Metalocalypse - The Stories You Tell (PG)
Opening the door a couple of inches, Pickles peered out to see who had knocked, and wasn't surprised to see the manager there. He took in the pyjama bottoms visible below the dark blue dressing gown, the mussed up hair, and the dark lines under his eyes.
"It's two-am," the drummer said quietly, without malice.
"I know," Charles replied.
"Can't sleep again?"
He shook his head in reply.
Pickles stood back and opened the door wider. "Come in." Charles silently entered and seated himself on the edge of the bed.
It had been five months since the fire, and fortunately, the damage had been mostly isolated to the rooms on the east, and repairable. Structurally, Mordhaus had been built to withstand a war, and it had proven to be a good move. After some refurbishment, the building was almost as before, from the outside.
The same could almost be said of the manager. After a lengthy rehabilitation as his chest healed, all that was left were some scars – two white star shapes, each on his chest and his back, and a single pale line down his left cheek. From a distance, it was barely visible. From a distance, he was as well as he was before.
But, Pickles knew as he sat down on his bed and leant back against the headboard, appearances could be deceiving. How could anyone really recover with the knowledge that someone was out there, waiting to torture them? It was the third time this week that Charles had turned up at his door, and that Pickles had distracted him with stories and weed until the man fell asleep. It was the only way lately, it seemed.
Seeing him sitting awkwardly on the edge of his bed, Pickles motioned for Charles to sit next to him. "Hey, c'mere." The manager obliged wordlessly, and sunk against the drummer as he wrapped an arm around him, grabbing a joint and lighter from his bedside table.
"I rolled us one already, in case you... you know."
"Thankyou." Charles nodded gratefully.
Pickles stroked his hair lightly in acknowledgement. "Wanna hear more stories about Snakes N' Barrels?"
Charles nodded, resting his head on the drummer's shoulder, appreciating the contact. "Magazines would pay a fortune for what you tell me."
"Yeah, well," Pickles mumbled around the joint as he lit up, "they ain't gonna hear none of it. Only you."
Charles gave a rare smile.
"It's two-am," the drummer said quietly, without malice.
"I know," Charles replied.
"Can't sleep again?"
He shook his head in reply.
Pickles stood back and opened the door wider. "Come in." Charles silently entered and seated himself on the edge of the bed.
It had been five months since the fire, and fortunately, the damage had been mostly isolated to the rooms on the east, and repairable. Structurally, Mordhaus had been built to withstand a war, and it had proven to be a good move. After some refurbishment, the building was almost as before, from the outside.
The same could almost be said of the manager. After a lengthy rehabilitation as his chest healed, all that was left were some scars – two white star shapes, each on his chest and his back, and a single pale line down his left cheek. From a distance, it was barely visible. From a distance, he was as well as he was before.
But, Pickles knew as he sat down on his bed and leant back against the headboard, appearances could be deceiving. How could anyone really recover with the knowledge that someone was out there, waiting to torture them? It was the third time this week that Charles had turned up at his door, and that Pickles had distracted him with stories and weed until the man fell asleep. It was the only way lately, it seemed.
Seeing him sitting awkwardly on the edge of his bed, Pickles motioned for Charles to sit next to him. "Hey, c'mere." The manager obliged wordlessly, and sunk against the drummer as he wrapped an arm around him, grabbing a joint and lighter from his bedside table.
"I rolled us one already, in case you... you know."
"Thankyou." Charles nodded gratefully.
Pickles stroked his hair lightly in acknowledgement. "Wanna hear more stories about Snakes N' Barrels?"
Charles nodded, resting his head on the drummer's shoulder, appreciating the contact. "Magazines would pay a fortune for what you tell me."
"Yeah, well," Pickles mumbled around the joint as he lit up, "they ain't gonna hear none of it. Only you."
Charles gave a rare smile.
Inspired by Calling Out by Diamond Head:
Roll me another so I fall asleep
And the stories you tell me are mine alone to keep
Close your eyes, and hold me, I'm feeling so lonely
I'm trembling inside, don't let go
I'm calling out, can you hear me when I cry?
I'm calling out, I can't hide
I'm reaching out to touch the sky
I'm calling out, calling out
Roll me another so I fall asleep
And the stories you tell me are mine alone to keep
Close your eyes, and hold me, I'm feeling so lonely
I'm trembling inside, don't let go
I'm calling out, can you hear me when I cry?
I'm calling out, I can't hide
I'm reaching out to touch the sky
I'm calling out, calling out