Chapter 38: The Speaker Therapy
Sunday, September 20, 2015
Michael woke up. The sun was streaming through the window of his new room.
He felt... empty. As if he had confessed to an invisible priest. The night before, the impulse to release 'let's pretend we're numb' had been overwhelming. He had recorded it, mixed it roughly, and uploaded it, all in a burst of emotion.
Now, in the cold light of morning, he felt an "emotional hangover".
He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face. 'What the fuck did I do?'
He felt exposed, almost ashamed. The song wasn't "art". It was an intimate diary. The monologue at the beginning, advising people not to pretend... sounded pretentious. The lyrics... were too much. Too raw, too naked.
With a sense of dread, he grabbed his laptop from the nightstand. He opened SoundCloud. He expected a violent backlash. He expected mockery.
What he found was almost worse: silence.
The song had been online for almost twelve hours. 'Life Is Beautiful' had had thousands of plays in that time. 'crybaby' had exploded.
'let's pretend we're numb' had Plays: 412. Likes: 20.
And the comments were... confusing.
"Where is the beat?"
"Dude, this sounds like you recorded it with your phone mic. Are you okay?"
"What is this acoustic shit? Go back to making stuff like Sodium."
The 'White Iverson' and 'Sodium' fans were completely baffled. They didn't understand what this was. It wasn't a vibe. It wasn't a hit. It was... depressing.
Michael closed the laptop. The pang of regret was sharp.
'Maybe it was too much.'
He got up and went to make himself a coffee. 'Too weird. Too raw. I messed up. Nobody cares.'
He spent the day in a limbo of anxiety, avoiding the studio. He watched TV. Played Call of Duty against bots. Tried to do anything but think about the song he had released to the world.
But as the day went on, something began to change. The song, being so strange, so different, started to be shared. Not by the hype blogs, but in smaller circles. In mental health forums. In private Facebook groups.
And the people who found it weren't trap fans. They were people who, like Michael, were pretending to be okay.
Sunday, September 20 - Monday, September 21, 2015
The song, being so strange and raw, didn't go viral in the same way as 'Sodium'. It wasn't shared by the hype blogs.
It was shared in whispers.
A link sent via text message. A quiet tweet. A post on a forum at 3 a.m.
And so, it found the people who needed it.
Point of View: Alex (Boston University Dorm)
It was 3:14 in the morning. Alex, a 19-year-old freshman, was staring at a macroeconomics textbook, but the words made no sense.
He hadn't slept well in three days. Midterms were next week and he was completely overwhelmed. He felt like a fraud. He had arrived on a scholarship and was sure he was going to fail everything.
He was trapped in a cycle of panic and procrastination. He felt alone, a thousand miles from home, and he was pretending. He pretended with his study partners that he "got it". He pretended with his parents on the phone that college was "great".
He opened Twitter, looking for any distraction. He had been following Michael Demiurge since 'White Iverson' went viral on campus.
He saw the new tweet.
"Don't pretend to be okay when you're not okay."
The words hit him. He felt... exposed.
He clicked on the SoundCloud link. He put on his headphones, expecting another laid-back beat. Instead, he heard a raw acoustic guitar and a hiss.
And then, the monologue.
'As a fair warning... I advise you to not hide your feelings. Don't pretend to be okay when you're not okay. Don't pretend to be happy when you're sad. It'll only lead to your misery.'
Alex froze. He felt like he was being spoken to directly.
The guitar loop started, and Michael's voice came in, not like singing, but like a whispered confession.
'Don't you fucking hate it when you hear my name?'
'I feel the same...'
The self-loathing. The feeling of being a failure. Alex felt it in his marrow.
'I should've held you close, should've kept you warm...'
He thought of his high school girlfriend, whom he had been ignoring because he was too stressed to talk. He felt guilty.
'Don't jump, pretend it don't hurt...'
The voice was a plea. It was telling him to stop pretending.
'It don't hurt me, damn...'
The obvious lie in the singer's voice, the failed attempt to sound tough... it was the same lie he told himself.
The song ended with the whispered apology:
'I'm sorry.'
Alex took off his headphones. The silence of his dorm room was deafening. He looked at the stack of books on his desk.
He pushed the macroeconomics book, and it fell to the floor with a dull thud.
He rested his head in his hands. And for the first time all semester, he stopped pretending he was strong enough. He cried. It was an ugly, silent, and absolutely necessary cry.
Point of View: Jessica (Suburban Dorm, California)
Jessica, 17, was staring at her phone screen. She had been scrolling through old photos of her and her now ex-boyfriend, Mark, for an hour.
He had broken up with her three days ago. Her first love. Her first everything. And he had left her because he "needed space".
Her friends were texting her: "Go out! Let's party! He's an idiot!". And she replied: "Yeah, totally! I'm fine! Screw him!".
But she wasn't fine. She was devastated. She was broken.
She was a big fan of Michael Demiurge. 'crybaby' had been her anthem of rage. She saw the notification for the new song.
She put on her headphones, expecting another song that would make her feel angry. But the sound of the acoustic guitar disarmed her.
She heard the monologue. "Don't pretend to be happy when you're sad."
She felt the lump in her throat tighten.
The lyrics started. And she heard them from the perspective of the person who had been left behind.
'And all these niggas that you fuckin' with to get away'
'But girl I know you think about it almost everyday...'
She reinterpreted the lyrics instantly. She imagined Mark, her Mark, already going out with other girls, trying to "get away" from her.
'This ain't lust, it's love, we had trust, what's good?'
It was exactly what she wanted to scream at him. It was love! It was real!
'Think I ripped the wings off of my fuckin' angel...'
She saw herself as the angel. He had ripped her wings off.
