Ok before you begin reading just understand that I like to make actual characters...well characters. I like to give them emotions or backgrounds they don't usually have in the show or books. So don't get pissed off at me because you don't like how I portray them, too bad. I also don't own Metalocalypse, Dethklok or anything that Bredon Small and Tommy Blancha (sp?) have their name on. Duh.

Hope you'll find this little one shot quite the heartbreaker. I enjoy making people feel extreme emotions with simple fanfics. Haha~

Please enjoy my works.

His hair was pulled back into a sloppy ponytail, not a fashion he particularly was fond of, but it served its purpose. His blue eyes stared affixed to the piece of paper in his hands. The graphite and charcoal had faded with time and wear, but the face was still as breathtaking as it had been 5 years ago when it could stare him in the eye and breathe. She'd never liked her portrait, but of course an artist is never satisfied. Though she loved his facial structure and proceeded in pulling his hair up into that sloppy mess on his head claiming it defined his face more and made him look like a true Viking warrior. Bullshit is what he would mutter, but for the sake of reminiscing he pulled his wheat-colored hair up.

He rubbed his calloused fingertips over the cheeks and lips, fingers now that had almost forgotten the pure feeling of flesh. But for a vague moment the familiar touch of paper was replaced with the ever lingering softness of flesh. The rush of memories pervaded his mind and the alcohol that numbed it like wild horses galloping freely over a grassy hill.

He gasped in a drunken wheezing breath and fought back all of the emotions he'd kept locked up and away for so long. The feel of her hair falling over his shoulder and her breath on his neck created fire in his veins that had long gone out and a phantom that no one else could understand. No woman, he knew, could ever make him feel like her, but still he tried aimlessly to find that feeling in the common whore.

"Skwisgaar…" she cooed.

"No…" he'd always respond to the phantom, but parts of him wanted to succumb to that voice, to those invisible touches that made him so high Pickles would even be stunned. He was sure that not even the devil himself could be more persuasive or tempting. His face became a mask of pain and suffering, for there is no pain like the pain of a broken heart.

"Gods…why…?" he muttered. Why is what he always asks when that one date came up on the calendar. The day that he would lock himself up in his room and just stare at that one picture. Once a year, that's when he'd mourn, he knew anymore and she'd be pissed. But he knew that with just one day he could get away with it. It was a day of silence, no alcohol other than that wine, no sound but the phantom, and no love but for the one who was gone.

"Ha ha, yeah if I die you can't be bawling about if forever. That's just no way to live your life," she had said, "besides, I'm not that important."

Of course to him she couldn't have been more wrong. For the longest time, she'd been it all. His life, his meaning, his everything. He would have climbed the highest mountains and swam the deepest seas. Just to see those deep green eyes stare up at him from the messy brown and blonde hair that would lie scattered on his pillows. It was that time he believed, truly believed there was someone up there, looking down and granting him those precious moments. But that had all eventually faded into memories to be locked up deep in a consciousness numbed by alcohol, drugs, and sluts.

"You're so demanding…" she would moan as his lips would travel down her throat as his hands were possessive of her curves. He would have murmured back to her in his native language, because being that turned on caused him to lose brainpower to speak English. She always loved hearing him speak it. Said it made her giddy for him, and he would have done anything to do that.

"Why…?" he asked the phantom as it brushed the hair from his forehead and kissed it. He took another swig of the strong 1938 blackcherry wine that she had loved so much. He'd noticed the odd looks as he cradled it in the grocery store the day before when they had gone shopping but he of course gave no inquiry other than, "I's just feels like its." Luckily they had just settled with that. He'd hate having to explain to them things that he himself didn't fully understand.

"…love is a fickle thing Skwisgaar, it makes people do crazy things you know…?" she slurred one hot August day as a bead of sweat trickled down her throat and disappeared into her cleavage. There was a smudge of charcoal on her cheek as it was smeared all over her hands at the moment. It was that bittersweet day that he'd felt pain for the first time, a pain that kept him searching, digging for the feeling she gave him again.

He'd always had a different perception about women, guess that's what happens when you have a whore for a mother. But then again maybe that's why he was so attracted to her. He'd lived a life without morals or goals or any ideals to live up to. And then he ran into her, someone so full of promise and innocence. Part of him wanted to know how she did that, and the other wanted so badly to taint that purity.

She'd wanted to be tainted, but not in the way of having sex. She wanted more than that. She wanted everything about him, from his lips to the soul that he'd been told lived deep inside of him. To touch these things and make them something she could visibly see was something she was ecstatic about.

She wanted to be tainted by his soul, wanted something she said, "to take with her" to wherever she went. At first he thought it was something like a locket that she would treasure and hold in her hand. Only too late on that August day did he figure out she wasn't taking anything she could touch with her.

No she had to take the one thing he hadn't realized he had until it was too late.

The bottle was almost empty, the rest of its contents sloshed around, creating the only sound. The phantom still lingered, trailing fingers through his hair and down the seams of his pants. She had loved to do that to him as he would play his guitar. She'd hum along and run her crafty fingers down his body making him tremble inside with the pent up desire. He couldn't remember how many times he'd made love to her with that guitar nudging against their bare thighs. Ha, he bet no one in the band had ever done that. If he ever got the guts, he'd brag about that.

But not today. There was too much thickness in the air that clogged his lungs and made his fingers feel too large to play those beautiful melodies he'd loved her with. Making her giggle as he trailed his fingers up and down her bare spine with his expert agility.

"Why'd you go?" he cried out finally, so tired of being haunted by the phantom of his heart. He threw the bottle against the wall. The shatter of its glass must have sounded the same as the windshield…

"…don't ever cry over me. I'm not worth the tears. If your gonna do something make it big and make it rock, that's how it should be done…"

If only she knew how badly he treated those random women because he was trying to find her.

"…you know I'll always be around when you need me…"

Then where was she now?

"…I don't know what Swedish is for 'I love you' but that sure sounds like it…"

How many times had he told her that?

"…you'll be great someday Skwisgaar, but someone like me only gets remembered after their gone…"

Is that why she was so eager to die?

So ready for whatever came at her? Was that why she was so content with him?

Was that why she told him she loved him? Because he'd love her so much more when she was gone? Is that why he could never bring himself to visit that small town in Virginia where atop a grassy hillside her sepulcher sat, forever entombed in the ground and hidden from the world and man she brought so much color, life, love, and meaning too? Because she knew he would never have the balls to go there, to fall to the ground and bawl like a baby?

It wasn't metal to cry, so he hid his tears.

But it was metal to hurt.

But it was long ago and it was far away, oh god it seems so very far

And if life is just a highway, then the soul is just a car

And objects in the rear view mirror may appear closer than they are

And objects in the rear view mirror may appear closer than they are