You’d do it too, if you were me. I’ll even tell you how. They keep asking me, and I suppose I need to tell someone. I don’t know if you’ll truly understand though. Not unless you’ve been there. And if you’ve been there, you wouldn’t be here with me. You’d be locked in another cell, trying to sing away the time that drags on forevermore. It gets lonely here, there’s not many options when you’re kept in isolation, the way I am.
I’m special, finally, I’m considered special.
You probably know of me right? I mean, before the incident. Oh, right, you don’t. I’m the forgotten one. The one stuck in the background. The guy who’s ignored in favor of the other three, especially the young blonde. Now being in the Backstreet Boys (oh, now you recognize me?), and being the forgotten one can grate your nerves enough with just that alone. Even after Kevin quit and I actually got a chance to freaking sing, I was still ignored by everyone. It frustrated me beyond almost anything else.
The four of us, once five, were like brothers. We’d known each other for over a decade. Over seventeen years actually, to be more specific. The youngest one, yeah, Nick Carter? He was that annoying irritating little brat that you wanted to just disappear. I can’t tell you how many times I wished for that to happen.
Day in and day out, with his…
“Are we there yet?”
Or his “Hooooowwwwwie are you awake?”
And “Number two, heh heh…”
You’d think he was five, instead of thirty. Not to mention he’s why so many songs leaked before every damn album came out. Can you believe his password was “backstreet”?
I really don’t get how anyone expected me to tolerate that forever. I’m only human. Yes I’m violent; you might even consider me to be insane. You’d be justified. But I’m still only human. I do have limits. How could the world love him more than me anyway? Oh, right, because they didn’t know how aggravating he was! They just knew he was “pretty”.
It wasn’t just the way he acted. He’d never leave me alone! He’d constantly be playing pranks on me. I’d wake up covered from head to toe (almost) in permanent marker. Or the time I woke up covered in Crisco cooking oil. Still, I didn’t act. I just held it all in, tried to keep myself from enacting revenge. I didn’t do anything the time he put itching powder in my underwear either. And all the times he’s licked me? Nothing.
Then, came the day where, at the end of the Backstreet Cruise…
I woke up, and it seemed alright. Until I looked in the mirror. And there, when I saw all my hair had been shaved off that morning, I lost my sense of sanity. I remember storming up to his room, banging on his door. I could hear him laughing on the other end. He wasn’t laughing when I was done with him.
In fact, he wasn’t doing anything at all…
I had a rage blackout. The first thing I remember since banging on the door, was looking down at his mutilated body. His pretty face was gone, only a bloody pulp remained. They later had to test to make sure it was him. I made sure to cut off his arms. It took some time, I bet, because all I had in my hands later were some shards from the shattered mirror. Naturally I found that I’d locked the door. Blood was everywhere. I pocketed his eyes, those eyes that girls used to coo over. I cut them out as a gift to myself. Empty spaces filled with holes. Ha, that’s a lyric from a single I never got a lead on. I kept them as a souvenir as I washed myself off in the sink.
They got lost, unfortunately, later on.
I was whistling to myself when they found me. I didn’t care when they took me in. I admitted to them gleefully what I’d done. I’m still happy about it. He had it coming. After seventeen years, he earned what he got! Do you hear me? He earned it!
So yes, I did it. He had it coming. And when I meet him in hell, I’ll tell him that myself.