Inner Demons

Written by Zelda

 

Part Four: Thom Yorke Was Right

 

 

(A/N: Thom Yorke is the lead singer from Radiohead, another of my favorite bands. Murdoc was once quoted in an interview criticizing Yorke’s negative view of life and how that reflected in Radiohead’s music, whose popularity has managed to give a pop-culture quality to being jaded and depressed in certain circles. And I love it, hah! So that serves you right Murdoc J )

 

                Through the haze of his blurred vision and slurred speech, it was all he could do to hold onto his own train of thought. So this was where being ‘uncooperative’ got him. He wanted go fucking go home, was that such a crime? Apparently it was. They’d given him enough sedatives to kill an elephant and cuffed him to the rail of his bed. Murdoc sat and stewed in his own thoughts, trying more than anything to ignore the droning of the doctor that sat in a chair next to him, staring at him as if she were dissecting him with her eyes. He made some sort of answers to her barrage of questions, he wasn’t even sure what he was saying. Just how drugged up was he? For the first time, Murdoc understood what it felt like to be 2-D, and it scared the crap outta him. What a living hell this was. If Stu so much as tried to piss him off again, he’d feel perfectly happy sending him to a hospital like this. It would be the best sort of punishment that Murdoc could think of.

                “Now Murdoc, you told me yesterday that you have issues in showing certain kinds of emotions…” the doctor started.

Murdoc struggled to remember her name… Thompson, Thompkins, something like that. But she was a chick, unfortunately not really hot enough for him to want her attention. “The hell?” Murdoc replied.

“Well, those weren’t your exact words.” she looked at her clipboard. “From how you’ve described your current life, you seem to have problems showing attachments to people.”

“I ain’t attached to anything but this fooking bed…”

“Language, Mr. Niccals, please.” the doctor chided. “You have friends, acquaintances, however you’d like to term them. I’m sure you miss them now, don’t you?”

“I don’t wanna be here.” he growled in reply.

“But you want to go back to them.” she started.

“No, they’re annoying, I wanna go back to my Winnie…”

“And be alone?”

“Hell yeah.”

“This proves my point, Mr. Niccals.”

“You had a point?” Murdoc raised an eyebrow and tried to see her face clearly.

“Have you ever heard the phrase that no man is an island? It’s very true, Mr. Niccals. We’re social creatures. Your desire to be left alone is completely self-constructed and self-maintained. I believe you think it’s part of your image.”

“My image ain’t your concern.”

“But it is, Mr. Niccals.” Thompson tapped a pen against her clipboard. “Ever since that’s what helped drive you to try and kill yourself.”

“Do we haveta talk about this again?” Murdoc came close to whining, then mentally slapped himself for it. “It was a fooking accident!”

“You and I both know that’s really a lie, Murdoc.” Thompson shook her head. “Mr. Niccals, I’ve already reached my conclusions as to the root of your problem. I believe that it’s even more painfully obvious to you. But I cannot make you change for the better. And you cannot leave here until you start showing some progress. It’s my recommendation that you start cooperating with us.” Collecting her papers and placing a pen in her coat pocket, she stood and started for the door. “I will leave you alone Murdoc, we’ll see just how much you like it.” And with that, she was gone, closing the door behind her.

Murdoc stewed in the silence she left behind, nearly fuming. Frustrated, he rattled the handcuff chain around his wrist. He was still cursing at himself for acting like a baby through all of this. It was pathetic! He couldn’t be whining! And yet… yet something in the back of his mind was relenting, musing over what she had been telling him over these past few days. Could all of these docs have a point? He’d never been hurt by the fact that he hated pretty much everyone. In fact, it’d kept him pretty safe. So why was it turning on him now? After all of the time he had spent in here, his anger had left him. Replacing it was an unfamiliar feeling, something so frustrating that it would cause him to not be able to sleep at night, would cause tears to sting the back of his eyes. Was this what depression felt like? Was he sad over something like this? Cursing at himself again, Murdoc closed his eyes and tried to succumb to the drugs that were tugging him back into sleep.

 

“Murdoc-san!”

Murdoc let out a low grunt and pulled the blanket over his head slowly. To his annoyance, the voice came again.

