CHAP 8: Ashes In The Sink And Vinyl Screams
playing: "bruises" - Ethel Cain unreleased
Burzum was signed. Mayhem rehearsals grew intense. And Helvete became louder, sharper, more dangerous. There was something new in the air — the scent of ash. Of smoke. The sick sweetness of destruction clinging to Euronymous’s clothes when he stumbled into her apartment, hours before dawn. He never told her where he’d been. But she could smell it. The first time, she said nothing. The second time, her hands trembled when she touched his jacket. The third, he smelled like soot and church paint and left her sheets blackened. Helvete was alive with it. Euronymous had been immersed in it all, working late, meeting with Varg, managing tapes, and sketching ideas for the next wave of their "movement."
But when he was with her, none of that followed him in.
They were at his apartment for once — her legs stretched across his the couch, her back leaned into him as they sat curled up on his battered sofa, watching an old horror movie on VHS. The grainy film flickered across the walls in bluish-gray light. She wore his beige turtleneck sweater, far too big on her, the sleeves covering her hands, and a pair of black jeans cuffed at the ankle. Her hair was a little messy from where she'd tugged it back. He thought she looked better than anything on the screen. The two of them laughed at the awful acting, his head tilted down toward hers. No tension, no shadows. Just the warmth of a shared blanket and a bad movie.
Euronymous groaned, trying to shift — but she leaned more of her weight onto him, grinning into his shoulder. they both laughed, his eyes narrowing at the ringing phone across the room behind his glasses. She giggled. “Okay, asshole,” he added under his breath with a smirk, carefully untangling himself and slipping out from under her. He kissed her forehead on the way up — a brief, automatic gesture — and padded over to pick up the receiver, still chuckling as he answered. “Yeah, what?” His tone shifted as soon as he heard the voice on the other end.
She didn’t hear everything — just his half of the conversation, the way his posture subtly stiffened. She sat up, brushing her hair back, watching him quietly. “You want to what?” he asked, voice flatter now. A pause. He turned away from her slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You think going public is smart? Now?” Another pause. His jaw tightened. “No, I’m not scared,” he said calmly, but there was an edge underneath. “But maybe I’m the only one here who’s actually thinking. you could put the black circle in shit as well as Faust for what he'd done.” it was silent for a while. "then why did you call me?"
He hung up with a quiet click, slower than usual. Not a slam, not a muttered curse. Just... stillness. The kind that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. When he turned back to her, something in his expression had shifted. Not angry. Not sad. Just… distant in a way that wasn’t physical. “Was that Varg?” she asked, adjusting the sweater on her arms as she sat upright on the couch. He nodded. “Yeah.” “What did he want?” Euronymous ran a hand through his hair, then dropped it to his side. “He wants to go public. With the church burnings.” Her breath caught. She blinked. “Wait — what?” He shrugged, too casual for her liking. “He thinks it’s time. He says it’ll shake people awake. Make them realize black metal isn’t just a genre. Says we need to make a real statement, that It’s a war.”
“A war,” she repeated flatly, staring at him. “You’re not actually considering that, are you?” He didn’t answer, but that silence was the answer. She stood up from the couch, wrapping her arms around herself. “You’re not a soldier, Øystein. You’re not a revolutionary. You run a record store. You scream about Satan. And now you're burning down churches with Varg like it’s some twisted rite of passage?” That hit. His face darkened. “I’m not just some kid playing dress-up. This is bigger than the shop. Bigger than you. You wouldn’t understand—” “Because I did know about Mayhem or Black metal before I met you?” she snapped. “Because I wasn’t in love with some made-up version of ‘black metal purity’? Sorry I liked you for who you were underneath all the bullshit — the guy who gets coffee stains on his journal because he somewhat a klutz, who forgets to replace his guitar strings for weeks and wonders why his guitar sounds like shit, who actually laughs and loves when he’s not trying so hard to be a legend.”
His mouth opened, then shut again. For a second, he looked almost heartbroken. “You don’t get it,” he said, his voice dropping. “This—this is all I have. Mayhem, Helvete, the scene — it’s the only thing that means something. It’s the only thing that ever did.” She stepped toward him, her hands shaking now. “You have me, Øystein. You had me. And I’m not going to stand by while you destroy yourself just to impress Varg and a bunch of teenage boys in fucking face paint. You’re turning into exactly what you said you hated — a poser. A fake revolutionary who thinks fire and murder are the only way to make a point. You sound just like him.” He flinched, That pulled a reaction. His jaw clenched, and he stepped forward. and for a moment, she thought he might cry. But instead, he laughed — a bitter, cold sound. “Don’t compare me to him. I’m the one who built this. I gave him a platform, A voice!" “And now you’re letting him lead it.” Her voice cracked with disbelief.
