literature

dave mustaine died in my head

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The first time we met, I called him The Bitch. He lives inside my head dressed like a Nikki Sixx version of Sidney Poitier without the respectability, the panache or the blackness. His greasy orange Jeff Foxworthy mullet works scarily well with the Lemmy mutton chops and mustache, Stone Cold Steve Austin belly gut and Fat Albert outfit. He reeks of the rancid sweat you'd find on a hairy metalhead's drenched back at a Slayer concert, smiles like Cruella de Ville meeting Scar on an episode of Metalocalypse, and loves me as much as Hitler would. He didn't appreciate being called "The Bitch," so I changed it to the name I bestow upon the things I don't like particularly much in my life, like my car, my old laptop and my ex-best friend. I call him Dave Mustaine now. Blame the Metallica fan in me. I'm a dick, really, but not as much as him.

Is that what you think of me? A mélange of pop culture references? Is that what I am reduced to? How pathetic.

Yup. You're a Dave.

Typical. Always have to bring in metal.

Not all the time...

Uh, yeah, you do. It's kind of pathetic.

Shut up.

Right. Are you going to do this prompt right or what? You have to do a six to nine page paper for Leonard soon on postmodern blackness and you don't even know how you're going to connect Natasha Trethewey's poetry with Trey Ellis or bell hooks yet.

I'll figure it out, dick. Right now I want to knock this out.

Sure. You know already yours is going to be the weakest. Why are you bothering with this?

You know why.

Yeah, because you gotta. Sure. You had a full month to write on this prompt and what did you do? Procrastinate until the last minute. Typical.

I have five days.

Bullshit. You'll be revising and rewriting and restarting and using the word "and" to emphasize how many times you've been remaking this piece, as well as abusing the repetition of the word "r," because somehow you always end up using this style of stream-of-consciousness that no one has really commented on because you like doing run-on-sentences that are so Faulkner meeting Dalton Trumbo meeting Bret Easton Ellis, also known as the only authors you ever liked--

Alright. Point made. Let's work then.

Finally. And turn off that song.

Eradication of, earth's populations loooove... Polariiis.

And you just had to quote the song like you were singing them right in the piece. Pathetic. Again.

And you're just pissed that it's Megadeth, Dave.

Write the damn piece before I break out my Dean guitar then.

Fine then, motherfucker.

And stop cursing.

Oh come on!

It's not literary and you know it.

Whatever. Fine.

*

Two o'clock in the morning ticks on by. I'm still sitting on the bed staring at the damn blank document, black robe hanging open and loose around my wet shoulders. I've done everything to stop distracting myself. Laundry's in the drier. Roommates are passed out on vodka. Bedroom's clean. Apartment's spotless. AIM's off, music's on.

The cursor blinks. And blinks. Here, gone, here, gone, here, gone. Taunting me. Bastard.

And there he is, right on cue. Looming over my shoulder and--

This is what you're submitting? THIS?

... What? It's not good enough? I thought that was a good opener.

Re-read that. Do it. Right now.

Uh, okay. It's not that bad. I can always revise. As long as I get this out, I'll be okay. I have time remember?

This is horrendous. The descriptions are flat and weak. You could do so much better. Where are the metaphors? The similes? The personification? I thought you improved. This is it? Your amazing improvement?

It's the first fucking draft.  

It's the first sign of the same old shit. Excuse me while I go yawn and read some real authors.

Man... you really are a Dave.

And you really are pathetic. Are you going to give up finally? Maybe go write that paper?

How about you shut up and let me write?

Oh by all means, Miss So-Called Future Ray Bradbury. Go ahead. Achieve your dream of being a female Neil Gaiman, Terry Pratchett, Douglas Adams, Truman Capote, Arthur C. Clarke, Charles Bukowski. After all, you can't get as bad as Stephanie Meyers. Then again, who is published and who's the one who received fifty rejections for her first novel?

Fuck you. You always have to go for the low blows.

Of course. And what did I say about cursing?

Fine.

That's right. Do it again.

