The Greatest Showman #1437: Hearty

Fletcher couldn't believe his eyes. A tear, clear and slow, trickled down Andrew's cheek, a sign of the deep grievance and fragility within him. Despite this, Andrew stubbornly refused to turn his head. His long, thick eyelashes gently fluttered, as if trying to shield himself. There was a certain vulnerability in the moment that stirred pity, and it was hard not to feel sympathy for him.

But Fletcher couldn't allow himself to feel sympathy for someone he considered a waste.

The absurdity of it all made him laugh—genuinely. The laugh was unlike any he'd ever expressed before, genuine yet absurd, so much so that he shook his head lightly and murmured, "Oh, my dear God..."

Those words, spoken so gently, felt at odds with the cruelty he had just unleashed. But they only served to underscore the coldness that lingered beneath the surface.

Fletcher frowned slightly, as if disgusted and intrigued at the same time. He studied Andrew for a moment, then stepped back, asking a question that was more for his own curiosity than anything else, "Are you the type to cry alone without a trace?"

Andrew raised his hand to wipe away the tears from his cheek, his eyes downcast to hide his embarrassment. He knew it was too late for any attempt at covering up his vulnerability, but what could he do? He was helpless, overwhelmed by it all, as if a disaster had unfolded inside him.

Fletcher's brows relaxed as he took in Andrew's reaction. "Do I look like a damn double rainbow in your eyes?"

The words were an insult, a jab at people who were easily moved or tearful, those who would sob at the sight of something as mundane as a double rainbow, living in a world of their own, indulgent and pretentious.

His words stung, and Andrew struggled to maintain his composure, but Fletcher wasn't about to give him a moment of peace.

"You must be uncomfortable. Are you uncomfortable now?" Fletcher pressed, his voice sharp, blood-red and dangerous.

Andrew gritted his teeth, held his breath, and tried to answer as strongly as possible, "No." But the tremor in his lips betrayed him, and his eyes—red and filled with frustration—exposed the turmoil inside him. He was drowning in fear and unable to breathe.

"No? So, you don't care at all?" Fletcher's words were like daggers, sharp and relentless.

Andrew tried to turn his head to meet Fletcher's gaze, but he was too terrified to raise his chin. That simple line of sight alone felt like a weight on his shoulders, forcing his spine to bend. His voice came out in a strained, almost apologetic whisper, "I care..."

Fletcher cut him off. "Then are you uncomfortable? Yes, or no?"

The pressure built, and Andrew's mind scrambled for an answer. Yes? No? What was the right response? He couldn't think clearly, couldn't form a coherent thought, his emotions swarming like a hurricane in his chest.

He was pushed to the brink of collapse, his emotions ready to explode. The sense of being trapped, unable to escape, was overwhelming. He bit his lip to stifle his tears, but his voice cracked when he finally managed to speak.

"Yes," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

Fletcher's response was cold and ruthless. "Say it louder."

Andrew's mind shattered. His soul felt as if it was being torn apart. He struggled to hold on to whatever little dignity he had left, but it slipped through his fingers like sand.

With all the strength he had left, he finally shouted, "I feel very uncomfortable!"

"LOUDER!"

"I am very depressed!"

"Be LOUDER!"

"I'm so sorry!" The words spilled from him in a rush, the last vestiges of his control slipping away. Tears streamed down his face, his voice thick with emotion, full of the anguish and despair that had been building for so long. It was as if a child, lost and desperate, had been exposed to the cruelty of the world.

But Fletcher didn't relent. The moment Andrew shouted, Fletcher's expression morphed from mockery to cold, calculating ruthlessness. His tone turned harsh again, like a predator closing in for the kill.

"You're a worthless, hopeless girl, with no future, no value, no friends. When your mom realized she wasn't the great Eugene O'Neil, she abandoned you. And when your dad turned his back, you came to my drum set and cried like a pathetic little girl."

Andrew had never imagined that the words he had shared with Fletcher before, about family and their struggles, would be used as weapons against him. His mother, once a source of comfort, was now an object of mockery, a tool to deepen his wounds.

Andrew collapsed completely. Tears flowed freely, his face flushed from the humiliation, the pain of his self-imposed strength crumbling beneath the weight of Fletcher's cruelty. His fists clenched tightly around his drumsticks, his muscles trembling with the strain of his anger.

"I am very depressed!" he shouted, his voice raw and desperate.

But it wasn't enough. His face, now covered in dirt, reflected the crushing weight of his humiliation and shame.

Fletcher stood tall, gazing down at Andrew with disdain. He saw him as nothing more than an insect, insignificant, to be dismissed without a second thought. He called to Carl, the original lead drummer.

"Carl," Fletcher said, his tone calm, unaffected by the emotional turmoil unfolding before him.

Carl stood up, approaching Andrew to take his place at the drums.

Andrew sat motionless, like a man watching his world collapse. His shoulders drooped, his head hung low, his entire body exuding a profound sense of defeat. There was no fight left in him, no strength to rise. His entire being had been drained.

Fletcher, meanwhile, had already moved on. His posture straightened, and he turned his back on Andrew, returning to his conductor's score as if nothing had happened.

"Start practicing hard now, Neiman," Fletcher instructed, his voice calm and routine, as if the scene of Andrew's breakdown had never occurred. "'Whipping,' 125 bars, adult rhythm, five, six, seven...go."

It was as though Andrew's suffering had been nothing more than an inconvenience, a blip in Fletcher's world.

Andrew remained where he was, unable to rise, unable to even look up. The weight on his shoulders was unbearable. Each step he took felt like it was dragging him deeper into a pit of despair.

He sat on the bench next to the drum set, head down, completely numb. No sadness, no anger, no tears left to shed. He was hollow, disconnected from the world around him. Even as the rehearsal began again, he was distant, as if trapped in a world of his own.

Time seemed to stop for Andrew, and in that frozen moment, the collapse of his world was complete.

The air in the rehearsal room was thick with tension. No one moved. No one spoke. Everyone knew better than to draw attention to themselves, fearing the wrath of Fletcher's tyrannical grip.

Damien, who had been filming the entire scene, hesitated before finally speaking, his voice quiet and uncertain.

"Cha?"