“Murdoc-san! Wake!” it commanded.

Grumbling, it took Murdoc several long moments to be able to sort out just whose voice it was. Noodle. What was she doing here? Where was he? Suddenly forgetting everything, Murdoc sat up slowly and rubbed his eyes. Instead of opening them to find the darkened, filthy cavern of his Winnebago, he was surrounded by a harsh, spotless, white hospital room. The rush of memories brought all of the frustration back.

“Hi Murdoc!” the voice chirped again.

Murdoc turned his head to see Noodle, dressed in an oversized bomber jacket, with her MP3 hat helmeting her head.

“Noodle?” he asked, rubbing his eyes again to make sure that she was there. “Wot er you doin’ ere?”

“Visit Murdoc-san!” she giggled, grinning from ear to ear. “See if better!”

“Nice.” he growled. “You woke me up.” Noodle merely giggled again, as if she were oblivious to his anger. Murdoc leaned up a little further in bed, causing a light wave of dizziness to pass over him. Damn drugs. “So you’ve seen me, I’m still breathin’, what else do you want?”

“Have present!” Noodle announced, bouncing a little. From behind her diminutive frame, Noodle pulled out Murdoc’s favorite bass, and stood on her tiptoes to push it into his lap.

                “You... you brought this for me?” Murdoc asked, weakly gripping the guitar in a playing stance.

                “Fixed... it... myself.” Noodle nodded, and then cocked her head at him, watching expectantly.

                Murdoc blinked at her, then looked at the guitar in his lap. He tried to pluck a note, but his strumming hand was so weak... It would take a good deal of time for it to get back to full strength again, after what he had done. It hurt him to suddenly discover that he couldn’t play... but still, he felt better just having his favorite guitar around. And Noodle had thought enough to bring it for him. As another guitarist, maybe she just understood that. He looked back at her and brushed a little hair out of his eyes, smiling slightly. “Domo arigato.” he nodded. “Thanks Noodle.”

                Her face lit up at the show of the fact that he actually knew something in Japanese. It was the first time he had really ever spoken any back to her. She let out a little squeal and jumped up, pulling down his good hand and hugging it. 

                Meanwhile, Murdoc was wondering why the hell he was being so nice. Yeah, Noodle had always been a cute, vicious little kid. But what had come over him? Damn drugs. But whether she knew it or not, she’d done something really nice for her bassist, and he was feeling unusually grateful. He was expecting seeing his bandmates would bring back the feelings that had been haunting him before, all of that internal frustration, all of the suppression he had to keep up, the image that he had to maintain. For a moment, it didn’t seem to matter anymore. “So…” he started. “Where’s the others?”

                “Russel-san… in car.” Noodle jabbed a finger towards the window. “2-D… umm….” She found herself at a loss for words, instead pointing to her head.

                “Headache.” Murdoc couldn’t help but smirk. “Poor dullard, couldn’t grace me with ‘is presence.”

                “Noodle happy, Murdoc-san!” she giggled, hugging his arm again. “Murdoc-san good again!”

                To this, Murdoc sighed. “I wish, girl. Looks like I’m still gonna be in here for a while.”

                Noodle frowned and shook her head. “No, Murdoc-san go home!” She tugged on his hand, only to find herself stopped by the handcuff that chained it to the bed rail. Noodle’s frown deepened, tinged with confusion, and she looked up at Murdoc for an explanation.

                Much to his own surprise, Murdoc was left with an unusual feeling of guilt, staring back at the ten-year-old. How would he even begin to explain? As he thought it over, he realized that he really had been too childish about this whole ordeal. Too stubborn and too resisting, believing too much that he knew it all. As he was thinking, he watched Noodle’s reaction change, from confusion to anger, as she drew her own conclusions.

                “Me go get Russel-san!” she nodded. “Murdoc-san go home!” And before Murdoc could protest, she scurried from the room, the door clanging shut gently behind her.

                And he was left alone, alone in the room that smelled like disinfectant, with his bass guitar.

 

                He had regretted the statement he’d made those months ago, he thought now. Thom Yorke was right, the depressing little git had the right idea all along.

