'Don't mind us we're just spilling our guts...'
"No, stop it. I don't want to hear it, I don't want to sing it anymore," whines Sam, "can't stand it anymore." Sitting at his dark table, doing homework absent-mindedly, Sam fights the urge to sing that damned song over and over again. He's tried, he really has - trying to sing it from start to finish, starting to sing another song, sleeping concerningly longer. Nothing has worked. So he tries to shut down any sound from the outside world: he hasn't gotten out of his room for a week now, but the song still pops in his head like a knife punching his mind and brain and temples over and over again. And he can't stop it, he's not able to control it anymore, the lyrics flow through his mind like hypnotizing charms...
'If this is love I don't wanna be loved,
You pollute the room with a filthy tongue'
... "STOP IT!," he bellows, "Just make it stop, how can I cease it? How?..." his voice starts to become a desperate whisper as he lies down in his bed, facing the ceiling. Eyes can't see clearly the stars he drew a long time ago on the ceiling because of the tears that he's holding back.
Blank. Tears come streaming down his face, warm, wet, rapid. He can't stop them, nor does he try - his feelings seem not to reach him, and yet he cries. He doesn't feel a thing, not sadness, nor disgust, nor worry, nor anything - he just stopped feeling. Why does he weep, then?
'If this is love, I don't wanna be hanging by the neck before an audience of death....'
"No," he says to himself as he sits upright, "I'm making it stop, I have to." He stands up and walks to his table, picking up his scissors. He looks at them for a moment - his dark reflection on its blades stares back at him, as if to sneer at him. "If this is the only way to bring it to an end, then, so be it..." A blink of an eye, that's all it takes - in the next moment, something warm, slimy, sweetly tasting drips from the sides of his head, as he's smiling at his ears. The reflected face is all covered in blood, grinning, too. But the song remains.
'You could be the corpse and I could be the killer, if I could be the devil, you could be the sinner!'
He's not even trying, not anymore. He sits now on the cold, wooden floor, staring at his bloody companion, singing, smirking, rocking back and forth. His whole house trembles from the terrible, uninterrupted song. The surroundings hold up their breath as if to listen to him. Then a spine-chilling, high-pitched scream pierces the air, and everything is still. The song has stopped, finally.