulse. I felt it strengthen, slowly.
Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump.
Slowly, softly, tenderly, I take his hand, feeling his pulse. It feels dull; like that day I dented Stu-pot in the eye. I sigh, let his hand fall onto the mattress, and turn away, staring intently at the new flag he put up, saying it'd bring good luck. I hate it. I want my confederate flag back.
"Mr.Niccals," The shower is turned off, and I hear Dr.Fluffchester empty the ice into the kitchen sink. There's more loud noises as he moves the 'DedEx' boxes around, so they're in close range of the bed. "We're almost ready. Is Mr... Two-Dents ready?"
He says the name like those goddamn fan girls. Everyone loves 2D. He's innocent. He gains pity every time I punch him. Applause with any even remotely witty saying. Swooning with any unintentional movement of the hips, batting of the eyes.
(I'm jealous of a fucking retard who's sitting in a coma.)
"Yea, yea, he's ready. We're both ready, so can't you two fuckin' hurry up?" I snarl, lifting myself up weakly with my elbow, giving the cross-dressing Dr.Fluffchester and dirty glare. He swallows, nervously skittering off to go find him.
I fall back against the bed, exhausted, panting for breath. My lungs are destroyed from smoking whatever I could get my paws on for years. I look up, at the light, before turning my face to the wall again. I'm ready.
(No, I'm not, I'm such a fucking pansy. I'm turning 40. My dad died at 53..)
My eyes feel heavy, and I give in, falling into a light sleep. Figures dance in front of my eyes; 2D, dancing on the set of Dirty Harry, carefree and full of energy...
(As I struggle to stay awake, drowning myself in booze so I wont notice my face in the mirror when I stumble in the hotel room.)
Waving goodbye to Noodle as she sets off on the windmill-
(She hasn't came back..)
Caught Russel overeating again; he still misses Del. And Noodle out on her own worries him...
(Self-destruction is a terrible thing to witness.)
I scream, bolting upright and panting heavily. Sweat's dripping down my face, and my grimy hair is plastered to my forehead. I brush the hair away from my eyes, giving the man before me a stony glare.
Dr.Wurzel grins at me, the knife that his hand's wrapped around buried deep into the wood of my closet. He has that look on his face; and I swear he'd rather have that knife buried in my chest, with me gasping like a speared fish underneath. He looks just the same as he did a few years ago, with his outrageous afro and glowing white eyes. He pokes a tongue out of the missing tooth he has on the bottom of his jaw, making a queer whistling noise that reminds me of the soundtrack to one of dullard's shitty zombie flicks.
"Hullo, Mudsy." He hisses softly, wrenching the knife out of the cupboard. He looks down at my upright cross, and lets out a wheezy laugh. "My god, are you desperate."
"Shut th' fuck up, I only called you- nobody else will do it, fuck, an' I want this." I snarl, clutching at my stripped down bed. Dr.Wurzel still gives me the willies. He had stolen my old Winnebago, an obsessed fan gone over the edge. Used to be our manager, right at the beginning, where he got us our first gig. We dumped him; we didn't love him, but he still loved us. "I'd rather fuckin' turn Christian then see your face but..." I falter. He's the only one who'd do this, who wouldn't tell anyone that I was drugging my lead singer to steal his organs.
"You're so, so desperate, aren't you, Mudsy?"
He walks forward, and uses the flat of the blade to tilt 2D's face to the side, whistling tunelessly to himself. My stomach drops, and I think I'm going to be sick.
"Hmm, fuuuh-nee, he does look like that doll you made." He says, looking at me, his eyes sparkling. I grimace.
"Let's get this shit over-"
"Mr.Niccals, this is my show." He hisses loudly, too loudly, spinning on me with the knife inches from my face. "And, unless you want to say bye-bye to being young again and die soon like your ol' Papa," A grin covers his face, painted on like an ugly clown. "Then shut- yourself- up."
I want to say something. Anything. Show this dirty fuck-nut who's boss, god damned jerk off, who the fuck does he think he's messing with? But all I do is grit my teeth, giving him something between a smile and a grimace.
(I don't want to die i don't want to die i don't want to die.)
He turns to 2D, motioning for Dr.Fluffchester. He stumbles over his high-heels, blushes, and then grabs the anesthetic. He wheels the green stuff over, which is sitting from a bag, ready to drip down and make me go night-night. Wurzel takes his knife, and with speed I hadn't reckoned coming from him he snatches my arm. The knife nicks a cut a few centimeters deep, and I bite my lip to keep from yelling. I wonder, too late now, if he is actually a doctor or just dislikes the name Mr.Wurzel.
Blood drips off of the knife, my own blood, and he wipes it calmly onto his starched white coat, a bright red splash of ugly. He motions calmly to Dr.Fluffchester, who's inspecting his nails.
Fluffchester hands it over, and he jams the tube into the cut. I stifle a scream, noticing the blood dripping slowly from the wound, the tube already pumping the green gunk into my system.
(Lights out in 5, 4, 3, 2...)
My eyelids droop, mouth hangs open slightly. Dr.Wurzel doesn't notice, going on to 2D and cutting his wrist open. Blood splatters.
"Watch it, fucknuts. Don't you- you better not..." My head spins. Everything is going black, and I barely register the insane man turning to look at me, watching me coldly. "Don't hurt... him..." But my voice is weak. Not just from the anesthetic. From the realization. The irony. Bitter, bitter, it's more bitter then the tangy blood I taste in my mouth, after Wurzel hits me hard, and I bite my tounge, and he's looking at me-
"You dun worry, Mudsy. I'll cut him up- just for you." He growls.
(You're going to kill him, to save yourself. 2D. Stu. Gone. Dead.)
And it's black.