I am dangerous. That is a fact.

To share my story when I am a threat and a menace is ironic. After all, who hears out the beasts? Who wants to? You know that their teeth are sharp. But part of me cannot stand keeping it a secret. Withholding information - it’s a burden that weighs you down, and one that can only be alleviated through sharing the truth. It isn’t a secret to you, I’m sure. You, dear Archivist, who reads this now - you will know, sooner or later, against your will. Such is our nature. Such is fate.

With that, I give you my story.

I am a musician, and have been since I was young enough to still have my mother with me. I didn’t keep her for very long, because when I turned 12, she was taken, and I got another mother in her place. That other mother didn’t make music like my true one did. Its tune was scratchy, and ragged. It didn’t like my guitar, while my real mother liked it

It killed my father when I was 16. So I killed it. And after that, I was alone, later thrust into the hands of foster care with nothing but an instrument from another time.

My new foster parents were pleasant enough. They had three other children that they were taking care of, and I got along well with them. School, however, was a different story. I got bullied a lot, called various names, beaten and bruised on certain occasions - all not very fun things. I bore it, though. The last time I took action was when I killed the other mother, and since then I hadn’t the strength or will to do it again. I let myself be pushed around. I didn’t have the energy to fight back. That, I speculate, made me a prime target.

The only solace I found was with my guitar. It was a hand-me-down, given when I was 10. The instrument helped ease the discomfort of the harassment in school at first. Soon, however, the abuse worsened. And again I ignored it, telling myself I had no business trying to resist.

I think this was when it started growing, that throbbing, beating something inside of me. There was a connection being forged against my will inside my heart. Thankfully, I graduated without any fuss, but that feeling still lingered. It was only a matter of time before it would show itself.

On the night of my 21st birthday, I wrote my first and last song.

It came to me in the middle of the night, a strike of red lightning that scorched me and kept me awake until I’d written every last word down. And when I finished, I sat there, staring at it, uncertain of its conception but certain of its purpose. I knew what this song would do. I knew what I would do.

I was going to perform at a bar tomorrow evening, some dingy little establishment few would’ve heard of. The audience milled around in the dank space, sleepy and lethargic like the place itself, and the whole scene spoke of laziness. And there I was, clutching my instrument with white knuckles, desperately aching to start playing. That inspiration from the night prior had grown to a crescendo inside of me. If I didn’t let the crimson song out soon, it would’ve surely consumed me.

Onto the stage I got, and I introduced myself, trying to temper the tension in my jaw. I held my guitar tightly and poised my fingers fatefully over the strings. Droopy eyes turned to look at me.

I strummed the first chord, and I sang that song.

Do you know what euphoria feels like? I’m sure you could attempt to draw up descriptions; I’m sure you will even say that yes, you know what it’s like. It’s unlikely you could understand what my euphoria felt like, however. Despite this, I will try my best to tell you.

It is like a pure, unbridled, madness. It is a joy you can’t resist, a song that fills your ears and swallows you whole, dragging you down into the depths of mayhem. It is motion, movement, that commands your limbs to move and begs you to dance.

And dance the audience did - they moved, oh they did. They swung at one another and howled with rage. Broken glass flew and knives went deep into vocal chords, splitting them open and spilling the song onto the floor. Bodies were broken. Bones snapped. Chaos and bloodshed reigned.

And through it all I sang.

Mind you, I couldn’t stop. It wasn’t my choice to continue singing. Being possessed by that feeling is… not something you choose. It takes you and it makes you sing.

It was a long time before I finally stopped. The experience had left me greatly winded. My throat was raw, and my eyes watered with emotion that I wasn’t sure about. I glanced up tentatively at the messy scene around me.

The human body has a lot of blood in it, didn’t you know?

Red. Red. Red. So much of it throughout the bar. And it was very quiet too. Seeing as there was no one to stop me, I left.

That is the end of my story. Since that day, I have done the same thing over and over and over and over again. They whisper my name in the back alleys. They talk of that mysterious band, Hamelin - the band that, they say, has music which is to die for. I can assure you, it is.

Perhaps you are wondering why I would willingly expose myself like this. After all, sharing my crimes puts me at risk of being arrested, and surely a beast doesn’t want that?

Well, it’s true I don’t fancy being arrested, but at the same time I felt I had to tell you. To serve something the way I do - it’s a burden, all forms of servitude are. My kind just so happens to be an extremely deep lifelong debt I can never repay.

Do I regret it? Sometimes. Sometimes I feel something heavy in my chest, a deep seated guilt telling me - rightfully, I’ll add - that I’m a monster, that the slaughter left in my wake is an act that can’t be condoned no matter the reason. Other times I enjoy it, letting myself really get lost in the music, embracing that madness. Most of the time, I try to ignore it. It doesn’t always work.

Did I choose it? In a way, maybe I did. Or circumstance was just cruel.

Regardless, now you know. Hate me, fear me, inspect me like some prized specimen - do what you wish. But whatever you do, I implore you to be aware, for it may come for you just as it did for me.

FOLLOW-UP NOTES

This statement has a direct connection to Case #0140111 – the band described there, Hamelin, is the same name Damien Piper uses here. The connection between violence and music is… not one I would’ve made on my own. It’s an interesting association.

Mr. Piper makes… interesting claims, but Blair has found several consistent reports about violent brawls in establishments across the country, all of them ending with no survivors–and all of them occurring on nights where the band Hamelin is playing.