Mayhem's Beginning (Everybody Changes)

Chapter 12: A Strange Awakening

A spine chilling whisper in the wind brushed up against my face as my eyes forced themselves open. The first sight I saw was a melancholy heaven, complete with stormy clouds and a sun peeking it's head out on the horizon. I sat up from where I lay and saw that in the distance the sky was turning a pinkish color, the crack of morning soon to come. “What the hell?” I thought out loud as I grabbed at my throbbing cranium. My head ache was unbearable, as if someone had just smacked me across the head with a two-by-four.

The sounds of countless cars roared nearby, me looking back and noticing a grand bridge that was crafted entirely of steel. The Manhattan Bridge? How in the world did I end up here? My last memories came then, a strange array of what seemed like a series of bad dreams. Perhaps it was just a nightmare and somehow I ended up drunk wandering off into the city. I put my right hand in front of my mouth and scoffed. I inhaled through my nose, not a drop of alcohol was on my breath.

I grabbed at the sleeve that was laying on my forearm and lifted it upwards to where I felt a pulsating sensation. Just above my left hand was a small hole that was heavily irritated. The flesh around it was red as an apple and surely it stuck out like a sore thumb. Walking around the city with this visible would cause a lot of unwanted attention, so I hooked my thumb back into the hole in my cuff.

My arms shot out at a nearby bench as I lifted myself up to my feet. Every muscle in my body was sore as if I had just done Olympic training without stopping for days. All my fibers twinged in an equal affliction, a loud grunting sound artlessly coming out of my throat. Like a penguin, I inched my feet forward on the cement as a shock of agony shot up through my thighs. I could hardly move, let alone find myself being able to walk all the way home.

I dipped my hand into my pocket and took out my cell phone. Clicking on the button located at the top of the phone, the screen stayed black. A lifeless electronic is what I was holding in my hand, capable of nothing other than a paper weight until I got a charger into it. How convenient.

An explosion of pain shot throughout my entire body as I waddled forward. Confusion suddenly came questioning why that pain was there. I didn't remember doing any kind of intensive workout or anything. Luckily, like most cases of sore muscles, once you began moving again the tension was alleviated until it was bearable.

Not going to lie, walking the streets of New York after such an experience makes you a little paranoid. What if they were going to come back for me? How did I get off of the table? If I were them it would seem a little foolish to let someone you've kidnapped go. But who would have came to my rescue?

Should I go to the police? I mean, what could I tell them? Some guys abducted me when I was going home, tied me to a steel board, and then injected me with weird chemicals? Well, I guess I could prove the chemical thing with a few tests, but how would I explain how all that got into my body? If I went to the hospital they would surely contact Bradley and Adam, and then they would get really anal about everything. I'd never be able to leave my house again.

All the money that I had barely came up to two or three dollars. The bus was perhaps my best way to get home, because surely I was not going to walk the whole way in my condition.

Roaming back into the city as rude people pushed me out of the way made my muscles burn. One even accidentally slapped the hole on my wrist, which did not feel pleasant at all. I tried staying out of the way but it was impossible, even for a slender guy like me. Speaking of being slim, my stomach was uncontrollably growling. My house better have food, although the sleepiness I felt was so tangent I probably would find myself in my bed before I looked twice at the fridge.

I kept walking the streets as an interesting scene came before me. There was a man, at least twenty years older than I, sitting with an arrangement of plastic buckets that were upside down. He wore raggedy clothes, a warm coat, worn combat boots, and his face had a beard that emulated that of Santa Clause. He had drum sticks in his hand, as a small upside down bucket was right side up holding a good chunk of cash. A small crowd surrounded him making him the center of attention.

“Okay, it's time for a little improvisation. I have this piece that I play that I like to call 'The Promise,' and I am going to be playing that but throwing in some things as I go. I hope you guys enjoy.” The man's raspy voice could barely be heard over the chatting New Yorkers.

He began pounding on the buckets in a loose, jazzy way. He started slow, but built up his tempo. It felt like my eyes had become telescopes, for my pupils naturally zoomed in on his hands as I found myself intently watching every movement. I didn't even realize I was stepping forward in the crowd, lightly squeezing in between bodies to get to the front. My eyes never left his hands and my mind slowed down every beat.

He started going crazy on his drum-set. Pounding on his cymbal, hitting the bucket that acted as a snare, and using his bass petal to make a low sounding thump against plastic. It was quite the feat, and even though I saw everything in slow motion I pieced together how it originally sounded in my mind. Something left me a feeling of being unimpressed though. I felt as if I could do that, even though I hadn't played a beat of drums in my life. As the man finished his improvisation with a clash, I accidentally thought out loud and said “That looks so easy.” in a voice that was audible from a dozen feet away. The whole crowd gasped at such rudeness.

“Boy...” he began. “...I've been playing percussion for more than thirty years. That right there, was not easy.” He stood up now, gripping tightly on his drum sticks. “I bet you couldn't play something close to what I just played. That song, I have put my blood, sweat, and tears into. Who are you to come and say what I just played was easy?”

“Sir...” I had a pleading look on my face. “...I'm sorry I didn't mean to--”

“You din't mean to offend me? Too late for that, boy!” The man then put both of his drumsticks in his right hand and threw them at me. I saw everything at a sloth's pace. The pieces of wood rotated in mid-air as my hands shot up without a second thought and caught them before they hit me in the face. What the hell is going on? I've never had such reflexes before! “If you so good at playing drums, and that song was so 'easy,' I'd like tuh' see you play it!” I looked around and the crowd in awe, unsure of what they were going to do. They all stared at me wide-eyed, which made me even more unsure of what to do. “Well git' to it then, boy!”

I slowly but surely walked towards his drum set and sat on the seat. I didn't know what I was doing, I was about to make a fool of myself. But at the same time my muscles felt as if they knew every beat of what the man just played. I replayed the whole song in my head, and finally I began. I couldn't believe it, but my body was right. It knew exactly what to do, every hit, every crash, it sounded exactly like how I remembered it. I was playing the song just how the man before me was, and to my surprise, this was the first time I had ever played drums. I emulated his exact technique, in a way where one could not tell the difference between our playing. I even ended with a crash, just as he did.

I looked up from the set at the man. His jaw was hanging open, as was the rest of the crowd's. I dropped the drum sticks onto the pavement, the clanking sounds of wood hitting against cement echoed. I put my hands in front of my face as I felt my pupils stretch open, analyzing my own limbs.

The sounds of clapping flesh began. Looking past my hands I saw the crowd applauding me as the man was staring down at the ground. The man sighed as I felt sweat drizzle down the side of my face. The temperature outside must have at least been fifty degrees, but shock made it feel as if I was sitting on the surface of the sun.

“Good job, kid.” The man said picking his drum sticks up off of the ground. I looked left and right, as the applause began to die down and people put away their cameras. I tossed a dollar into the man's money bucket and walked off. I didn't understand, how was my body able to do that? I've never even heard of such a thing, let alone experienced it. I was no Mozart, for I wasn't capable of doing so.