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If you want the fucking part, earn it.
No matter how loudly he played, Andrew couldn’t stop hearing Fletcher’s words in his head. He swung his sticks, side by side, drum by drum, with such ferocity that he could feel his bandages come loose again. The blood in his hands was no longer seeping but pouring. Still, no matter how many times the cymbals ranged through his ears or how painful it felt to so much as hold the drumming sticks, Fletcher’s voice was the only thing he paid any attention to.
If you want the fucking part, earn it.
The bass drum pedal felt heavier and heavier as his foot grew more tired. The crash cymbal started to become loose. Was he not playing right? It couldn’t be the drum set, it couldn’t be the fucking drum set, meaning Andrew simply wasn’t playing right. He felt exhausted, defeated. Thoughts of Connoly taking the part he worked so hard to get took over his mind. Nicole, the girl that took so much courage to ask out in the first place, walking out after hearing he probably would end up resenting her if they continued going out, took over his mind. And in the center of all of these aching thoughts were Fletcher’s words, pumping like a filthy, poisonous heart.
If you want the fucking part, ear–
“Fuck! FUCK!” bellowed Andrew as he began to whale down on his snare drum, opening a huge hole in it.
Pain immediately shot up Andrew’s arm and, although he didn’t so much as wince, he sat there on his stool for minutes at a time. He could ignore the pain, but it wasn’t until the blood started pooling near the drum set that he stood to get his ice pitcher. Plunging his crimson-red hand into the ice, he was met with a freezing, yet cooling, sensation that shot up his arm almost as fast as the pain from punching the snare. Andrew let his fist go and the ice water changed from clear to murky red. He closed his eyes and breathed in and out while he let his hand rest.
He began thinking about his first drum set. 7 years old, his father got him his first set for his birthday, and not a day went by that Andrew didn’t bother his old man to record him playing. Drumming lessons must’ve cost a fortune, yet Andrew’s dad was always willing to pay. There was a future for the young drummer and he wanted nothing more than to reach it.
So if he has to buy another snare drum and end up plunging his whole arm into an ice pitcher, so be it. He’ll make himself bleed and bleed and bleed until he can no longer make out Fletcher’s voice in the middle of his double-time.
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“Dad, Dad, you gotta see this. Trust me, it’s gonna be awesome!”
7-year-old Andrew Neiman grabbed a camcorder and practically threw it at his father, who caught it with a umphf. Next, he grabbed his sticks and sat on his stool behind his new drum set. Jim Neiman hoped that, after three weeks since he got his set, Andrew would eventually get tired or bored and stop being insistent on being recorded every damn time he played on the damn thing.
“Dad, c’mon! I’ve been practicing every day. Hit record, c’mon, dad!”
“Alright, alright, Andy. But afterward, I better see your room picked up. It’s been almost a whole weekend.” He pressed the record button just as Andrew got into the playing position.
“Hey, Dad, look at my paradiddle,” said Andrew as he began to slam his sticks against the splash cymbal and the snare in a beat. He then began to speed up as began to reach for the ride cymbal and pressed the bass pedal. It was admittedly messy, yet Andrew wasn’t looking at the drums; he was looking at his dad, at his approval.
Jim smiled. One of these days, the little guy will get bored, and the drum set will collect dust. But, for now, seeing his son find passion in such a loud and noisy thing is the most wonderful thing he laid eyes on.
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At this point, he couldn’t even feel his hands. For all he knew, fucking splinters were penetrating his hands and he wouldn’t even notice. He just kept slamming the sticks against the tom drums and the snares and the cymbals and FUCK, was he tired. Was he playing music? He lost track of the song’s notes a while back.
The drum pedal felt weightless as well, the nerves of his legs feeling exposed. The hi-hats pedal gave out an hour ago, which was somehow possible. Andrew kept what was left of a rhythm and stroked the snare and floor tom before bringing it up and down the cymbals. Up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and downn, u- and do-w, up, dowwn, uh, dow-
A sharp pain in his heart stopped Andrew in his tracks that instant. He let the bloody sticks fall and the practice room fell silent. He grasped at his chest, his eyes shut, and a wince broke from his clenched teeth. He tried breathing. He tried again. And again. Damn, breathing was making itself real difficult. Andrew was no longer breathing but gasping for air, hoping for this heartburn to go away.
A familiar door opening noise could be heard, albeit very faint. Andrew turned his head and his heart only seemed to clench tighter at his face.
For the love of God, how the fuck… it can’t… what the fuck…
“Look at you, Nee-man. Thirty years old, one of the most influential and most well-versed drummers in modern day and you're here, clenching your chest like a heartbroken high-school girl. 11 years, you’re still the pansy-ass pansy I met in Schaffer.”
Andrew furrowed his brows in anger and frustration. “Shut the fuck up, I know damn well it ain’t you.”
Fletcher took off his coat and let it fall on the floor, along with his hat. “Are you sure? With the shit you stick in your blood system, can you really trust your judgment? What are you doing anyways? Pick up the goddamn sticks and practice. You got a concert in six hours.”
“I-I can’t. My heart-”
Fletcher rolled his eyes and walked closer. “What, you want me to bless it? Are you gonna confess your undying love for me and your heart can’t contain it? Pick up the fucking sticks, Nee-man, and play the fucking sheet!”
Andrew read the two sheets of music, Overdosage. Letting go of his chest, he picked up his sticks, rearranged the bandages of his hands, and began playing.
“Faster.”
Andrew stroked faster.
“Faster!”
Andrew stroked faster, practically sliding the sticks across the drums and cymbals. He swung his arms left and right, right and left until he could no longer hear music.
“FASTER, GODDAMMNIT! I swear, look at you! I’ve seen coked-up prostitutes with more tact and self-respect than you! They sure as hell can stroke faster as well. Get on the FUCKING TEMPO!”
His face was dripping with sweat and tears. It can’t be him, it can’t be him. Yet, he sounded so much like him.
“Maybe if you used the time to practice and not stick that heroin into your arms, you’d be better by now. Maybe your dad will finally answer back, maybe your mommy will come back. You miss her? You miss mommy, you fruit-fuck piece of shit? Maybe GET ON MY FUCKING TIME AND MAYBE SOMEONE WILL GIVE YOU THE LIGHT OF DAY!”
Andrew just kept on playing, the muscles of his arms feeling so numb that the could-
Could-
Fuck, was he tired. No matter-
How fast or loud, Fletcher’s voi-
“Yeah, that’s my boy!”
That didn’t sound like Flecther.
“Dad.”
“You’re doing a good job, son. You did a good job.”
His heart started numbing as well. Hell, he couldn’t even feel it bea━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━