The Greatest Showman - #1444: Fight to the End

A sharp, clear slap echoed through the silence, jarring in the stillness as the drums abruptly stopped. The sound sent a ripple of fear through the room. Andrew pursed his lips tightly, blocking all sounds, holding his breath.

For a brief moment, everyone in the room was frozen.

Andrew had made a mistake. A small one, but it had rattled him. After all these years of practice, even now, he still faltered. The frustration surged within him. Without thinking, he raised his right hand and slapped his face hard—his palm still holding the drumstick. The impact left a bright red mark on his forehead.

He was unaware of how deep the anger ran.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. His neck twisted, cracking the joints, and he attempted to let go of the tension. It was time to start over.

He played again.

The rhythm flowed like water, steady and fluid, the beats precise and measured. The energy in his movements was even, the emotion rich. The "whiplash" of the drumsticks unleashed the fiery intensity inside him, wild and unchecked, crashing down like thunder, a storm of sound.

After 30 minutes of intense repetition, the audience's ears were numbed, but they could now pick up the subtle changes. Though they couldn't quite explain it, they knew something had shifted. The performance had changed—better, stronger, more alive.

Then, Damien's eyes narrowed, focusing on the most challenging part.

The left hand clicked the jazz drum while the right hand hit the choke, both rhythms needing to be perfectly in sync. The difficulty was clear—280 beats per minute, at seven beats per measure. The pressure had intensified exponentially.

Even harder was the position of the drums.

The jazz drum was positioned low, close to the body. The left hand could use forearm and wrist strength to control it, adjusting with the fingers for subtle shifts. The pressure was manageable.

But the hanging drum was different. Positioned high and far from the body, the right hand had to maintain stability in the upper arm while the forearm and wrist supported the force. The shoulder bore much of the weight. The drum's surface was less stable than the jazz drum's, adding a level of complexity to the rhythm. The control had to be flawless, or it would disrupt the entire performance.

Andrew could feel the difficulty. The rhythm had to be perfect—steady, precise. There was no room for error.

"Bang, bang, bang!"

The beat intensified, faster, louder.

But it wasn't just about speed. Andrew had to maintain the seven-beat rhythm and the accuracy that Fletcher always emphasized. One misstep, even a fraction of a second off, would result in failure. Every muscle in his body screamed as the pressure mounted.

His arms began to stiffen. The faster the tempo, the more his body fought to keep up. He gritted his teeth, his muscles tightening with each beat. But it was no use.

His movements grew more erratic. The fluid, controlled strikes turned into jerky, wild motions. The rhythm slipped away, the beat falling apart. The precision he had worked for vanished, leaving chaos in its wake.

A complete disaster.

Andrew's teeth clenched, his entire body tense. Panic set in as he tried harder, pushing his body further, only to make it worse. The cycle was endless. His body trembled uncontrollably. His form faltered, collapsing into disarray.

Finally, he slammed the drumsticks into the hangers on either side, the sound clashing like metal against stone. The hangers rattled and screeched, the noise painful and jarring. A moment of pure frustration and rage.

Andrew lifted his right hand, his muscles tightening, his teeth gritting. But just as he was about to strike again, he froze, the anger and frustration written all over his face. His shoulders sagged, and his head drooped in defeat.

He had failed. Again.

The air in his lungs was heavy as his thoughts darkened. All the work, all the preparation, and yet it felt like nothing. The suffocating pressure built in his chest.

A long breath escaped him, his hands dropping to the jazz drum. The sense of defeat overwhelmed him, but it was not complete. He still wasn't ready to give up. His determination flared, though the frustration lingered like a shadow.

He noticed the blood on his drumstick. His middle finger, index finger, and the tender skin of his palm were all torn. The worst was his thumb—torn to the bone, the wound still raw and bleeding. It stung with a sharp, unbearable pain, but he barely reacted, only a flicker of surprise crossing his face.

Indifferent. Resilient.

He tore open a new bandage box. Wrapping his fingers with quick efficiency, he secured the wounds, readying himself once more. There was no time to dwell.

He grabbed the drumstick, this time focused. His left hand was sidelined, eyes fixed on the hanging drum.

With determination, he raised his right hand, letting the control flow from his fingers. He struck, rhythmically, his focus laser-sharp. One hundred and forty blows.

The beat picked up. Two hundred and eighty. Perfectly timed, perfectly executed.

He had done it. His hands, muscles burning, kept going, the rhythm unbroken.

But it was only a matter of time before the tension built again. The muscles in his arms stiffened. The same mistake loomed large, like a shadow over him. His rhythm faltered. His hand shook again.

But this time, he refused to give in.

The range of his movements widened, the strikes more forceful. Sweat drenched his body, his face a mask of fierce determination. His vision blurred, but the sound of his performance filled his ears.

His wounds bled, the blood staining his bandages. He could taste the bitterness. A real blood taste.

But he kept playing. He wouldn't stop.