Headphones Dependency
Writing Prompt: headphones
She asks me what am listening to in her guttural, confrontational voice. ‘The screams fae the last person ah killed,’ ah say. She gives me a disturbed look, then a constipated one — the death of another conversation. Ah really am a serial killer. Ave probably lost another potential mate there. But that’s life, isn’t it? As one set of legs closes, another opens. It’s much easier to let people think am a murderer than admit am listening to classical music in a working-class area, where every kid is a comedian, expert gossiper, slanderer or potential torturer. Now am just weird and potentially interesting instead of a pretentious snob, who’s for the watching.
People ask what am listening to quite a lot. Maybe it’s because ah wear headphones even when they’re attached to nothing. My family say am anti-social, my girlfriend says ah don’t listen…ah think. Who knows? My ears are usually plugged and my mind drifting in the clouds of a better world with respect for the environment. Too many drugs as a child. It’s terrible the Neighbourhood Watch say. Ah know. Am only eighteen now and still on drugs, but ah feel ancient and wizened most of the time, except in the morning when am an infant battling against responsibility.
Ah play the guitar with my headphones in. This is to test my ability to withstand torture if ah should ever have the misfortune of being shipped to Guantanamo with a bag over my head. Jimi Hendrix is hardly shitting himself is all ah’ll say. The guy who created me wears his earphones all the time as well. God pretty much has to. Not that the beardy, half-drunk prick writing this is actually God…at least, he’s not yours. You can still exist without him. Am pretty much fucked once he puts his earphones in and submits this story — until the next torture session. Spare a thought, eh?
Ah only realised ah was probably fictional when my earphones still worked after ah took an involuntary shower in Niagara Falls. That’s right. This sadist gets his cheap thrills by throwing me off tourist attractions for his amusement. Such a nice guy, eh? All ah’ll say is you start to get suspicious when you can still hear William Tell Overture as you fall through a torrent of water to certain death only to survive with a few bruises and an orchestra blaring in your ears. The upside of that horrifying near-death experience is ah know ah can wear earphones anywhere. The best place is in the shower. People get really freaked out when you sing along to something they can’t hear, especially when it’s death metal, Tom Waits, or my personal favourite, a deep-voiced Glaswegian murdering Wuthering Heights.
Ah think ah’d die or be forced to kill if ah didn’t have my precious headphones. You ever been on a bus, or a train yourself without headphones? All that tolerating noise is not for me. That’s what he tells me anyway. He’s made me a misanthrope. He’s made me dependent on my headphones. There are no twelve steps for this unless John runs out of ideas and puts me in some ill-conceived headphones rehab.
Fantastic. Now am staring into the Grand Canyon. Cheers, John. Try writing some kitchen-sink realism in future, eh? It’s not you that has to be constantly hurled into oblivion only to be resurrected to do the same ad nauseum. Ah can’t even enjoy the exquisite scenery or music blasting in my ears. Danger! High Voltage has never sounded so tragic and profound. That cunt Santa Claus throws me off again. The evil ho ho ho echos around me as ah plummet headfirst into the grandest of canyons then arse-first on a seat in an old gymnasium. Am surrounded by glum, grey faces sitting round in a circle. My beautiful, sacred headphones are missing. ‘Where the fuck is ma headphones?’ A group of depressed, itching men and women stare at me like ave just sprouted a cock from my head. Ah read the sign on the wall: Headphones Anonymous. Go fuck yourself, John, you sick, handsome prick.
