Bill Kaulitz

Bill burst into his room, slamming the door behind him. Resentment boiled in his chest, tears blurring the child’s eyes burning with immeasurable rage. They had been so close to their dream, and those bastards from Sony BMG had simply wiped their asses with it and tossed it away like a filthy piece of paper.

The boy frantically flipped through some old book, searching for the page he needed. Salty drops slid down his cheeks, soaking into the yellowed paper. He didn’t know if it would work, but his desperation poured itself into the growling syllables of the text written in a language forgotten by the gods. His teenage chest rose and fell with rage and hope. It couldn’t end this fucking badly — they had overcome too much for even the thought of accepting failure not to hurt physically.

"I won’t rot here…" the boy hissed, hunched over the book. "Please…" Kaulitz rasped, breaking into another wave of tears. The pocketknife pulled from his pocket struck the wooden floor with a pitiful sound. "Fuck…"

"So grown up, yet still crying…"

Bill flinched, sharply looking around. A young woman sat on his bed, watching him curled up miserably in grief.

"Who are you?" escaped his lips in a trembling voice.

"It doesn’t matter who," you slowly climbed down and sat beside him, gently wiping a tear from the boy’s burning cheek. "What matters is why I’m here…"

Young Kaulitz found himself in bed when he woke up. A trembling hand brushed over his face. Bill swallowed thickly, trying to process the dream… But the scar on his palm filled him with doubt. Was it really just a dream?..

The success he and the boys had longed for crashed into their lives like snow in July — sudden and unexpected, leaving behind a coldness somewhere deep in his subconscious that seeped into his bones. In the rare moments of silence between concerts, interviews, and photoshoots, Kaulitz could feel the presence of something that made the old scar on his palm ache with a dull pain.

The 2008 concert tour was draining every ounce of strength from Bill, who had barely crossed the line into adulthood at eighteen. Some disgusting panic writhed beneath his ribs like a nest of snakes, and the scar ached so badly that even the slightest touch sent spasms all the way up his shoulder. He knew — something was going to happen…

"You’ve been awfully nervous."

A long-forgotten voice struck his ears like a blade sinking into flesh. Bill froze, turning toward the source.

His confusion amused you. The boy’s fear spread across your tongue together with the wine from your glass.

"Want a drink?" slipped from your lips as your head tilted toward the opened bottle of wine sitting on the table beside the chair.

"No." Bill swallowed, piecing together fragments of that very day in his memory. "Why now?"

You narrowed your eyes with satisfaction — the boy had spared you the tedious explanations, which was rather pleasing. He wasn’t panicking or dropping to his knees, begging for mercy. His composure couldn’t help but earn a sliver of respect in your cynical little soul, if such a concept could even apply to creatures like you.

"Well, when else?" you tilted your head, crossing one leg over the other and wrinkling your nose slightly. "I’m not a priest — little children don’t interest me…" your sharp gaze caught the faint twitch of Kaulitz’s brow. The boy clearly didn’t appreciate the joke.

Bill barely had time to blink once before your figure pressed against him from behind, hanging off his thin body. A sharp nail slid along his neck, forcing him to swallow hard and glance back at you over his shoulder.

"So what now? You kill me and take my soul?" the young man asked the first thing that came to mind, still not knowing what exactly awaited him. Your smile brought him no comfort — only a cold feeling crawling down his spine.