Threads of Destiny (Tom Kaulitz) eng vers

Chapter 1: Noise disturbance

2:45 am illuminates my clock. The same pounding, the familiar cacophony of instruments reverberates like a jumble inside my head. It's my brother and his friends rehearsing in the basement once again. I've grown used to it, but this time, like many times before, I can't overlook it. I've developed the reflex of retreating into my own world with my headphones, listening to music from my generation, far less violent than the noise my idiotic brother produces. Over time, isolating myself in my headphones has allowed me to fall asleep while disregarding the commotion happening just beneath my room. But tonight, the walls shaking and their feet pounding the floor as they jump give me an unbearable headache. So, I decide to take drastic measures.

I gather my hair into a messy bun, slip on my slippers, and make my way down the basement stairs with determination. Downstairs, they had relied on the feeble light of a lamp to illuminate their space—probably to give it a stylish touch. I then switch on the main light, which blinds us like a detonating bomb. It takes a few seconds for my vision to readjust, and then I see the same faces that have been invading my house for rehearsals twice a week for the past five years: Georg, my big brother who couldn't care less about my fits of anger towards him; Gustav, his best friend and probably the one I tolerate the most, as he always remains calm and doesn't provoke me when I get angry at them. And then there are the Kaulitz twins—Bill, who always apologizes on behalf of the band members and whose smile makes it impossible for me to hold a grudge, and Tom, whose arrogant and mocking demeanor sparks homicidal thoughts within me.

"It's three in the fucking morning. Can't you all just go home?" I say wearily, rubbing my eyes with one hand.

"Is the kid still not asleep?" Tom retorts, chuckling.

He gazes down at me, amused, reveling in his own idiocy—an infuriating sight that only serves to further ignite my anger. He consistently labels me as a child, despite our mere one-year age difference, and truth be told, his immaturity often eclipses mine. Anger flushes my cheeks, intensified by the late hour. All I desire is a peaceful slumber, undisturbed by a concert taking place beneath my bed. Before I can even retort to Tom's remark, Georg, his guitar still strapped around his neck, seizes my shoulders and forcefully turns me around, nudging me to retreat, assuring me that they have only one song left to rehearse and will soon be done. He hopes to silence me, but I am far from finished with them.
I climb the stairs, making sure to extend my middle finger in Tom's direction. He responds with a mock kiss, followed by that eternal smirk that drives me crazy with rage.

Ascending the stairs, I make sure to flip the switch of the basement's circuit breaker, plunging them into complete darkness. I relish in the chorus of their discontented cries, savoring the silence that befalls their foolish instruments deprived of electricity. Hastily, I slip into my room, making sure to close the door tightly to avoid any reprisals from my brother. Proud of my little stunt, I can finally return to sleep peacefully.