If You Want Blood (Then Bleed)

[Intro — low amplifier hum. Something metallic dragged across concrete. Three slow bootsteps.] Three years fighting monsters. Seven years working for them. [THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.] I know the difference. [Verse I — sparse, ugly guitar; almost spoken] For three years you gave me monsters, things with claws and borrowed skin. Locked the doors and rolled the cameras, then waited for the screaming to begin. You gave me vampires hungry, demons crawling through the walls, things boiled up in gene-pools that looked like nightmares standing ten feet tall. I was sixteen going on seventeen, like that fucking song. Then somehow fear became my job. "Stay in frame, sweetheart." "Turn toward camera three." "Let it get a little closer—" "We need the shot before you kill it." And every monster that I fought eventually fell down. But not before you got your pound of flesh. Then somebody yelled CUT! And the dead thing stood back up. Smiled, picking bits of me out of it teeth. Went home. [quietly] Those were the good monsters. [Verse II — bass crawls in; cold rather than explosive] Because behind the camera nothing ever took the costume off. Seven years of scripts and rewrites. Seven years of— "FuFu wouldn't say that." No. Rebecca would. That's why you crossed her fucking name out and wrote FuFu underneath. "Audiences need vulnerability." Translation: Hurt her. "The boys aren't testing strongly." Translation: Less clothing. "Girls want someone aspirational." Translation: Smile while you're bleeding. "We need consequences." Translation: Take away someone she likes Seven years you wrote the cage one fucking page at a time. And every morning someone handed me another version of my life. [Verse III — drums arrive, slow and punishing] You didn't need chains. You had continuity. Didn't need a lock. You had a call sheet. Didn't need to tell me I was property. Every line, every rewrite said it for you. You put my face on fucking everything until I couldn't tell the difference between being famous and being owned. Every friendship had a story arc. You wrote endings to them all. Every heartbreak got a score. Except the ones I hid. Every person that I trusted was written out before they could help. You'd sit behind your tinted glass and argue whether I cried enough. How to make fear looked pretty. And pain was got repetitive, you added another leash. HEY, maybe next season we should kill somebody she loves. Then send somebody down to tell me: "Great work today." [silence] And kill them if they sounded sincere. You fucking monsters. [Verse IV — guitars become enormous; no triumph, just controlled fury] Three years fighting monsters. Seven years learning what they are. The ones you created wanted screams. The ones with contracts wanted scars. One kind chased me down a hallway. One rewrote where the hallway led. Changed it so I’d be cornered, One tried to tear my throat out. The other decided who I'd love, who I'd lose, who I was allowed to be, and when I'd fucking bleed. Guess which one still visits when I'm lying awake in bed. Guess which one I'm scared is somewhere writing still. Another script. Another season. Another way to drag me home. Because monsters don't stop being monsters when the monster loses control. And you lost me. Didn't you? Your investment. Your franchise. Your sweet little fucking bunny jumped right through the door. So now you're looking. I know. [Bridge — instruments fall away; only a heartbeat kick] Maybe you've got scripts already. FU-FU FINDS HOME. Nice title. Maybe you've written the reunion. The capture. The emotional breakdown. The inspirational recovery. Maybe some executive is smiling while he circles the scene where I finally learn I belonged to you all along. And can never really leave. [quiet laugh] Bzzzzzzzt! Wrong answer. I’m not afraid. This is my script. Here's your rewrite. Take that page. Fold it carefully. And shove it up your fucking ass With a two hundred pound chaser Made of vibranium White fur Silver straps You want another season? “FuFu Fucks YOU twice!” How’s that for a title? You want another scream? We’ll use yours. You need somebody terrified? Look around that fucking boardroom when you hear Thump Thump Thump and I walk through the doors. You want scars? You’ll have ‘em. You want pain? I’ve got a couple of size sixteens for that. You want blood? Oh, baby— You've been asking me for blood since I was fourteen years old. For ratings. For trailers. For cliffhangers. For sweeps. For your fucking quarterly reports. And I gave you enough to fill an ocean And build your empire. Thump. No more. My blood is mine. Thump. And if your precious story still needs somebody bleeding before you'll let it end— [music stops] Then for the first time in seven fucking years... I'm giving you the note. [quietly] If you want blood— THEN BLEED. Three years fighting monsters. Seven years surviving them. [pause] One Good Day At A Time Without Them. A Better Day Without You.