Adult-FanFiction.org : Celebrity

Amnesia and Star Child	By : coldblood Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Linkin Park Views: 1666 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Linkin Park. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
I don’t know why I went there, why I followed her.
I’d felt the terror somehow and I knew it would hurt to see it - but I had to - I wasn’t going to just walk on by when I knew that something was going wrong - I just couldn’t.
It was that Roadie guy from Marilyn Manson’s crew - raping a girl who was smaller than him by at least three times.
It made me so angry - I just couldn’t stop.
He wouldn’t die, but there would be one hell of an uproar when he woke - I was going to be in the shit, but I didn’t care.
I hoped the girl would be smart enough to get away to her car or something before he woke up.
“Wait!” It was her voice.
I was already on the other side of the street - hell knows how I moved so fast, I just did.
Her voice made me stop for a moment; it was soft and almost hypnotic in a way.
Friendly.
I shook the feeling from my head and started running back to the bus, with the sound of fleshy feet and knuckles pursuing my heels.
The bus door opened and I charged up the stairs, only pausing when I made it back to my bunk.
“What’s up dude?” Chester asked, who, hearing my return had come and rested both of his arms crossed on the edge of my bunk of which I had slumped on.
“Nothing, just went for a run.” I lied.
God, how long had I been lying for?
“Are you sure?” Chester wasn’t backing down - I swear he can read minds somehow.
“Yeah.” I replied firmly.
Chester sighed and put his hand on my shoulder and then walked to the back of the bus to join the others, obviously as weary as I was, and apparently in no mood to argue with me.
The show had been a big one, and as soon as we got off the stage, me and Phoenix both had to help him back to the bus - he was so exhausted he was barely able to stand.
Dear, dear, sweet, innocent Chester.
He’d somehow found his way to something better despite being abused as a kid - it made me wonder if I had done the same.
We were good buddies; I guess it came from finding mutual understanding of our childhoods.
No one of course really knew how much had really happened; even Chester didn’t know - not even Anna - I was never going to tell anyone how bad things had really been, or what I saw now.
The creature looked up at me, keeping her silent, doglike vigil over me while I lay inanimate.
How little did my band mates know...
I sighed wearily and blinked.
I knew I couldn’t see, but I could see.
I know that doesn’t make sense - but then again, since that time all those years ago, nothing much really made sense.
The creature settled her long thick neck back down on my legs with a sigh which flooded me telepathically, I could sense something on her mind, interwoven messages from some other far off galaxy or two.
Maybe she was trying to tell me something.
You should’ve waited for the girl and escorted her back.
“I know. But I didn’t, just go to sleep.” I whispered aloud.
She shook her raptor head and rolled her puppy eyes at me.
I closed my eyes and let my mind drift, but memories chose to bug me so I opened my eyes again.
It was horrible to feel so taxed at the age of twenty three.
Or was it twenty four?
Oh god - I don’t even know anymore - I felt as old as the moon itself.
It was Rosie’s fault of course, despite her limited English, telepathic connections that had simultaneously weaved themselves to both of our minds had given me the feeling she was far older than you’d think, and that age had been given to me.
Yes Rosie.
I had to call her something, and E.T. would’ve just been unoriginal. Even if Rosie did look like E.T. to some degree at least.
Ever since then, way back then, I’d taken a fascination to anything Sci-Fi. I had collected everything on Stargate, Aliens, E.T. The Extraterrestrial, Star Wars - anything and everything.
You name it - I probably have it.
But how the hell could anything thought up by humans possibly make sense of this gorilla looking monster at the end of my bed?
Nothing.
It wasn’t in my imagination - or maybe it was.
Shit I don’t know.
My thoughts turn to my pathetic life.
I hate feeling so monotonous, but no matter what I do, after a day I feel like it’s been that way forever, it had always been that way and always will be.
God I need a lift so bad.
“Get off Rosie.” I mutter and wriggle my legs.
Rosie gets the message and sits up, then like an eighty kilogram house cat she jumps off my bed, stubby muscled hind legs first, monkey butter knifed tail waving in the air, ‘Z’ jointed arms balancing her landing.
She belongs in the trees, not in a tour bus, I think wearily.