*

Sex shouldn't be hard to write. Two people meet -- man, woman, who cares, it's sex -- in some sort of setting that's reasonably described in an alluring, sensual or raunchy way, depending on the circumstances; they feel a spark or an emotion or insert relationship set-up here; then they end up in bed, or against a wall, or over a piece of furniture, or on the floor, or-- whatever. Seriously, whatever. Insert cock into pussy or into ass, maybe both; describe fucking in the context of the story's established mood that correlates well with the characters' personalities and their relationship; end story.

What is this?

What is what?

This.

Oh. I decided to go for something funny again. You know, I'm trying to write a sex story, and I can't do it, because you're there as usual, telling me to write this better, do this better, you're not good enough, try again... just like you are right now.

Come on. You should know better. Do you honestly think anyone is going to enjoy the way that was written? It's not funny in the least. Again, the descriptions are weak. So weak it's disgusting. I want to throw up.

I know descriptions are my weak point, but I've improved...

Please. I'd rather read your first story ever over this.

Dude. Not cool. That story was horrible. Horrible!

Give me Queen Beryl and Sailor Earth's Terra Amata Maia Gaea over this... garbage you're writing.

Low blow, Dave.

Break out the Pokemon fanfics while we're at it!

Fine, fine! I'll do it again! Fucking shit.

You cursed again.

ARGSDFL:WGk;uiowdjs;l fJSLFDJASL;FJLJFKLSDFKLSAJ G;RWU9SD.SAV

I swear. You're hopeless. Utterly. Hopeless.

And you're a grade A dick!

Shut up and do it again.

*

When we met at eleven, I didn't know what he looked like, but he had one hell of a voice. At first he was a she, La Madre herself, sneering in Spanish and English how much of an awful disgustingly dumb, horrendously uninspiring, boring angst-ridden cliche-dropping hyphen-abusing purple-prosin' cuntmuncher who should never, ever write again because I'll never be good enough for her or anyone else. (Spanish insults worsen the English ones in severity, vulgarity and overall awfulness to a young child's psyche; isn't bilingualism fun?)

I grew to live with her. She popped up at the worst times. I'm writing a paper, and then -- that isn't good enough, look at that line, look at this paragraph, that word, these words, you can't write, you can't do this, just stop, revise, rewrite, redo everything, why do you always repeat yourself, why do you stream of conscious this bullshit, it's not good and it's not literature, you're writing illiterate trifle, do you even know what that word means -- out of nowhere. She liked to do that a lot. Whether I wrote a short story, a fanfic or a poem, there she was, snarling into my ear to give up.

She transformed as I did. The more life experiences I endured, both good and bad, the more she appeared, suffocating the inspiration out of me. Forceful? Oh yeah. She was a Valkyrie out to kill me and never stopped. Instead she transformed into a powerful god sitting atop of the throne of Valhalla with his mighty hammer ready to bash--

You did it again.

Did what?

That. Bad descriptions. Bad, bad descriptions. Horrible metaphors. God I wanted to throw up. I almost did, really. It was that bad. I mean, Jesus Christ, must you always relate back to metal somehow? Can't you try, you know, country? Or blues? Something not obvious to you?

I do blues and country... I mean, I like all music. I read philosophy books too, and I read a lot of nonfiction. I like history and stuff.

That's not the point. The point is that this wasn't smart prose. You're trying too hard to be satirical. Making fun of erotica isn't literature. Name dropping isn't literature. Weak metaphors, weak similes, weak imagery isn't literature. This is grade A preteen level angst-ridden emo-driven Fanfiction.net vomit.

This is practice, dude. Practice is the key to becoming a better writer. I'll do my best with this, then see what the response is.

Tch. What has all that practice done for you? You've never taken your writing seriously. Oh, I'll write this piece for fun, get some comments, haha, twenty minutes later, some people saying, 'Oh that was great! More, please, more!' when it was nothing but two men screwing each other stupid with a melodramatic fake romance.

I hate you. I fucking hate you. You know how much I hate being called melodramatic. I hate you, bastard.