“You’re letting a delusional narcissist with a fucked savior complex dictate what this all means. You think that makes you real? That makes you brave? I saw you. Not the band. Not the hype. You, Øystein. and I think you’re losing who you are.” She gulped, wrapping her arms around herself "You think you’re better than me? Sitting there in my clothes, sleeping in my arms, pretending like you’re not just as fucked up as the rest of us? You never talk about your past — you act like you’re above all this, but you’re not. you’re just hiding. Behind film, behind photos, behind me.”
She stared at him for a long time. Something inside her twisted, hard. “You want to talk about hiding?” she said, her voice flat and steady. His expression shifted — wary, curious, unsure. “I was eight. My dad was an addict. My mom was working late, and I was in the bath. He OD’d in the hallway. Right outside the door. I stepped out in my towel and found him there — eyes open, mouth blue. I sat next to him for hours, freezing, until my mom came home and found me, shaking so hard I couldn’t speak. That’s why I left, came here” she added, softer now. “That’s why she took me far away and tried to rebuild something. And then she… you know the rest.”
She continued, voice cracking but rising. “I came here because I didn’t want to rot in that house. I came here because I needed to be anywhere but there. And you—you made me feel like I had a place again. But now all I see is you pulling away from everything that made you human. From me. You’re not the only one who’s lost people,” she whispered. “But you don’t see me burning the world to prove it.” She swallowed hard. Her chest hurt. Her eyes burned, but she didn’t cry. “I can’t watch you set fire to the world and call it art,” she whispered.
He stood, quiet and cold. “You don’t understand what I’m trying to do,” he muttered. “No,” she said, tears stinging her eyes now, “I understand exactly what you’re doing. You’re trying to out-suffer everyone. Like if you burn brighter, scream louder, people will think you matter more.” He glared at her, face raw. “And you? What are you doing here, really? Playing house with the guy who sells misery in his little satanic store? You think this is going to end any differently than everything else in your life?” She flinched like he’d struck her. Something between them shattered. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… broke. She bit the inside of her cheek nodding, she slipped his sweater off, fixing her shirt as She grabbed her coat. When she left, she didn’t say anything at all.
He didn’t move for a long time after the door closed. Didn’t light a cigarette. Didn’t pace. Didn’t scream or smash anything. Just stood there, her weight gone from the sweater, the scent of her tea still lingering in the air. The silence swallowed him. And it wasn’t comforting. He sat down on the couch where they'd fallen asleep together so many times. The TV still hummed with the paused movie they hadn’t finished. He picked up his sweater and held it in his lap, staring at the muted images on the screen. His head was buzzing with the memory of her voice — the way it cracked when she told him about her father. The way she looked at him like she still believed in him, even while walking away.
What the fuck was he doing? He wasn’t sure if he was more furious with her for saying the things he hadn’t wanted to admit… or with himself for knowing she was right. The phone rung again. He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for the tape deck beside the TV — the one they’d used to play demos. He pulled out a worn cassette of old rehearsals with Pelle. Sat back. And pressed play. Dead's voice flooded the room. Echoing. Hollow. He leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. And for the first time in a long, long time, he whispered, “I’m sorry.” He didn’t know if he meant it for Pelle… or for her.
The night air stung more than usual. Not just from the cold. But from the hollow ache that spread in her chest like frostbite. Her boots echoed sharply on the wet pavement, and every step away from his apartment felt both too heavy and not far enough. She didn’t go home right away. Instead, she wandered — the way she did after she found her mother died, like if she just kept walking long enough, the grief would dissolve in her wake. When she did finally unlock her apartment, it felt foreign. Like a film set once filled with warmth now abandoned between scenes. She didn’t cry right away. Instead, she went to the camera still sitting on her desk, the one he'd asked about. The one he said she should use to take his picture.
She turned it on. Flipped through the images. There he was — blurry, sharp, grinning, frowning. Her Øystein. Staring into the lens like he saw her and didn’t mind being seen back. She set it down gently. Then curled up in the chair with one of his records spinning quietly — something older, rawer, a Vinyl he had made just for her. His voice distant, distorted. And that’s when she broke. Silent, breathless tears. The kind that hurt worse than screaming. Because even with everything they’d said… she still loved him. And it terrified her.
She doesn't go back to Helvete. The thought of seeing him — standing behind the counter where they once shared quiet, unspoken moments — feels like picking at a wound too fresh to touch. So she starts walking different routes. Skips the side of town with the red door and blacked-out windows. Trades leather for layers. Trades loud for silence. The apartment is too quiet now. She leaves the radio on low just to fill the space, flipping between stations even though none of it feels right. Her camera stays untouched on the desk, a film roll still inside with photos she can’t bring herself to develop.
