Finding Emo

I found a wounded Emo on my way home from the pub last week. It was lying on the pavement just outside a Kohl bunker, motionless and looked to be in a very bad way. Kneeling down I checked under its Romulan fringe and discovered to my shock that its eyes were filled with blood, like globules of beetroot juice, and upon further investigation at least two of its kindling thin limbs were fractured.  I couldn’t take it to the vets because they were all closed so I decided to take it home instead.

 Picking up the spindly little creature in my arms I was surprised how light it actually was; as light as a feather cut in fact. Who could have inflicted such starvation on this poor defenceless Emo I wondered. I carried it all the way home to my house and just as we crossed the threshold into the hallway the delicate little soul began to stir. The whole of its body trembled and shivered as it let out an introverted whine which reminded me of a Cabaret Voltaire synth line.

 After bathing its eyes in a sink full of Dettol and Sild and scrubbing its oily coat with Pears, I took the Emo to a special bijou-goth nest which I’d prepared earlier and laid it down on a bed of shredded poetry and Kerrang magazines. The Emo said nothing preferring instead to blink at me in a confused lonely fashion. ‘Poor little Emo, which cruel and evil master has restrained you in such tight fitting garb?’ I said, gesturing at the skin tight trousers, studded belt and cardy combo. Still there was no reply, only a melodramatic sigh. Within five minutes the poor defenceless little creature was snoring soundly so I decided to leave it to its introverted dreams.

 The next morning I drew a bath with charcoal and then had a shower. I took a breakfast of kippers and millet to the bijou-goth nest along with a dog bowl full of Moss Icon in order to cheer it up. It ate feverishly and without any word.

‘Poor little Emo, you clearly are in a bad way’ I said. ‘Here, let me cheer you up with some sounds’ and I placed some emotionally-charged punk rock music onto my Bermuda Dansette.

 As the intricate, arpeggiated guitar melodies and top-of-the-lungs screaming began something rather worrying happened. The Emo took the cutlery that I’d given it to butter its kipper and it began to cut itself. Making savage slashing marks to its wrists and forearms. Luckily it was plastic cutlery, and as further luck would have it, the Emo was using the teaspoon at the time but it was still a rather disconcerting sight. I explained to the Emo that self-harm was not really such a strong look, especially with a plastic teaspoon but it seemed unperturbed. This was clearly the dark side of the spoon.

 The Emo looked at me with a derogatory self-pitying stare. Its vacant, wordless face said it all really, something like, ‘You’ll never understand me and my ways’.

I rushed to the Dansette and ripped the needle off.

The music stopped abruptly.

‘We may not understand each other Emo, but mutual as well as self-respect is paramount if you are to make a full recovery.’ I admonished rather robustly.

 The Emo finished off the rest of its breakfast head down and without a sound. All that is apart from a low hum which sounded a bit like Carve Your Hat Out Yourself by Washboard Confessional but I may have been mistaken.

 Later that day I took the Emo to my local park. It just sat perched at the top of a children’s climbing frame dangling its asymmetrical fringe through the bars and glumly humming the words to ‘My Parents Hate Me ‘Cos I Don’t Wash Up’ by My Chemical Brother’s Romance.
 ‘Sweet Moses!’ I exclaimed, ‘I’ve really got my work cut out with you, haven’t I?’

 However as the week progressed, things began to improve. The Emo seemed to get stronger, its eyes cleared of the blood and the Kohl-like oily substance on its coat had almost completely disappeared. Even its spirits seemed to improve; I noticed one day it was writing a poem of unrequited love to a dead teddy bear called Cubic Zircona and scrawling the lyrics to a song about cruising the suburbs looking for a parentless party called, ‘Together In Electric My Space Dreams’.

 As we sat down one evening to a light meal of Husker Du Nachos and Salsa Minor Threat sauce, I decided to break the good news to the Emo.

‘Emo, I think that you’re now strong enough to return to your natural habitat, and therefore I’ve decided I’m going to release you back into the wild tomorrow.’

The Emo looked at me with resignation, clearly we had grown to respect each other though we were completely different and although the Emo seemed to be enjoying the company it knew without a doubt that it had to return to its own kind.

 The next morning after a hearty breakfast of Walkers Crisps and fags I carried the Emo to the local town shopping centre in a cardboard box. I’d cut holes so it could see and more importantly breathe. Along the way it made a weirdly irritating whining noise always rising at the end. Clearly it was ready to assimilate with its own again. Eventually I set the box down several meters from the shopping centre fountain. There was a huge Emo flock congregated around the fountain, squawking, preening and generally emulating broken-heartedness. I opened the box and shooed the Emo out. At first it just stayed timidly put in the box. Clearly some ‘hard love’ was required.

‘Go on damn you!’ I cried ‘get out of the box…go and be with your own! This is hard for me as well you know.’ The Emo slowly climbed out of the box and loped over to the flock. Almost as soon as it had sat down at the fountain three others had surrounded it remarking on its stripes, fringe, polka dots and coat. I took this as a good sign and slowly crept away.