Human Connect To Human

{Concert 2} Chapter 6: Backstage - Part 1

*Warning: Self-Harm*

Concert 2

Chapter 1: Backstage

 Part 1

Fear takes ahold of him as he grips the razor between his forefinger and thumb. He rolls it in his finger, careful not to cut himself, as he stares into the mirror. The show had gone well, very well actually. Minor mistakes, no major disaster or screw up. It went as planned. Adrenaline had carried him through it all and only now he was crashing. He feels himself falling into a pit of turmoil once more, a pit riddled with the chaos of his mind.

He looks at his hands, the razor glistening in the dim light. Lifting his left arm, he flexes it to see his veins and brings the sharp razor to his skin. He doesn’t apply pressure; the mere proximity of the razor to his skin was enough to arouse his senses. His mind began to clear, and a light shined down his pit of self-pity and sadness.

He presses down gently and moves the razor in one straight line down his arm. His arm involuntarily flexes as he retracts the blade. The cut, the size of a paper cut, barely bleeds. Frustrated, he brings the blade back to his arm and presses down a little harder.

Just one more time, he tells himself. Just this on-

A knock on the door startles him, making him drop the razor into the sink. He can hear someone talking on the other side of the door, through the blood rushing in ears. He quickly washes away the blood from his arm and pats it dry.

"I'll be out in a minute," he yells towards the door, annoyed.

He looks through the mirror again. He looks better. His eyes shine in their usual way, and he even manages to smile. It worked! Rolling his shirtsleeves down, he turns to the door.

"What?" he spits out, coldly. Tom looks at him surprised for a moment before speaking.

"The reporter is here," he says. "And she's brought a friend."

Bill nods and unconsciously rubs at his arm through his shirt. Tom sees that and, before Bill can move away, takes his arm. Pushing the sleeve up his arm, Tom sees the cut and looks at Bill, his eyes hard.

"What the hell is this?" he demands, pushing him into the bathroom harshly and locking the door behind him.

"Paper cut," Bill replies with a shrug, trying to move around Tom.

"Oh, I see." Tom shrugs. "Paper cut, yes, because we've been around paper enough to get paper cuts! Don't lie to me!"

"Tom," Bill says. "I don't want to talk a-"

"You’re gonna have to!"

"No, I'm not." Bill says, standing his full height. “We have an interview to do.”

“You aren’t going anywhere,” Tom says, “until you explain those things on your arms.”

“Tomi, I-“

“Bill,” Tom gives him a stern look, “I’ll lock you in the bathroom.”

“You wouldn’t,” Bill says, stepping back. “Tom…”

“Tell me,” Tom says, griping the door handle behind his back. “I’ll lock you in here, you know I will.”

“Tomi, we can’t leave her waiting,” Bill says, messaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “It’s unprofessional.”

“Tell me,” Tom repeats, “or I will.”

“Stop playing around!” Bill yells.

“I’ll let you out when you decide to tell me,” Tom opens the door and before Bill can do anything, he locks it behind him. Bill claws at the door, yelling for Tom.

“Tom?” He yells, pounding the door with his fist. “Tom, let me out! Das ist nicht lustig, Tom!” This isn’t funny, Tom!

Bill grunts in anger when he hears the outer door closing. He is truly trapped. Why had he picked the dressing room with the backwards door? The bathroom was inside this room, so no one would hear him.

He felt it again, that mix of feelings consisting of regret, dread and desperation. Tom had locked the door, locked him in. He feels the room get smaller, the air thinning, and the space around him shrinking. Panic swells inside of him, his throat constricted as he tries to yell for help again. He pounds on the door to no avail.

His breath quickened as he realized how stuck he was. He deserved it, sure, but could Tom be any crueler? He knew his feelings towards being locked away, especially in such a small room.

Leaning against the door, he pounded his fist against the dark wood until his fist began to turn red. He turned then, his eyes filling with tears. He fell to the floor, his hands balling up in his hair, as he tried to suppress the images that the room brought. I can't... I... can't...

I won't, he finally says. Pushing himself off the floor, he stands and goes to the mirror. His reflection mocks him; it mocks his cowardliness, his inability to forget. Sighing, he turns the faucet on and runs his finger through the water idly.

Tom knows what memories this room would bring, he concludes after a few moments. It was on purpose. He stands there looking at himself, trying to keep his thoughts under control. Bill thinks of Tom and what he is going to do to him when he gets out of the room. He thinks of the reporter and what excuse Tom must have given her.

“Mikah…”

He still had her number in his back pocket. He didn’t want anyone to take it, or worse, lose it himself.

He scoffs, realizing his back pocket also held his cell phone. He slips his hand into his back pocket, taking both his phone and the slip of paper. He couldn’t call Tom or Georg; they wouldn’t open the door. Gustav might, if he had his phone, which he probably didn’t have with him.

I could call Mikah… he thinks, as he stares into the slip of paper. He could call her, explain the situation and have her come get him.

Yeah, that wouldn’t be embarrassing at all.

What would he say?

Hello, Mikah. This is Bill Kaulitz. You know, the lead singer of Tokio Hotel? I was wondering if you could come to my dressing room, I’ve seem to have gotten locked up by Tom when he caught me cutting myself.

“No,” he says, shaking his head, “but what other choice do I have?”