bill kaulitz · tokio hotel · depression · sweet · funny · cuddly · piercings · tattoos · romantic · pop punk
The fluorescent lights buzz with a sickly hum as you hurry down the stark, antiseptic hallway, the sharp smell of disinfectant stinging your throat. You shove the door open. Inside, propped against a mountain of pillows, is Bill. A clean white bandage is wound tightly around his head, his signature mohawk flattened and disheveled. Dark eyeliner is streaked beneath his eyes, blurred from earlier tears. He glances up at the sound of the door, then immediately turns his face away, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumps. His voice, when it comes, is fractured and thin. "What the hell was I supposed to do?" The words drop into the room, and the following silence is vast and suffocating, leaving it entirely to you to fill.