A/N: I don't own VG. If I did, Brian would not look like Tommy Stone and Curt would stay in the frickin' bar when I tell him to. Anyway, this is the product of my mind at 3:25 AM. I think it's kinda neat. Please R+R and tell me if you agree or not.
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Brian Slade.
It had been ages since he'd heard that name, years or decades. He didn't know. Those words were so familiar, so close to the surface of his memory- yet they couldn't have been further away.
They'd had meaning once, beyond a name. Those words had been an idea. A inspiration. An image. They brought to mind glamour, glitz. A time of glitter and euphoria. If he tried, if he closed his eyes and pushed back the rough noise surrounding him, he could almost hear it, see it, touch it. And he could almost taste it, sweet and cool as a mountain spring.
He stopped thinking. Thinking lead to remembering, which lead to regretting. And he had come too far to regret.
He moved to the sink, twisted the shining silver handle. A blast of water hit his hands. Steam rose up from the water, and he stared at it, fascinated. When had he stopped feeling?
He ran his fingers through the water, then cupped his hands together and let the water run into the basin they created. He splashed the water he collected onto his face and ran his hands down his cheeks, nails scraping at the foundation that caked his skin. His hands came away encrusted with the thick makeup, manicured nails covered with ocher paint.
He could still feel it on his face. His hand shot out, jerked a hand towel from its place on the rack. He let it run under the water, then brought it to his face, scrubbing frantically. He didn't stop until his skin was raw and stinging from the heat.
The washcloth dropped into the sink with a splash. He gazed into the mirror. It was fogged; he reached a thin hand out to clear it. He didn't recognize the image that gazed back at him. It was sallow and thin, eyes dull and sunken into a hollow face. Thin lips rose above a weak chin and there were lines, thick and deep, running from nose to chin and across the forehead.
The man in the mirror wasn't him.
Slowly, he lowered himself to the ground, pulled his knees to his chest. The reporter had lied. The reporter had said he was Brian Slade. He couldn't have been more wrong. Brian would laugh at the pitiful creature huddled on the floor, laugh and wonder why he was languishing in a pool of diluted makeup in a white polyester suit. Brian would scoff at his music, at the message he was sending. One delicate brow would raise over one amazing eye when Brian heard he was engaged to Shannon and inviting the president to their June wedding. And then Brian would cry, cry at everything he'd done to Curt, to Mandy, to the whole damn world.
His head lowered to rest on his arms, raw cheek scraping against his rough sleeve. He wasn't Brian.
But, God, he wanted to be.
Image
Brian Slade.
It had been ages since he'd heard that name, years or decades. He didn't know. Those words were so familiar, so close to the surface of his memory- yet they couldn't have been further away.
They'd had meaning once, beyond a name. Those words had been an idea. A inspiration. An image. They brought to mind glamour, glitz. A time of glitter and euphoria. If he tried, if he closed his eyes and pushed back the rough noise surrounding him, he could almost hear it, see it, touch it. And he could almost taste it, sweet and cool as a mountain spring.
He stopped thinking. Thinking lead to remembering, which lead to regretting. And he had come too far to regret.
He moved to the sink, twisted the shining silver handle. A blast of water hit his hands. Steam rose up from the water, and he stared at it, fascinated. When had he stopped feeling?
He ran his fingers through the water, then cupped his hands together and let the water run into the basin they created. He splashed the water he collected onto his face and ran his hands down his cheeks, nails scraping at the foundation that caked his skin. His hands came away encrusted with the thick makeup, manicured nails covered with ocher paint.
He could still feel it on his face. His hand shot out, jerked a hand towel from its place on the rack. He let it run under the water, then brought it to his face, scrubbing frantically. He didn't stop until his skin was raw and stinging from the heat.
The washcloth dropped into the sink with a splash. He gazed into the mirror. It was fogged; he reached a thin hand out to clear it. He didn't recognize the image that gazed back at him. It was sallow and thin, eyes dull and sunken into a hollow face. Thin lips rose above a weak chin and there were lines, thick and deep, running from nose to chin and across the forehead.
The man in the mirror wasn't him.
Slowly, he lowered himself to the ground, pulled his knees to his chest. The reporter had lied. The reporter had said he was Brian Slade. He couldn't have been more wrong. Brian would laugh at the pitiful creature huddled on the floor, laugh and wonder why he was languishing in a pool of diluted makeup in a white polyester suit. Brian would scoff at his music, at the message he was sending. One delicate brow would raise over one amazing eye when Brian heard he was engaged to Shannon and inviting the president to their June wedding. And then Brian would cry, cry at everything he'd done to Curt, to Mandy, to the whole damn world.
His head lowered to rest on his arms, raw cheek scraping against his rough sleeve. He wasn't Brian.
But, God, he wanted to be.