I go to the kitchen and fix myself waffles.
Despite everyone saying I can’t cook, I do anyway.
Maybe I won’t have burnt toast today. How about burnt waffles - just for a change.
I lick my fingers of whipped cream and hold out a messy half of the waffle to Rosie, who slurps it out of my hand remarkably quietly.
Her heart light glows as she licks my fingers.
Disgusting she reckons, but ah, such is the world of civilization.
E.T. was a brainwave by someone - it’s scarily similar to Rosie - who would’ve thought their movie idea would actually be so close to the truth?
“Yeah it is isn’t it. I’m sorry kid, but it’ll have to do...” I mumble. “Until we find a decent garden.”
I nibble dissatisfied on my half, thinking again of how routine my life is.
I get up early, five am on the dot every morning, go to the bathroom and lock myself in, take off my clothes and inspect what new scar or wound has progressed in it’s healing since it appeared the day before, then I check my chest and gut, musing over the huge, ugly scarring that is my past.
After a while I look down and ponder over the part of my body that easily comes under the ‘most hated’ list.
My manhood.
As superficial as it seems I still can’t help but hate it.
I got so shitty one day I cut it - tried to cut it off - stupid I know, but it’s only ever caused problems.
I sometimes wish I was a girl, but having boobs and a vagina isn’t going to change abuse - shit - it’d probably only make it worse.
The thoughts would turn to ‘him’ or back to those people before even that - it was all abuse in its own way.
Memories of abuse is abuse.
A penis that only causes problems... A breeding that attracts racists.
Sometimes I’d cut there and then, let blood flow down my arm before washing it off.
Then I’d have a shower and try and make myself feel at least a little bit perky by lathering up using Chester’s six dollar soap.
He’d kill me if I weren’t his best buddy.
I’d get out the shower and get dressed, then spend the next five minutes spiking my hair up and painting my nails black with Brad’s nail polish.
He’d kill me too, if he had enough energy to care.
Then I’d spend five seconds talking to the mirror, trying to convince myself that it’s only me in there, just plain old boring Mike Shinoda.
No such luck.
That’s the other one. Blue. Blue Sternkinder.
My very own alter ego.
Great.
And of course, Rosie.
Once I’d determined I’m still as cracked as the day before, I’d go and start awaking the rest of the bus in any way that’s going to be efficient.
For Brad, that means a fog horn.
Then it’s to work in the bus’s studio, where I’d sit on my poor ass for nine hours straight messing around with programs on computers.
Rosie would be there, precariously perched on top of the desk to avoid getting in anyone’s way.
Anyone’s way, that is, but mine.
The guys can’t see her, but I’m pretty sure they would know if they bumped into her - a dinosaur mixed with mutated hairless gorilla would probably not go unnoticed.
So she keeps on the desk, stepping on cords and everything.
Then after that we’d duck out (if possible) for afternoon lunch in town and then come back and sit on a chair in the studio for a little while longer.
Then after a few more hours we’d all go and do whatever we feel like and then one by one we’d start dropping off to bed.
I’d usually be the first in bed, but I’d be the last asleep.
Memories plague my dreams, and I don’t remember a time when I didn’t have a nightmare.
I’d wake up screaming some nights, so loud I’d think the bus driver might pull over thinking someone’s just been murdered.
Don’t worry, it’s only Mike Shinoda dying again, no big deal.
The guys wouldn’t wake, they all sleep like rocks, and I get the sneaking suspicion from Blue that Rosie puts them under some kind of spell to stop them waking up anyway.
Could I blame her?
So Rosie would sit there, massaging her unearthly palms over my face, heart light glowing, telepathic lines buzzing with little happiness’s from across the nebula.
After a while I would nod off again, lulled by the song of some weird creature in the Loch Ness.
It’s really official. I’m a nutcase, destined for the loony bin.
I dump the rest of my waffle in the trash can.
“Don’t look at me like that.” I sigh.
Rosie’s heart light goes feral for a second.
Too much is being wasted in this senseless way...
“I know Rosie.” I stand utterly exhausted, trying to regroup my energy to walk back to my bunk.
Another hour or so and I should have enough strength to climb the ladder.
- 1
- 2
- 3
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Amnesia and Star Child