I'll Sing You One Last Song and then I'm Gone (Tokio Hotel Fan-Fic)

Chapter 1

This story is written by @xAnDeinerSeitex She wrote this story on a website called TokioHotelFiction.com. I was able to locate her and found out she had a wattpad account. She has given me permission to post it on here. @xAnDienerSeitex aslo has a new updated version of the story, as seeing this one is a few years old. If you like to read that one click the external link on the side. And I would like to say I have no rights to this story and I am NOT the writer. I would also like to thank @xAnDeinerSeitex for writing this great story and letting me post it on my account.

Their screaming voices pervaded the quiet sanctity that was my bedroom via the paper-thin walls and poor ventilation system our old suburban farmhouse was cursed with.

"God damn it, Michelle!" My father screamed at my mother in their bedroom, either not knowing that I could hear him or not caring that I could, his voice harsh and accompanied by a heavy slam of something meeting something else, and hard. "You can't even do fucking anything when I'm not around!?"

Mum screamed back to him, her British-rooted accent heavily present in each of her syllables, "Forgive me, Roger, but YOU try going to chemotherapy, and THEN you come home and do the household chores, okay? You try it for one fucking day and get back to me!"

Yes, she did just say chemotherapy. Currently, my mum is a warrior in the battle against lung cancer. The doctors had caught it early enough for it to be treated, but she still has it, and that coupled with the chemo bring her down a lot and she's always feeling sick (emotionally and physically) and is unable to do much of anything. Like, for example, the things around the house my father wants her to do, since he's always too busy working to do them himself. Besides, when he is around, all he wants to do is drink. Then after that's done, it seems he can only piss and moan and generally abuse Mum and I.

Welcome to my life.

"Like I give two shits about you and your chemo?" He cranked his voice up a few notches to sound more feminine, and added a poorly done British accent to it. "Oh, look at me! I'm Michelle Dawson! I think I should get special treatment because I have lung cancer and I go to chemo!" Once again, his voice returned to normal. And yes, being this harsh was normal. "Grow the fuck up! Life is fucking not all about you!"

"Yeah, I know for damn sure you don't give a fuck about me, Roger! I think that you're just waitin' for me to die, aren't you!?"

"Well, jeez, Michelle, I thought I kept that a nice little fuckin' secret!"

Really, it was hard to do calculus homework when your parents were at each others throats in the next room over, so I reached over and hit the power button on my iHome, igniting the light on my iPod and bringing it to life. The sound of sweet melodies and guitar riffs and words with power and meaning poured into my room invisibly, but that was what I liked about music. It was the one thing I couldn't see that I could believe in. And what I mean by that is that, I think God had officially cast me away as his mistake the very moment I was conceived. He and I don't have a very nice relationship anymore, since Mum and Dad stopped bringing me to church when I was seven. That was ten years ago, when they first started to fight.

Back then, I cried myself to sleep every time I would hear them shouting after they tucked me in for bed. Now, I wish I could go back and warn past-me that it was the opening act to something much, much more horrible.

But my music isn't about God. It isn't about my parents fighting all the time. It isn't about Mum or chemo or lung cancer. It isn't about Dad being a workaholic who drinks and abuses me during the rare times he was home. It isn't about my brain's many chemical imbalances that require a rainbow plethora of pills. It isn't about counselors I pay to listen and pretend to care. It isn't about the one girl, Ellie, I could call my friend since everyone else seems to think I'm a 5'5, British punching bag.