Echo of the Past

09. Marcin

Translator: Schiotka

Editor: Pasadera, JacquelineMonaie
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He screamed himself hoarse.

He screamed his lungs out. Until his throat hurt. Until he thought he'd puke his lungs up yelling.

Bending over, he held his hands over his diaphragm.

He felt the addition of a microphone was totally unnecessary today. But he liked to clench the slender object in his hand, to dance with the cable.

He was sure his screams could break through the noise of the instruments. He could fill the room with his voice.

And he did.

He filled it with his chaos, his regret.

With the emotions he was tired of holding back.

He was puking them up with his screams.

He needed it.

Oh yeah.

It feels so good...

Why unload his anger in the flat?

He could do it here. To the rhythm of their music.

Fool.

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"I'm tired... damn..." complained the freckled man. He massaged his arms as he sat at his drum kit.

"Has there ever been a rehearsal where you didn't get tired?" Marcin shot back in challenge, lifting a brow. Before the drummer could answer, a tall, dark-haired guy approached Marcin and put his palm to his cheek in a typical "auntie" way.

"Well, well, our Marcin is recovering his mean old self," said the guitarist in an affectionate voice.

"Fuck off." Marcin grimaced; his cheeks hurt. He threw his head back, trying to push the guitarist away with his boot. The dark-haired guy evidently knew his typical reaction well, because he swiftly avoided the kick, smiling with malicious satisfaction.

"You'd better not make fun of him. Heartache is a serious condition," the drummer said, half-seriously, half-jokingly, as he watched their antics.

"What?!" Marcin cried, whipping his head toward the drummer whilst still trying to attack the tall guitarist.

"Marcin, Marcin, we've known each other for so many years now. You always scream your soul out whenever there are heart troubles in sight. Isn't that right, Zbychu?"

"Yep." The drummer crossed his arms over his chest and nodded his head gravely, as if there were not a truer statement in existence.

"You see, even Zbychu knows it. And Firka too, probably." Firyal, busy packing the equipment away, glanced at the dark-haired guitarist from the corner of her eye. She decided it wasn't worth interfering in the guys' conversation. "Today you howled more than your fair share, so we assume it's something big," he continued, looking down at an angered Marcin. "Isn't that right, Zbychu?"

"Yep," the drummer confirmed again.

Marcin was staring at them, wide-eyed. Not believing his own ears.

"Don't look so surprised. After all, we're one big family." The guitarist gave Marcin a heavy pat on the shoulder. Marcin grimaced again, turning his body in hopes of revenge. The taller guy had already retreated to a safer distance.

"Yo! Guys, maybe you could make yourselves useful and start packing this stuff away?" Firka gave them a fierce glare, impatient at the delay.

The guys smiled in apology, all at once. Those faces amused her.