Despite being four and a half hours late for the meeting, we got the record deal. All of us elated, of course, but it's hard to float up with happiness when you've got baggage weighing you down. I've had a lot more time to myself than usual, I blame that on the extra hours I've spent travelling this week and it's given me time to delve into parts of myself I'd normally pretend didn't exist.
The parts of me that I buried along with my father. The raw and emotional parts. The kind that make me scream and the kind that make my face turn red and my fingers pull at my hair.
The misguided parts, the boy who grew up without a father, no man to tell him right from wrong. Nobody to direct him to the right path. Nobody to teach me how to be a man.
It's not pretty and it's traumatic, seeing your father lifeless in the bathtub, blue and cold. Fingers seized up and a note on the floor, the ink running from water it had touched. It's got me fucked, of course I've suppressed it, I've been to therapy, I've done everything I can to pull the past away from my future but since realising I wasn't who I thought I was, I can't help but blame it on being the boy without a father.
"I'm Bradley Will Simpson...and I'm - I'm ga-" I started to myself in the mirror, sat on the floor, watching my own lips as I did so, anger filling me to the core as my lips froze and stuttered, as my tongue refused to finish the word, my body was in denial. Ironic, considering that it's the same body that was craving his touch in it's dreams.
"I'm a ho-" I began, taking a deep breath as I paused "-mosexu- Fuck sake." I cried out, my fist finding itself to the reflection of myself, instant regret as it wasn't met with soft flesh, but cold and hard glass. Pain shooting through my hand "Fuck Shit fucking cunting bloody mirror!" I cursed, pulling my hand back to my body as I stood up, kicking my shoes away from me as they were in the way, I wanted to destroy things, I needed to destroy things, I wanted to hit something, anything.
All I can say is, thank fuck the band house has a rehearsal room and thank fuck tris had been In here earlier beating the fuck out of his kit, because I would've ended up taking this anger out on someone else, or another mirror or wall.
"Woah there Simpson, someone's got some anger issues, those sticks are expensive! Stop hitting my skins so hard! I need to keep them nice! Stop!" The skinny blond came in about twenty minutes into my intensive drumming session "Your technique is shit, you're gonna tear you hands apart if you carry on."
"Well we weren't all under 18 champs at 4 years old okay?!" I snapped "Fuck off Evans."
"Alright, something's up. Talk." My best friend instructed, pulling his spare stool over to the kit so he was now sat in front of me, the crash and ride cymbals obstructing my view of him slightly but it was okay.
"I'm fine." I sighed, attempting to exhale the anger and the weight, nothing working. "I've just worked myself up over something this girl said yesterday, it's cool, I'm good now I've completely fucked your brand new skins." I teased, winding him up about his kit.
"What?! Where?! I swear to god, if you've destroyed my snare I'm not gonna be happy! It was perfectly tuned!" Tris worried, standing up and starting to inspect every tiny detail of his kit "I'm gonna go and de-tune your guitar randomly and fiddle with all the knobs if you have damaged anything I swear."
You can fiddle with my knob any time you want
Might even call you daddy if you're Lucky
What is wrong with me? This is gross
"I was just teasing." I rolled my eyes, glad the usual distraction worked. If you ever want to change a subject immediately and you're in a room with a musician, tell them you've fucked with their kit, works 100% of the time, tried and tested.
"Well don't, this kit is more expensive than you are." He rolled his eyes, still inspecting the skins on his drums.
I'd lower my rate for you
Fucking hell am I'm a prostitute now?
"Yeah yeah whatever." I rolled my eyes, leaning on the snare with my elbow, earning a glare from the blond drummer.
"Your hands are fucked." He commented, taking a brief glance at them "Those blisters are gonna hurt when they pop, best to get it over and done with, should be solid in three days, run it under cold water, it's a friction burn, use masking tape to cover it when you want to play next. Once it's healed, do not pick at it, it'll get worse and I'm not helping you drain and infection." He listed, playing with one of the cymbal stands.
"Yeah yeah I know." I rolled my eyes "You might get them more than me but I know how to deal with blisters thanks."
"Drum blisters and guitar blisters are different things. Drummers can get fucked over royally for days from a nasty one and we're not allowed to bitch and moan. Where as you, a guitarist, are allowed to whine and bitch."
"Yeah yeah whatever." I rolled my eyes, used to the internal hierarchy of the band being challenged, it was always a joke between us all, nothing serious. "Are you done checking the drums? Can I go back to playing?"
"Um, no, my kit, my rules, I'm playing, bugger off." Tris laughed, pushing me off the seat "Go get James and Con, we can put a song together whilst you're in the mood to play."
"I don't want to sing, I want to hit things." I rolled my eyes.
"Drumming is way more than hitting things." Tris rolled his eyes, getting his phone and sending a text to the group, telling the other boys to come to the rehearsal room (thank fuck it was mostly sound proofed, otherwise our neighbours would definitely hate us for practising at 9pm)
YOU ARE READING
Lightbulb || Tradley
Fanfiction"I told you I loved you, you said 'what can I do?'" - Secrets are best kept alone, even when it tears you apart. Bradley Simpson is learning this the hard way, because sometimes things just don't work out the way you planned, and you have to recoll...
