The Greatest Showman #1436 - Purgatory Baptism

"If you dare hold me back on purpose, I will tear you apart like a piece of grass or a pig!" Fletcher roared, unleashing all his anger and frustration in a single breath. His face contorted in fury, his mouth twisted into a monstrous snarl. The fire of his fury burned brightly as he stood over Andrew, towering like a god of wrath.

Andrew was left stunned, his stubbornness, pride, and self-esteem all crumbling under the force of Fletcher's fury. He thought he was holding his ground, even when the slaps to his face had not broken him. But the harsh reality was brutal, and Andrew realized his so-called resilience was shattered by Fletcher's relentless outburst. He couldn't breathe, let alone fight back. His body felt crushed, and the fear swelled inside him.

Control, control, control.

Andrew fought with every ounce of strength to control his emotions, to hold on to the last shred of dignity. He refused to let himself sink into the same pit as the chief trombone before him. But it was impossible. The pressure was unbearable, and his breathing became erratic. His hands clenched, his teeth gritted. He tried to steady himself, but all he could think of was how humiliating this moment had become.

Fletcher bent closer, his voice dripping with contempt, "Now, do you want to rush, or do you want to drag? Or would you rather follow my rhythm?" His words were like a storm, battering Andrew from every angle. The threat was unmistakable. Andrew closed his eyes in terror, the trembling of his body betraying the overwhelming fear he was trying so desperately to suppress.

"I'll follow your rhythm," Andrew's voice trembled, barely a whisper, like a leaf in the wind. It was an admission of defeat, but it was all he could manage.

Fletcher, seemingly unsatisfied, snatched the score and thrust it into Andrew's face, "What's written here?" He pointed to a symbol on the page with a malicious glint in his eye.

Andrew opened his eyes, his voice quivering, "A quarter note equals 215."

"Count to 215, then," Fletcher demanded. His tone was sharp and demanding, and Andrew's voice began to falter under the weight of his pressure. His once steady count now became faint, barely audible.

Fletcher's gaze was unyielding, like a hawk locking onto its prey. The hunt was on, and Andrew could feel the noose tightening around him. His gaze shifted away from Fletcher's, fixing on the music stand before him, hoping to block out the tension. But Fletcher's presence loomed over him, unshakable.

Andrew raised his chin, trying to force himself to stand tall, but his body refused to cooperate. The weight of Fletcher's presence made it nearly impossible to hold his posture, but he continued anyway, determined to push through. He began counting aloud, his voice weak, "One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four."

"Jesus Christ, when did Shelford start recruiting mentally handicapped people?" Fletcher's voice was filled with disbelief and sharp sarcasm, as if Andrew's failure had completely broken his patience. "You can't even read the beat?"

Andrew's face flushed, but he said nothing. His heart pounded in his chest as the humiliation continued to build. Fletcher's scorn cut deep. Desperately, Andrew tried to find his bearings again.

"You don't even know how to read sheet music, do you?" Fletcher sneered, flipping open the score and pointing to a note. "What's that?"

Andrew blinked, trying to focus through the haze of fear, "That... that's a dotted sixteenth note," he stammered.

Fletcher's frustration was palpable, his anger escalating. He grabbed Andrew's attention again, his voice biting. "Sing bar 101."

Confused but obedient, Andrew began to hum the rhythm, "Bah bah bah, bah bah, bah bah..." as if caught in a trance. But Fletcher's reaction was explosive.

"Are you in an a cappella band?" Fletcher roared, his face turning red with fury. "This is drums! Not singing! Drums!"

The outburst hit Andrew hard, and as the ridicule continued to pour from Fletcher's mouth, Andrew's blood ran cold. The mocking tone echoed in his ears. His teeth gritted, and he turned back to the drum kit, desperately trying to redeem himself.

But after just two beats, Fletcher interrupted. "Stop!" He growled, his words slow and measured, as if forcing each syllable through clenched teeth. "Now, answer my question: Are you rushing, or are you delaying?"

Andrew dared not turn his head. The weight of Fletcher's gaze was too much, too suffocating. His mind spun in confusion, unable to make sense of the whirlwind that had just passed. It felt as though everything had happened so fast, one moment he was confident, the next, everything was crashing down around him.

He didn't know if he was rushing or delaying, and the uncertainty paralyzed him. He wanted to avoid the same fate as the chief trombone, but he felt helpless, his dignity slipping away with every passing second.

"Answer me!" Fletcher's roar shook the room, and Andrew felt the tremors deep in his bones.

"Come on," Andrew replied, his voice strained, cracking under the pressure. Even he could hear the uncertainty, the wavering in his words. He knew it was wrong, that his voice was too high, too shaky. He had failed, and he knew it.

His heart sank. He could feel the shame crawling up his spine, worse than ever before. He had failed in front of everyone. His pride was shattered, and with it, any sense of self-worth. His tears welled up before he could stop them, and as the hot sting of them fell down his cheeks, he realized the last of his defenses had been stripped away. He was completely exposed.

Andrew closed his eyes tightly, as though by doing so, he could shield himself from the humiliation. But it didn't work. The tears flowed, unbidden, and his grip on his last bit of dignity slipped further.

Fletcher watched this with a cold, almost incredulous expression, shaking his head. A cruel smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he muttered under his breath, "Oh, my dear God…"