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Musicians/Music Groups Fan Fiction >> Avenged Sevenfold

The following is a work of fiction. Any statements regarding any person, place, or other entity (real or imaginary) is the sole responibility of the author of this work of fiction. Fan Works Inc. takes no responsibility for the content of user submitted stories. All stories based on real people are works of fiction and do not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. All stories based on other copyrighted works are written with authors knowing that these works violate copyright laws.

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Smile
By SteffiSevenfold

 


AN:

I haven't been on this website in half a year or more.

I may update some of my old stories. I'm getting a bit rusty, ha.

I don't know how many of my old Fanworks buddies are still on here, but I hope you've still got faith and are still searching for my updates. I know I'm searching for yours.

But there's been a horrible, tragic loss, and I just wanted to make a short or long one shot on it. Him. Anything. We're gonna wing it.

James Owen Sullivan.

Baby, you're already missed. By your fans. By your family. By your friends. Your wife. Everybody.

You'll be rockin' on the other side, that's for damn sure.

There will no longer be thunder. Just your pounding bass drum.

God bless Avenged, and Jimmy's family.

We all love you deeply, Jimmy. We always will.

Rest in peace, darlin'.

- - - - - - - - -

My fingers ache. I stretch them. Flex them. Make them move again.

I open my eyes and flinch at the brilliant brightness of this room so new to me.

“Where the fuck am I?”

No answer.

“Hello?”

Nobody.

Just me.

I stand up and find my footing, nearly toppling over.

My tongue flicks to the metal bar pierced through the middle of my lip and toys with it, an old nervous habit.

I look down and bend over to grab my drum sticks from the floor and cringe at the dull pain in my back.

When I stand, I take a moment to inhale deeply, filling my lungs with a crisp scent.

The air is cool and it smells like winter without the freezing brutality. Clean. Pure. New.

My ears perk up at the sound of music, a guitar shredding. It's a sound I haven't heard in nearly five damn years.

“Hello? Anybody?”

Still no answer.

My feet carry me towards the heavenly music without my brain telling them to move.

And when I come to it, I can't believe my eyes.

No. There's no way in hell, my head screams at me.

But there he is. My idol.

“Dimebag? Dimebag Darrell?” I nearly have to scream over the music he plays. It echoes throughout the dull white room.

He looks at me and a smile lights up his face.

“Sullivan! `Bout time you made it.”

My face contorts to confusion.

“Made it? Made it where?”

He falls gracefully to the floor and slides his guitar onto his lap.

“Oh, you don't remember? I didn't either for a while. Boy, what a rush when it all comes back to you!”

I study his crazy long brown hair and square jaw, still not understanding what he's getting at.

“This is impossible. You've been dead for five years. Five. Where are we? What did I miss?”

My lisp sounds horribly obvious at the moment. I can't stop gnawing at the barbell.

Dimebag tilts his head and smiles an amused smile.

“You know your song `Afterlife'?”

I nod my head.

Of course I know it. I wrote it, for fucks sake.

“Well,” Darrell stretches his arms out like he's inviting me in for a hug.

“Welcome to it.”

I find myself chuckling nervously.

“I beg your pardon? The afterlife? I was playing with Ichabod just five minutes ago before I woke up here. No way this is the afterlife.”

Dimebag looks at me, his eyes showing nothing but amusement.

“There ain't no Ichabod here, Sullivan. Take a look around. Does this look like a place for a dog?”

I don't need to look around. I've done my fair share of looking around and it's all the same. White. Pure white.

I find myself falling to my knees, my drum sticks rolling out of my hand.

Tears spring to my eyes and somehow, some way, I manage to choke out, “How did it happen? Wha- . . . When?”

Dimebag's smile fades away and he scoots next to me to pat my back.

“No use crying about it, kid. You're stuck here, like everyone else.”

I don't want them to, but my eyes water up even more.

Fuck.

“Sorry, didn't mean to push your buttons. The twenty eighth. Died of natural causes in your house. Sucks, right? Better than being shot.”

He grins and nudges my arm playfully.

“Aw, come on. It ain't that bad. Freedom. No pain. No war or difficulties. Just peace and music.”

I tilt my head at him.

“Just peace and music? Who the hell else is here that plays music?”

Dimebag grins and points to the man who has suddenly appeared.

Okay. I am officially going insane.

“John Lennon, meet Jimmy Sullivan.”

He nods like he recognizes me and smiles whole heartedly.

“Yeahyeahyeah, best drummer I've seen in decades. Pleasure, kid.”

I look around, bewildered.

Lennon claps his hands together and smiles at the two of us.

“Let's play some music, shall-”

I gasp and sit up and look over at my beautiful, sleeping wife.

My pale fingers lightly trace the contours of her slender jaw, her small nose, her high cheekbones.

I grin and lean back into my pillows. Heavenly soft.

The afterlife, HA.

Just a dream.

A wicked fucking dream.

- - - -

Well, that was utter crap.

Said I'm a bit rusty.

Anywho.

I've cried, hell, we've all cried, for this person that we don't even know.

But who's to say that he's not happier now than he ever has been, ever could have been, on this earth?

Yeah, we want him back. We want to wake up from this endless dream, stalk out his address, and give him a big hug.

But he's got a new home now. It'll take us decades, maybe even some of us years or months, but we'll find that home and we'll give him that big hug.

He's waiting for each and every one of his fans. Happier than he could ever have thought possible.

James Sullivan, you will rest in peace. Such a pure soul could never rest any other way.

<3

Sorry for the crap story, and load of just jibber jabber.

R&R if you will.

Cheer up, dolls. He's waiting for you.

<3

 

The preceeding was a work of fiction. Any statements regarding any person, place, or other entity (real or imaginary) is the sole responibility of the author of this work of fiction. Fan Works Inc. takes no responsibility for the content of user submitted stories. All stories based on real people are works of fiction and do not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. All stories based on other copyrighted works are written with authors knowing that these works violate copyright laws.

Please see the Terms of Service for more information.

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