Shadows of Helvete

Chapter 4

The days in Norway blurred together, each one a mix of chaos and routine as Emilie adjusted to life with the boys from Mayhem. Despite the rough edges and the morbid vibe that often hung in the air, she felt more at home with them than she ever had back in Stockholm. Living with them was freeing—no more stepfather, no more fear. She had Dead by her side, and now they were officially a couple.

Nobody could believe that Dead—the cold, distant guy with a morbid fascination with death—had a girlfriend. It almost seemed ironic. Some of the band's circle whispered about it, teasing him, but Dead didn't care. He'd shrug off the jokes with a half-smile, but Emilie noticed his darkness was deepening. The vacant look in his eyes would linger longer, and the self-destructive tendencies he spoke about had begun creeping into everyday conversations. His depression was getting worse.

"Sometimes, I think it's better to just... stop feeling," Dead said one night, lying on his back on the bed as Emilie traced a line down his chest with her finger.

"Don't say that," she murmured, leaning her head on his shoulder, feeling the tension beneath his skin.

Dead sighed, brushing a strand of her hair out of her face. "It's just the truth. I don't belong here. You know that."

"You belong here with me," she whispered. Dead turned his head to her, his cold eyes softening for a moment before he pressed his lips to her forehead. It was a gesture that felt final, like he was trying to give her a piece of himself before it was gone.

They didn't talk about it further, but Emilie felt the weight of his thoughts grow heavier with each passing day. And as Dead's darkness loomed, Emilie found herself getting to know Euronymous more. He was different from Dead, with a sharp mind, always scheming and planning, calculating. While Dead was lost in his own internal despair, Euronymous thrived on the chaos around him. He was passionate about the band's future, the metal scene, and everything in between. They talked often, sometimes late into the night when Dead retreated into himself.

One evening, as the three of them sat around preparing for one of Mayhem's infamous parties, Emilie was helping both Dead and Euronymous apply their corpse paint. They were goofing around, laughing as Emilie helped Dead with his corpse paint.

Euronymous, sitting on the edge of the bathtub with a cigarette dangling from his lips, watched them with a smirk. "You're turning Dead into quite the artwork, Emilie."

"Not like you need any help," she shot back, dabbing the last streak of black onto Dead's cheekbone before turning to Euronymous. "You're next."

He arched an eyebrow, a challenge flashing in his dark eyes. "Think you can handle this?"

Emilie grinned, taking the makeup sponge from the sink. "We'll see."

As she worked on Euronymous' face, her fingers brushing lightly against his skin, there was an undercurrent of tension. It was different from what she felt with Dead—less tender, more electric. She tried to push it away, to ignore the way her pulse quickened when Euronymous looked at her in that dark, knowing way. But it was hard to deny there was something there, simmering under the surface.

"Don't smile, you'll fuck up the make-up. This is not a joke," Dead said when he was Euronymous wasn't taking this seriously and was laughing while Emilie was putting black and white paint on him.

"There," she said finally, stepping back to admire her work. "Corpse paint perfection."

Euronymous stood and glanced in the mirror, his face now a ghostly canvas of black and white. "Not bad, Ahlgren. You've got a talent."

"Don't forget who's the real artist here," Dead interjected, wrapping his arm around Emilie's waist and pulling her into him. "She's mine."

Euronymous chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. "No competition here, Dead. Just giving credit where it's due."