'I'll always love you... I'm sorry.'
The apology at the end. It was everything she wanted to hear from him.
The song became her new anthem. It wasn't the rage anthem of 'crybaby'. It was the anthem of her heartbreak. It gave her permission to be sad, to stop pretending she was "fine" for her friends.
She put the song on loop, curled up under the sheets, and finally allowed herself to cry over him.
Monday, September 21, 2015
Michael slept restlessly. He woke up Monday morning feeling like he had an emotional hangover. The impulsive release of 'let's pretend we're numb' had left him feeling exposed and regretful.
He opened SoundCloud, bracing himself for more confused comments from the 'Sodium' and 'White Iverson' fans.
But the comments section looked different. The SoundCloud algorithm, seeing the emotional reaction it was generating, had started showing the song to his core audience: the people who had listened to 'Ghost Boy' and 'Star Shopping' on loop.
His "patient zeros" had found the new song.
Point of View: Chloe (Ohio)
Chloe saw the notification. "Michael Demiurge has uploaded 'let's pretend we're numb'".
She clicked instantly.
The opening monologue hit her first. "Don't pretend to be okay when you're not."
She felt like Michael was speaking directly to her, through the speakers. It was a continuation of 'Ghost Boy'.
Then, the raw guitar and the hiss. And the voice. It wasn't a mixed and atmospheric voice. It was... raw. Present.
'Don't you fucking hate it when you hear my name?'
'I feel the same...'
She heard the self-loathing, the rage.
'Don't jump, pretend it don't hurt...'
The line made her stop. It was a plea.
'Think I ripped the wings off of my fuckin' angel...'
She felt the guilt in his voice.
For Chloe, this song was the sequel to 'Ghost Boy'. It was the next chapter of his diary. 'Ghost Boy' was the description of loneliness. 'let's pretend we're numb' was the dissection of the pain that came with it.
It made her feel even more protective of him. He wasn't just an artist she liked. He was a real person, on the other side of the country, who was clearly suffering.
Her connection to him deepened. She wasn't just a fan anymore. She felt like a friend, a confidant.
Point of View: Victor (Madrid, Spain)
Victor was in the university library, supposedly studying. But his mind was elsewhere. The fight with Ana the night before had been the worst. She had cried. He had stayed silent.
He opened SoundCloud as an escape. He saw the new song.
The monologue made him feel uncomfortable. "Don't pretend to be happy when you're sad." It was exactly what he was doing.
And then, the lyrics hit him.
'This ain't lust, it's love, we had trust, what's good?'
'I should've held you close, should've kept you warm...'
Guilt flooded him. He thought of Ana, alone in her room on the other side of the world. He should have called her. He should have said something better.
'And when the rain is fallin', wonder who you call...'
The image of her calling someone else, seeking the comfort he wasn't giving her, terrified him.
'Think I ripped the wings off of my fuckin' angel...'
'I did that,' he thought.
'I'll always love you... I'm sorry.'
The whispered apology at the end of the song was like a punch to the gut. It was what he hadn't been able to say.
He closed SoundCloud. Music wasn't a passive distraction anymore. It was a call to action.
Inspired by the song, by that raw apology, he grabbed his phone. He opened WhatsApp. He ignored the time difference.
His fingers trembled as he typed. Not an excuse. Not a lie.
"I'm sorry. You were right. I was an idiot. 'I should've held you close.'"
He pressed "Send". For the first time in months, he felt he had done the right thing. And it had all been thanks to a song.
Monday, September 21, 2015 (Night)
Michael came home from work, smelling of grease and exhausted. The day had been long. He still felt unsure about the release of 'let's pretend we're numb'. He felt like he had shared too much, like he had exposed himself in a stupid way.
He showered, the hot water barely washing away the fatigue. He put on clean clothes and went to his studio. He opened SoundCloud, bracing for the worst: more silence, more confusion.
But the song page looked different.
The comments.
They weren't one or two. There were dozens. And they kept coming. And they weren't "nice beat" or "weird vibe".
They were confessions.
Michael leaned into the screen, his eyes scanning the words.
"I was pretending to be okay today. I heard the monologue and I broke. Not anymore. Thank you."
"I just broke up with my boyfriend of two years. This song is the only thing keeping me sane right now. Thank you for making it."
"Thank you for the opening monologue. I needed to hear that more than you know."
"Fuck. 'I'll always love you. I'm sorry.'... That hit me. Made me call my ex."
"'Don't jump, pretend it don't hurt.' Bro, I'm going through some really dark shit. This song made me feel less alone."
Michael stared at the screen. It wasn't a viral reaction. It was a group therapy session. People weren't listening to the song; they were using it. They were confessing in the comments section, talking to each other, sharing their own stories of pain and pretending.
He had created, unintentionally, a refuge for them.
With a sense of awe, he summoned the System interface. He hoped these intimate connections were worth something.
The numbers weren't as explosive as those of 'Life Is Beautiful', which had touched a broader nerve. But they were incredibly strong.
[IMPACT ANALYSIS COMPLETE]
Source: Release of 'let's pretend we're numb'.
Resonance Level: Intimate (Therapeutic Validation).
New Soul Connections detected: 240
Impact Points generated: +24,000 IP
TOTAL BALANCE: 81,445 IP
Michael looked at his total balance. More than eighty thousand Impact Points.
He realized that rawness worked. Total, unfiltered vulnerability, without fancy production, was his most powerful weapon. The System didn't just reward him for making music. It rewarded him for being a therapist for a generation that didn't know how to talk about their feelings.
He leaned back in the chair, feeling strangely at peace. Song number seven was ready. He was three away from his first milestone. And now, he knew exactly what kind of songs he had to make.
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Mike.
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