Madworld - Prologue -Present-

White tiles.

Not as entirely white as they could be. Bill hated them. They were a sort of prison, like bars, but at least bars gave you room to move.

The tiles were worse than a prison. The sounds of your shoes echoed around the small rooms, and even when there were people in them it was just silence, the echo of self, deafening around those blank stares, hollow shells of people. Bill hated them.

His footsteps were heard quickly, sharp sounds against the tile as he hurried, rubbing his arms and averting his eyes from the patients in the ward. He felt uncomfortable, but he had to walk past them to get to the one thing he needed. Like a gravitational pull, he couldn't not go; he would walk through fire if it meant he could get to him. Tom.

He rounded a corner, slowing his pace. He could hear a melody from the closed door. It was like a safe haven in this mental place, this prison of dirty white tiles and hollow shells of people. Tom had made his own utopia in hell, filling it with that beautiful music. Bill loved it.

Slowly, with a shaky hand, Bill ran his fingers over the placard on the front of the door, his heart sinking. It read:



                        Tom Kaulitz: Committed

    * Suffers from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and Extreme Co-dependency.
    * Prone to bursts of anger and irrational thought behaviour, sometimes violent.
    * Delusional, has a Catharsis type mentality that prevents him from remembering said delusions.
    * Keep Medicated.


He couldn't read it, just slamming his fist into the placard, the cardboard and paper falling to the floor.

The guitar stopped, and Bill could hear the shuffling of paper and then feet, followed by the click of the door opening.

The sight of Tom was worse than reading the paper. He was disheveled, his over sized clothing looking larger than normal on his body, his dreads unkempt, falling apart.

"Oh, it's you Bill."

The door opened more, and Tom smiled weakly as he sat back down on his bed, paper strewn everywhere, music notes scrawled hastily on the sheets of crumpled note paper. Tom seemed happier with Bill there.

Bill sat on the chair across from the bed, pulling it close, so his knees were brushing the bed sheets.

"I wrote you a song." Tom's voice was hoarse, but filled with love, and a kind of nervous sound Bill wasn't used to.

"Oh, really?" Bill's heart swelled, but it still felt like he was going to cry any minute.

"It's not very good but," Tom said pulling his guitar into his lap again, searching under his papers for a pick.

"I'd love to hear it," Bill said gently, looking at his feet when a nurse came in with a trolley of pills.

"Tom, take your meds," the nurse cooed, placing the small container of colourful pills beside them on the bedside table.

It was as if Tom didn't even see the woman as his fingers began to play notes, sour and awkward notes falling in the air, the guitar un-tuned, but it was still beautiful to Bill's ears.

Black lacquered nails tapped the table before picking up the container. "Tom, you should really…" Bill tried, but Tom just kept playing, he was lost to the music, much like he did when they were on stage. "…please Tomi…" Bill tried again.

Tom was lost in his head. Bill hated it.