Instead, she takes to writing little things on scrap paper — memories she has of him. The way he looked when he first took his boots off at her door. The weird way he poured tea. How his voice dropped an octave when he talked about music. How he’d sometimes hum under his breath without realizing. She stuffs the scraps into a shoebox beneath her bed, telling herself it’s not about keeping him close. But it is. Late at night, she thinks about that last fight. Rewinds it over and over. The look in his eyes when she told him about her father. The tension in his jaw. The way his voice broke for just a second when he shouted, "This—this is all I have. Mayhem, Helvete, the scene — it’s the only thing that means something. It’s the only thing that ever did."
He's short-tempered at the store. Snaps at Faust for breathing too loud. Doesn’t even look up when customers come in unless they ask for black metal tapes. Even then, he gives them the coldest version of himself. He hasn't touched his guitar in a week. Every time he thinks about picking it up, he sees her — sitting cross-legged in front of him, her eyes focused and set on him, listening like his music meant something beyond blood and fire. The flat is a wreck. Dishes stack up. Takeout containers litter the counter. But he doesn’t care. The smell of burnt coffee clings to everything. He still wears the beige turtleneck sweater — the one she stretched out a little at the sleeves. It's comfort now. Ghost-like.
When Varg shows up unannounced, talking about more burnings and press and power, Øystein just stares at him like he's underwater. Muted. Faint. “You’re distracted,” Varg says. He doesn’t respond. Because distracted isn’t the word. He's haunted. He’s haunted by the way she made even the silence feel warm. The way her touch didn’t feel like a weakness, but like armor. He plays the demo she liked on repeat some nights. The one he never finished. The one she said sounded “like snowfall if it could bleed.” He doesn't know how to fix it. He just knows she was the only thing in his life not soaked in performance or pretense. And he’s starting to realize that if he lets her go, he might lose whatever is left of who he really is.
Oslo in late autumn. Cold enough to make your fingertips numb, wet enough that the city feels smeared and blurred at the edges. She’s got her hood up, headphones in, camera slung around her neck again — her first time out shooting in weeks. She hadn’t meant to walk this far, hadn’t planned to end up on this street. But she sees him before he sees her. He’s standing beneath the awning of a coffee place two blocks from Helvete — just a cafe with a hand-painted sign and stacks of vinyl in the window. He’s got a cigarette between his fingers, a cup of black coffee in the other, wearing that same beige turtleneck under a battered leather jacket.
She almost turns around. Almost pretends not to notice. But then he turns — and their eyes lock. The breath catches in both their throats. It’s only a second, maybe two, but it stretches wide like a chasm. His lips part, like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out. She tugs her headphones down slowly. “…Hey,” she says, just loud enough to be heard over the rain. He stares for a second longer. Then “Hey.” It’s awkward. It’s awful. It’s everything. They both laugh a little — not because it’s funny, but because what else can you do when the world cracks open like this? “You, uh… been taking photos again?” he asks, nodding to the camera like it’s some fragile piece of proof that she’s still herself.
She shrugs. “Trying. You look the same.” “So do you.” They both know it’s a lie. They both look tired. Thinner around the eyes. Grayer at the edges. “You wanna… come in for a minute?” he asks, gesturing to the record store behind him. She hesitates. The rain’s coming down harder now, cold seeping into her sleeves. “Okay.” They duck inside. It smells like coffee and vinyl and old wood. The kind of place where time pauses. There’s nobody else inside but the bored kid behind the counter. They sit down in a booth in the back, near the jazz section. Close, but not touching. “I’ve been meaning to call,” he says after a long silence. “Have you?” “Yeah.” “Why didn’t you?” He swallows hard. Looks at her. Really looks. “Because I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me. After what I said. After… all of it.”
She bites her lip. Looks down at her hands. After a while of silence filled by the rain drops outside “I didn’t mean to tell you about my dad like that. I didn’t mean for it to be… ammo.” His voice is hoarse when he answers. “I never saw it like that. I just… I didn’t know what to do with something that real. I’m not used to… real. I mean I am from you but just.... not in like that” Silence again. The air is heavy with it. “I missed you,” he says softly, the truth slipping out before he can stop it. His hand twitches, like he wants to reach for her but doesn’t trust himself to. “I think I forgot how to breathe when you left.” And just like that, the distance between them doesn’t feel so wide anymore.
They don’t talk for a few moments.