Stop crying. Stop cursing. Start writing. Do it again.

*

It's two o'clock in the morning baby, Lemmy growl-swoons into my ears. I know it's late. I know it's late. Yeah Lemmy, I know it's late. It's pretty damn late. Got school in eight hours, work immediately after, and yet, here we are. You, me, a half-drunk bottle of Jack Daniels, an unopened pack of menthols and good ol' Flamingo the Macbook.

Sex shouldn't be hard to write. Two men meet in a setting--

You already talked about this and it sucked. Don't mention sex again. Don't repeat yourself. Don't do the same stuff like you always do. Work harder. Try harder. Why can't you come up with anything different? This is so pathetic. When are you going to grow up and change? Why can't you finally break through that 'ceiling' you think is over your head? You know why you can't 'break through' like you want to? Because you're not good enough. You'll never be good enough.

Okay. Fine. Okay.

Good. Again.

*

I kicked off the covers hours ago while drunk on hate-inspired vodka, threw papers around, ripped off the curtains. Son of a bitch.

No cursing!

Sorry.

Damn right you are. Do it again.

Okay.

*

It's two o'clock in the morning and I'm still writing this poem. Which really isn't a poem to begin with. All I wrote on this Word document is the phrase "amethyst slings" as if that's going to lead me to an astounding metaphor for my life or my family's life. Or something.

Yeah, something. Something. Always have to resort to common words. Why is that? So you can relate to people's trains of thought? Is that why you do this? Again, pathetic. Not literary enough. Not good enough.

You're right. I'll do it again.

Now you're learning.

*

I'm crouched over the laptop screen, naked and wet from shower, Boze headphones blasting Motorhead for now. Lemmy's growl means sex business.

No sex.

I forgot. Sorry.

I bet you're sorry. Pathetic, as usual. You never learn. Do it again.

*

I named him Dave, after Dave Mustaine.

You already mentioned that and it sucked.

Okay. I'll... I'll do it again.

Good.

*

I work on a playlist of whatever the mood fits. The hardest part is choosing what to listen to. Tonight, I think I'll settle on some Motorhead. That'll change by the time I figure out what to write.

Too conversationalist.

But...

Do it again. Again! Don't argue with me! Don't look at me that way! Don't even speak! Just shut up and WRITE!

That's it. I'm done. I'm fucking done.

Of course you are. You're going to go cry and punch yourself stupid like the manic depressive you are then find some cigarettes and booze to devour before passing out naked on the bed only the wake up in the morning with a nine page paper to do and a hangover from hell. Aren't you?

You don't know me. You don't know shit. I'm sick and tired of this abuse, Dave. I'm sick and tired of you.

Abuse? This? I'm not hurting you. I'm helping and you know it. I'm your best friend. I'm the only one you've got. I've always been here and I'll never go away. Because I'm you. Name me whatever you want. Dave, Bitch, La Madre, Sidney Poitier, Lemmy for all I care. But I'm you. I can't go away. I'm always going to be here and you'll always need me.

Sad but true.

I knew you were going to bring them up again. You are getting too predictable in your so-called old age, young lady. Pathetic, predictable... how about you figure out another 'p' word for me since repeating first-letter words is kind of your thing? Does 'petty' work well? How about 'pretty stupid'? Oh no, that's two words. I think I'll go with 'paltry.' Probably don't even know what that word means, huh?

You know what 'p' word I'll go with? Passionate. I'm a goddamn passionate person who loves her life, herself and especially her writing. I may not be the best but I'll get there. I'm young. And you know what other 'p' word I'll use? Practice. Because I've practiced writing every day since eleven, breaking out at least one piece a day, because I want to improve. I'm a writer, Dave, a passionate writer who will always write and want to improve no matter what you say.

No you won't and you know it. You always gotta lie to yourself and again, pathetic, but I can't expect anything else out of you anymore. You're one of the many, many wannabe writers that will never improve "no matter how many stories you write," he condescends, his voice trailing off as he realizes she finally did the one thing he always feared. He's become corporeal.

