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"Taylor…the fuck is wrong with you?"
Surprising that was coming from someone who also had similar issues to him.
Number 8, or that's what he was called while performing. Beneath the persona, his real name was Corey Taylor. He was still relatively new to the band, joining around 1997 while the band was attempting to gain a following. He accomplished just that, and the band successfully found a rise to fame and a fanbase, starting in 1999.
Iowa was a peculiar name for an album, but he had no concern with it nonetheless. What he was concerned with, though, was everything else. A constant war with the other band members, inner turmoil and dealing with his own addictions, and ultimately was unprepared for how significant this group would become. They fell into the typical lifestyle of metalheads, and it felt as if they were in a hole they couldn't escape from.
The recording process tonight was for a grueling song, and the closing track for the album. Coincidentally, penned Iowa. They didn't have many plans for it, but the outcome was much more haunting than what the others could have imagined.
Clown—well, that was his persona. His real name would be Shawn Crahan—stared at the window of the recording booth, nauseated and bewildered at what he was staring at. He inspected the scene inside, not even daring to go inside. Blood spattered on the wooden floor, a putrid smell of fluid of several colors, shattered glass glittered on the floor, all darkened by the unforseen light of the room, and Corey standing by the door. He was hunched over and slowly rubbed his discolored mouth and chin from the foul substance. He supported himself using his dominant arm, leaning against the door as blood oozed from his arms. The blood would be difficult to clean up at that point.
"Ironic you're saying that. Fuck off," Corey rasped, nearly heaving as he spoke.
"You made a mess of yourself! You're going to be the one needing to clean that up," Clown snapped. "Get your damn clothes. You've soiled them."
The other band members trickled into the room, spite striking through everyone else. Pain would also ache into the other members, eying the state Corey was in as he leaned against the door. Specifically, Number 2 glared at them; beneath that persona was a man named Paul Gray. He simply wanted everyone to get along, and viewing the scene angered him.
"What happened?" Paul stammered. He placed one step forward in case he needed to intervene.
"Take a good look at what he did in the recording booth," Clown sneered, pointing at the window. And slowly, Paul approached the small glass panel and finally saw what the percussionist was talking about.
Anybody could have been sickened by that.
Paul saw the deep wounds in Corey's arms, unafraid to exchange a glance with him. He glared at Clown once more, dragging him from the room to give Corey some time alone. Eventually the vocalist went to his knees, still leaning against the door as he caught his breath. He then placed his hands through his hair, shivering as he continued to leave himself entirely vulnerable.
However, he heard the faint sound of voices from the other room. One sounded like Paul, another sounded like Clown, amongst other voices he couldn't distinguish.
"Do you THINK they would be pleased to see vomit and blood all over the floors? Why would he do that to himself?"
"Give him some slack! He's going through all sorts of hell right now."
"Paul's right. I understand you're worried, but he's clearly not doing good. Give him a break and don't get all demanding."
That other voice. Number One. Drummer Joey Jordison, apparently he intervened as well. The argument persisted for several minutes, barking back and forth as the rest of the band stood nearby. However, they managed to break it up before it became physical, and eventually Paul and Joey returned to the room that Corey was still sitting in.
"You still with us, Corey?" Joey murmured, waving his hand in front of Corey's dry and pale face. They attempted to wake him with tact, ensuring he doesn't hurt himself even more. "It's just me and Paul. Everyone else got Shawn to settle down, but he's still a little pissed."
Corey weakly lifted his eyes, earning a blurred sight of the bassist and drummer. "Yeah, I guess…not surprised Clown is acting so…bitchy."
A sense of ease flooded through the other two band members. However, the vocalist appeared somewhat relieved as well. Paul slowly brought him to his feet and helped him regain his balance, placing his arm around Corey and carefully dragged him to the bathroom. Joey followed behind, carrying something in his hand that he intended on giving to the disheveled man. His clothes were dirty, he was drenched in foul substances, and his hair was unkempt and dripping. To the others, this was the worst state he was in since the recording of Scissors.
He was so willing to leave himself to rot in there? So easily?
Joey placed whatever he had on the top of the toilet, while Paul slid Corey onto the toilet. They wanted to check the wounds on Corey's arms, but the latter quickly retracted them and rubbed them. He gritted his teeth as the stinging tingled in the cuts, hissing as he shook his head.
"I can take care of them, thanks," Corey muttered, groaning as the terrible feeling arose in his throat. He eventually looked behind him to see a new and fresh pair of clothing. He was unsure where they acquired them, but he appreciated the sentiment regardless. He wouldn't touch them yet, but he desperately looked back at the other men in the room. "Can you two do a favor for me?"
"Yeah?" Paul asked first, noticing despair glazing over the vocalist's eyes.
"Tell Shawn not to ask anything from me for the next few days, will you?" he asked. He pulled himself onto the cold floor, lifting the toilet lid and hunched over the bowl. "I need a break."
Paul and Joey exchanged worried glances, but nodded regardless.
"Get yourself cleaned up. Put on those clothes and get some rest," Joey suggested. "We don't want you to hurt yourself even more. We'll get the booth organized and cleaned, too."
Corey didn't reply after that, and finally #1 and #2 left. #8's muscles stung with agony, a sensation of death pounding in his blood and chest as he began screaming in the bathroom. He remained quivering over the bowl, heaving beneath him as he held back a violent and horrified whine.
The others had congregated in the main room, discussing Corey's current state and what he had just put himself through. #1 and #2 entered the room, instantly being bombarded with questions: would #8 be alright? Did he single-handedly ruin his voice? Would they continue with the recording process? Would they need to stop entirely?
"Too many questions at once," #2 snapped. "Corey will be okay. He needs some time alone, we have him taken care of. But Shawn," he added. Fortunately, he earned #6's attention.
"What?"
"Corey doesn't want to hear any of your demands for the next few days."