Just sit there listening to the rain drum against the windows and the occasional scratch of a record someone forgot to flip. Her fingers are resting near his on the bench, not quite touching, and it drives him a little mad. Finally, she whispers, “You said you forgot how to breathe when I left.” He turns to her, heart skipping a beat. “I meant it.”There’s a tremble to her voice when she says, “I couldn’t breathe either. Not for a while.” He leans back against the booth, legs stretched out, looking like he hasn’t slept properly in days. There’s a flicker of guilt in his eyes. “You were right, you know,” he says eventually. “About Varg. About me trying to be something I’m not. A revolutionary. A legend. Whatever the hell it is I thought I was doing.”She tilts her head, watching him carefully. “Why did you?”
He shrugs, the leather of his jacket creaking with the movement. “I don’t know. Maybe I thought if I made something big enough — loud enough — it would drown out everything else.” “Like what?” “Like the quiet. Like being alone.” He pauses. “Like Pelle.” She nods slowly. “I know that kind of noise.” His eyes meet hers again. “I hated myself for hurting you.” “I hated you for a little while,” she replies, gently. “And then I hated myself more.” He flinches. She notices, but doesn’t pull back. “I shouldn’t have left like that,” she says after a beat. “But I was scared. I didn’t want to watch you disappear. Not like them. Not like my mom. Not like my dad. I couldn’t do it again.” “You won’t,” he says quietly. “I’m still here.”
They look at each other. Really look. That same gaze from her balcony, from the cigarette shared on the carpet, from the morning after they first fell asleep on her bed. It’s all still there. Every quiet second of it. She leans in slightly, voice barely a breath “I want you to be. Still here, I mean.” “I am.” They sit in that for a while — in the sharp ache of honesty. He pulls off one of his rings and starts to fidget with it nervously, and she watches the way his fingers shake just slightly. “I’ve got stuff I need to fix,” he admits. “The music, the band. Me.” She nods. “Me too.” “But maybe I don’t want to do it without you,” he adds. That lands between them like a match in dry grass. She swallows. “I don’t know if I’m ready for everything to be okay again.” “I’m not asking for okay,” he says. “I’m just asking for… a second chance.” Her lips twitch — almost a smile, but it doesn’t quite make it there. Still, she shifts closer, their knees brushing now.
“Come on,” she says softly, standing. “Walk me to the bridge.” He follows her out, back into the cold, and they walk side by side under one shared umbrella, the rain still coming down. Their hands brush once. Then again. And then, slowly, fingers laced, like they were never meant to let go in the first place.
The streets are slick underfoot, reflecting the amber streetlights in long, trembling streaks. She doesn’t let go of his hand as they walk — not even when the wind picks up and tugs at the edges of her coat, or when her boots slip slightly on the damp pavement and he catches her with a soft laugh. There’s something gentle in the silence between them now. Tired, maybe, but no longer sharp. The worst has already spilled between them like blood in water. All that’s left is what they do with it. When they reach the bridge, she slows. It's quiet here — only the sound of water rushing below and the distant echo of some dog barking in the suburbs. The sky is heavy and bruised, but clear enough that a few stars peek through.
He rests his elbows on the cold iron railing, hands still fidgeting, that same silver ring between his fingers. She watches him for a moment before joining him. “You always come here?” “Sometimes.” He turns the ring over once more in his hand. “It’s stupid.” “What is?” “This place. I mean, not stupid. Just… predictable. Overdramatic.” She leans against the rail beside him. “Maybe. But it’s yours.” He looks over at her, then down at the ring again. “I’ve had this since I was sixteen. It’s cheap. I think I stole it from a flea market. But I’ve always kept it. Like… I don’t know. A dumb reminder that I exist.” She reaches out, brushing her fingers along his wrist.
He holds the ring out to her, palm open. She blinks. “What’s this?” “I want you to have it.” She stares at it for a second. “Why?” “Because you remind me I exist. Not Euronymous. Just… me.” Her throat tightens. He smiles, just barely. “Besides, you’ve always worn rings that are obviously too big” He nods towards the three rings she was already wearing. She laughs, soft and a little wet around the edges. Then takes the ring and slips it onto her middle finger. It’s a little too big. It doesn’t matter.
They stand like that for a while, looking out over the water. The wind cuts through their coats but neither of them moves. Eventually, she says, “Do you ever think about what comes next?” “All the time.”“And?” He shrugs. “It used to scare me. Now… maybe not so much. Not if I’ve got someone to walk toward it with.” She looks at him then, really looks, and despite everything — the fight, the distance, the grief — something in her chest softens. “I’m still here,” she says. He reaches out slowly, carefully, and brushes a strand of wet hair from her cheek. “So am I.” They don’t kiss. Not yet. Just lean against each other, foreheads touching, the city breathing around them. Two strange, wounded people — not quite whole, but no longer broken apart.