                “What do you mean?” Dr. Thompson peered keenly at him. “What did he have right?”

                “That life is just… fuckin’ disgusting sometimes.” Murdoc sighed. “I mean, shit goes wrong every day. There’s a kinda apathy in it that I always liked, but I never saw a point to worryin’ about any of it.”

                “Do you think that’s why you’ve stayed so detatched from people?”

                “I dunno, I just do. Maybe it is who I am…” Murdoc paused for a moment. “Damn doc, does this mean you’ve actually figured me out?”

                “You’re far more complex than that.” The doctor tapped her clipboard with the pen. “But at least you’re realizing what I’ve been trying to tell you all along. The people around you find comfort in each other’s company, do you envy them?”

                “Hells no.” Murdoc shook his head. “But, well, I been thinkin’, and we’re an odd lot, my band. Sometimes we fight, sometimes we don’t, but I wonder ‘ow we all get along wid each other. I guess it’s cause we fill a niche, y’know? Everyone’s got somethin’.”

                “And what do you have?”

                “You kiddin’?” Murdoc raised an eyebrow. “I own ‘em! It’s my band! I’m the glue!” he paused for a moment, calming down. “And they’ve been sore without me, I dunno why but I feel bad havin’ Noodle worry about me and shit at night and all.”

                “And what about you?” Thompson asked. “I’m sure that you’ve missed them. You did just say you felt bad, you know.”

                “Ehh…” Murdoc realized that he was caught. “Ya get used to ‘em. They’re the ones that need to be chained to the bed, ‘specially Stu-Pot.”

                “Well, I have some good news for you.” The doctor stood, smiling slightly. She took a small key out of her pocket, using it to unlock the cuff around Murdoc’s hand.

                “Z’is mean I can leave now?” he asked.

                “Not just yet, I’m afraid.” she answered. “But you’ve finally started making some progress. If you continue to take your medicine and talk openly with me, you’ll be out of here in no time at all.”

                “It’s about damn time.” Murdoc nodded sharply, rubbing his freed wrist. “You can count on it doc. I want outta here. The food sucks.”

                Dr. Thompson gave Murdoc a light smile, and closed the door behind her as she left.

 

                He still looked pale. 2-D blinked for just a moment, leaning against the van while he watched Murdoc walk with Russel and Noodle out of the hospital. But he looked far more normal. The same clashing sharpness in his eyes was back. His terrible posture was still terrible. He was wearing normal clothes, and his inverted cross still hung from his neck. 2-D smiled as his three bandmates came closer, Noodle insisting that she hold Murdoc’s hand the entire way through the carpark. He was actually surprised that Murdoc was letting her.

                “’Allo Stu-Pot.” Murdoc blinked at him. “Long time no see.”

                “Sorry Muds…” he started sheepishly, looking at the ground. “’Ad bad headaches. Got new pills though!” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small orange plastic bottle with the prescription pills in them, rattling them around.

                Murdoc smirked with half of his face, dug into his own pocket, and opened an orange bottle that he pulled out. “Heh, mine’s bigger.” he remarked, showing 2-D a few of the pills in his palm. “Guess the band’s gonna have two druggies for a little while.”

                2-D was surprised again by Murdoc’s jovial nature. Maybe it was the drugs. If that was the case, he might have a chance of not being physically assaulted by his bandleader for a little while.

                The whole group piled into the van, Murdoc opting for the passenger seat next to Russel. Russel decided to tease his bassist about not driving, Murdoc grumbled and gave the excuse that you couldn’t really get any good speed in a van anyway. But he wore a light smirk while he said it. And it felt right, like he wasn’t faking it, like he didn’t have to worry about any image. Sure, he was a sick bastard, sure he was evil and heartless and rotten to the core. Murdoc loved being that way. And for the first time, he felt as if everyone else tolerated that in him as well. And he tolerated them right back.

 

The End

 

(Yah, I know, cheesy ending, but I dunno I couldn’t find any good fluffy stuff for Murdoc. He’s MURDOC for pete’s sake, it just feels soooo OOC J Forgive me ya’ll, and ciao until the next story!)