A Sound Like No Other

Static, flickering, and then black. Your pupils dilate down in your isolated and dark room. It is 1:39 am. You should really think about sleeping. But, this tape. This tape you found at that garage sale, the one the old cat hag down the road at 72nd and Stromm pushed on you. You remember, don’t you? The one that was beaten up, yellowed label peeling away only reading “SHOW: A SOUND LIKE NO OTHER” in fading black marker. In your curiosity you shelled the thirty-nine cents out and walked back home not knowing what to expect. Probably something low quality and stupid. A greasy ratty pimple ridden punk band of pseudointellectual degenerates belching out grunts and screams to thirty-nine people in a warehouse. Oh boy, was this going to be fun.
Your eyes focus on that old television, lights on screen fade into pieces of shining stage illumination. The camera appears to be elevated quite high, 23 or thirty-nine feet in the air or something like that. Either way, it’s high. The venue is…not bad. Empty, hollow, but not in bad shape. Certainly better than what you were expecting. The wood paneling on the stage floor seems to be in good condition. The red back curtains seem to be losing their color a bit, but it isn’t that noticeable. I mean, look! There’s no holes on the front curtains! This may not be bad after all. The lone microphone at the center is the only thing standing out, swaying as if breezes flow all throughout the hall. A presence appears in your mind; tangible in feeling.
A short, stubby, balding old man walks onto stage. His footsteps echo throughout. He wears a suit, not fancily obnoxious nor fiercely downtrodden. White buttoned undershirt, black nondescript pants with matching shoes that do not shine, tan overcoat, with a red bowtie to top his outfit off. He wears thick round rimmed glasses, sliding off a sloped nose that sits on top of thin lips and a curvy mouth. He raises his hand to grab the microphone while the picture on screen slightly pixelates and pulsates. He taps, and the microphone reverberates. The quality suddenly stoops; buzzing and fuzzing can now be heard in the background, annoyingly humming as the feed cuts to another camera down by the stage while the old man speaks. And what does he speak?
“Contest for talents student…judge will must impartial be award to great demonstartionses ofs…you mind lighted be turns of? Now there you go again!”
The crowd laughs while the stage lights tone down and you sit in confusion at the broken english. Wait, the crowd. You hadn’t seen a crowd. You rewind. Yeah. There wasn’t a crowd. Where the hell did they come from? The camera cuts again to the previous angle and you can make out people sitting in the first couple of rows, moving and chatting amongst themselves. You rewind again, to where the old man walked on stage. The crowd is there. Huh. Your head feels foggy.
Anyway, you go back to where you were before and the man keeps talking. During a particularly loud bit of static he points out a man in the front row. The quality drops once more as the man he was talking about stands up and waves to the crowd, to…applause? It sounds like it. Vaguely. Clearly this tape hasn’t been taken care of since it was made thirty-nine or some-odd years ago. 
The man walks backstage as a rather nondescript girl walks on stage. From what you make out, she is around 15 or 16 years old, perhaps 10 months added on and perhaps thirty-nine days tacked on as well. So, a school talent show? Interesting. Blonde, pink clothes, ballerina shoes. Nondescript purple emblem on the left breast area. You already know what’s coming. Generic-ass ballet music blares and forces you to lower your volume as she prances around and spins to the music. You never gave a shit about ballet, your parents made you go and you hated it. So tedious and tiring, your feet always ached and throbbed and they told you to suck it up. They didn’t care, not your teacher nor your parents. You would cry and screen and kick and all they’d do is slap you and tell you to cut it out. Goddamn it. If you could, you’d burn…and he’s finished. You blink and the boy in the ballet shoes bows down to the crowd and walks off, the clapping subsides thirty-nine seconds later. You count. Your head starts to hurt.
There is a small intermission, and out steps the next one. A small child, anywhere from three to nine years old, you can’t tell their gender but they look spiffy enough. A little black polo shirt with jeans, black shoes as well. Similar purple badge. They put their hands behind their back and bow to the crowd, which earns applause. Okay. They lower the microphone stand, and when they realize it’s too high they point at the mic. Someone in some purple garb walks out and hands it to the child, who gives them a nod. They appear to take a deep breath, and then they open.
“O say can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming,
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight
O'er the ramparts we watch'd were so gallantly streaming?
And the rocket's red glare, the bomb bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there,
O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?”
The…Star Spangled Banner? O, God. You remember. You always did remember. What had happened that day. 3:39. March. Thirty-ninth day. That damn fucking year. Tomatoes. Humiliation. Near-suicide. Fuck. Your head is light and the dimmed lights in your room dim even further. You blink.
You blink again.
It’s you. It always was you. That show, that FUCKING SHOW
HOW COULD THEY JUSTIFY IT
THEY RUINED IT
RED ALL YOU SEE IS RED THEY DID IT THEY TOOK IT
THEY MADE YOU WHO YOU ARE NOW FUCK THEM FUCK THEM ALL AND
You blink again. The child is gone. Red splotches are seen on the floor and even show up on the curtain at the back of the stage. Crying is heard in the background, growing into trilling shrieks. It throbs. You can’t think straight. Only past in thirty-nine degrees FUCK why do you keep thinking of that number!? It’s a number! You’re a mess. You always have been. You turn away to go to bed.
“Now, there you go again!”
A voice, un-fucking-mistakable. You wheel around in fury.
Dad. Looking straight at the camera. At you.
“You look angry. I don’t like it when you’re angry! Let me sing for you like you did for these people. So you feel better.”
He opens his mouth, and the sound.
Inhuman. Ear-breaching. Horrendous. Indescribable. You scream and you scream like you did all that time ago and you plug your ears but it just doesn’t go away. That sound. Loudness burrows into your brain and the headache explodes. 
You feel as if you have shot yourself but you are still conscious. You look around frantically.
The television has tilted, the father still making that sound while the crowd…they feel it too. There are screams, dead souls contained. They bellow and they yell out in pain but it does not stop.
You keep screaming. You feel your voice grow hoarse and it hurts even more.
But you cannot help it, it is involuntary now. Pain increases as the vocal cords in your throat grow ever more taut and start snapping under the strain. Small fucking peanuts.
Finally. It stops. You stop.
You look down. Blood drips on floor. From the throat and from the head. Gun in hand.
You crumple. You start to bleed out. The headache has stopped. The last thing you see before your light dims is dad. Thirty-nine. What does it mean?
BLACK.
THEN LIGHT.
You awake and there are people. Thirty-nine. Thirty-nine people. You look around. Sky. White clouds. You look down and you stand on a cloud. Happiness. Finally! You’re happy. You’re finally satisfied. You run to the people. You don’t recognize them. But it doesn’t matter. You’re happy. At long last, you can smile.
The people start singing. Their songs are heavenly. Like nothing else. They burrow into your head and make you calm, at peace. It’s wondrous really. You are finally free. It’s overwhelming, but it’s good. It’s in a good way, because you’re content. You have no burdens anymore. No job, no parents, no anything. It’s really what they cracked it up to be. And yet, they aren’t here. That thought makes you even happier.
You look down and it’s you. Young you, the same from the tape. Looking up at you with your eyes, watery and wide, wondrous and hopeful.
You crouch down and you hug you. With all your might and love.
It feels good to finally be at peace. Yet, what was the lady doing with that tape anyway…
Wait, what tape? No matter.
Just enjoy yourself. You never had a chance. And now you do.
Category:RTWC23
Category:Music
Category:Mental Illness