What’s it like being crazy?
It’s fun!

What's it like being feared?
It's amusing!

What's it like being hated?
It's fine!

What’s it like being different?
It’s fucking boring!

Wait… Huh..?


Don’t try me! Understand me!
I’m crazy, you’re crazy!
We’re all damned to go up or down anyway!


His mind, would anyone understand? When was the last time he ran into someone like him? A madman? A serial killer? Ha ha! He flailed about and danced in an amusing, silly manner to his own song as if no one were watching, even though there was a whole crowd watching him, dancing with him as they gazed up at the glory of his physical being. Attractive, but not too much so; he was one of many that weren’t hard to come by if you look on the street. He was above average with physical appearances, but broke the scale personality-wise He fired up the crowd as he threw his emotions in his voice and let the lyrics eat away at his soul and sanity.

This is Social Decay, an upcoming popular band with a genre that was not yet known to the world. They wanted it to stay that way forever. Screw genres. Fuck labels. Talent could get you quite far in life, only if you knew how to use it the right way. This deranged singer abused his talent for a living—or rather, his talent abused his soul and psyche in order for his body to survive. His band members: fucking average.

The crowd screamed and wailed stupidly as the sight of them, reaching up to grab him. They wanted their ways with him. Like hell that’d happen! He moaned in the microphone as he enticingly rubbed his crotch, tilting his head back as if overwhelmed in self-pleasure, listening to the crowd screaming and going crazy at the erotic sight of his fingers fumbling with his zipper and stroking the fabric with need as he turned himself on, as well as the manic crowd of men and women alike.

Damn sex-beasts…

What an act! His hand left his pants alone, running up his tank top, pushing it up seductively like the whore everyone thought he was, panting and crying out the lyrics of his song to the people below the stage. His stomach and side had burn scars that traveled up his back, hidden from view—not that he cared who saw it. Even with such flaws, he was still quite sexy, enough to keep the crowd’s interest. His sex-appeal was as good as his singing, which was incredible. Toying with himself a little longer, he finally left himself alone during the last chorus, bringing the crowd back into focus on such entrancing music.

It was like mind-control, possessing anyone and everyone that heard his music, including himself. The music made him act so strangely, playing forever in his brain and driving him insane whenever he sang it. His dance resumed as he practically pranced across the stage, head banging and twirling about like a moron, exciting the crowd to the point where his life was in danger—or at least his virginity was, if the crazed fools learned to climb on the barely guarded stage he sang on.

All of a sudden, he jerked his head back violently and his eye twitched as the beams of lights pierced his sensitive eyeballs. The random movement made him fall backwards, body convulsing in shock and small noises of pain and struggle found a way from his throat to his sputtering lips. He made awkward gurgling noises, and the crowd was in disarray, uncertain as to whether it was his weird personality taking its toll or if something serious was going on. The music didn’t stop. It was a trance unbreakable by every means but death.

Shaky wheezes forced him to swallow the coppery liquid that was pooling in his mouth, breathing it in like liquefied crimson air as it traveled down his scorched trachea. His dark eyes rolled back in his head so his sclera was mostly visible, ichor trickling down the sides of his mouth as he started spitting and coughing. Shaking hands—his own hands—clawed madly at his throat while his body twisted and jerked like a dying worm.

Coldness stung his flaring nostrils; the contrast was prickling at his face like someone was flinging bits of fingernails at him. Retching loudly, he vomited on the stage floor, soaking his face with the bodily fluids of spit, blood, and digested food. His nails scraped away at the skin on his throat so violently, it finally pierced the tender flesh and tore away at it in tiny bits and chunks. His retching continued, just as his writhing did and the music that blared around him. So close. So very close! His fingers were soaked in blood as he scraped away at his neck, cutting off the air that was supposed to go to his drowning lungs. He bashed his head on the floor stupidly, struggling to speak—those damn words, they forced their way passed his bloody lips.

Ebony hair became drenched and a sick, nauseating stench clung to him, vomited blood still spewing from his mouth, even in the air as he spat. Twisting and thrashing about, he wailed once more before letting his limbs fall to the floor with loud thuds, crimson overflowing and oozing from his slack open jaw.

The song was over, and so was his life!