"Wait." Panic changes his whole demeanor. The confidence melts away, revealing his true interior of pure cowardice designed by his shaking body frame and his yapping-dog whimpers. "What did you just do to me? What have you done to my personality? My... myself!"

Her low cackle causes his heart to collapse into his stomach. "Simple, Dave. I made you into a character. You are no longer thoughts in me, but a real person, with honest dialogue, a weak, flawed personality, and, for once, an ending. And since I am the author of this story, thus, the hero of this story, I'm going to do the one thing I should've done a long time ago." Dave's eyes sink right into his head as she materializes into her hands a bloodied chopping axe. "I'm going to give you the end."

"You can't do that!" he shrieks. "Stop this right now!"

Step by methodical step, she stalks towards him, waving the axe back and forth. Under her breath, she hums a Megadeth song he knows. Wake Up Dead.

Dave doesn't back down. "You fucking bitch! Fucking take me back! Make me italicized again!" He points right at her, arm trembling, feigning strength. "Don't you fucking do this you fucking cuntrag or you'll pay!"

Her head tilts to the side. She shakes her head slowly, like a disappointed mother admonishing her bad little boy. "Oh my, what language. Tisk tisk tisk. That just won't do."

Dave doesn't stand a chance.  He presses up against a wall that appeared out of nowhere. Chains suddenly snap his wrists and ankles in place, immobilizing him. He screams on top of his lungs, one last plea.

"I'm you! You can't do this!" Tears stream down his red puffy cheeks as his lips quiver in fear. "You'd be killing yourself!"

She stands in front of him, presses the axe against his throat. Her smirk cuts her lower face like a knife slice, lips stretched from ear to ear, white teeth gleaming. "I just did."

Dave doesn't get the chance to scream. In one move, she slices his head clear off his shoulders. For good measure, she takes a page from the Shining and splits open his caved-in torso, dark blood gushing, flowing down the wall to the floor. For laughs, she hacks off his limbs so he looks like the Black Knight from Monty Python.

Her body heaves from effort. She drops the axe onto the floor. Blood splashes onto her already stained jeans. Brown eyes glance down to the severed head floating in blood. She leans down, grabs the bloodied red hair, picks it up and stares into permanently afraid brown eyes-- eyes like her own.

With one hand, she digs her two fingers into the head, yanks out the eyes and crushes them. She drops them both to the floor and leaves them there to rot. It's time to properly end this story.

*

Only Lemmy can make a gravely snarl croon like a canary. It's two o'clock in the morning baby, he sings into my ears. I know it's late. I know it's late.

Yeah Lemmy, I know it's late. It's pretty damn late. Got school in eight hours, work immediately after, and yet, here we are. You, me, and this blank Word document on Flamingo's glowing screen.

My fingers rest on the dirty, half-broken keyboard. The words come to me and for once, I let them, without hesitation.

The first time we met, I called him The Bitch.

I smile. This sounds promising already.
2,945 words.

:iconscreamprompts: challenge #1, Kill Your Inner Editor.

I revised this story about four times through March. My depression flared up for two of those weeks, so it was very difficult writing this piece. (When my depression hits I lose interest in writing first.)

When I was writing this story, my Inner Editor kept popping up, telling me, "That's horrible, write it again." So those breaks in the story were when that Inner Editor came out and told me to write again. I was so frustrated and thought I'd never finish this. Then I thought, "Why don't I write what my inner thoughts are? How I have a conversation with myself when the bitch comes out?" So I did that, and in the end, I killed him. And it worked. I feel so much better. This truly was a therapeutic experience. Maybe this wasn't the best writing; maybe it's not creative. But you know? Writing is a learning experience and I want to learn. Ding-dong the Dave is dead. Trinny is ready to live a happy writing life without him.

tl;dr: #ScreamPrompts fucking rules; so does *raspil.

P.S: I really fucking love my title, LOL.
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TheSkaBoss's avatar
Fucking. Awesome.

(BURN, FOURTH WALL, BURRRRN!)