Truth or lies, spot the difference
Sick. That’s how he feels. He feels nauseous and his vision swirls in a way that makes his head hurt even worse. He’s been completely blindsided by this, he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Pelle had been betrayed so severely that he couldn't even see straight anymore. This thing, this team between the four of them, he had poured his heart and soul and blood and tears into this beautiful project of his, only to realize that he was completely alone. He was trying to follow his dreams and spent every waking minute designing logos, and writing lyrics for a band that didn’t even bother to rehearse. He wasn't starving himself, despite the narrative that Østein gladly pushes in order to promote his own agenda. The truth? Pelle Ohline cared for the band so deeply that he took just about every penny that his father from Sweden sent him monthly as a grocery fund, and spent it on stamps and mail to promote the band. Always for the band.
And the band was falling apart. Østein knew the band was falling apart, he knew. He could feel this reality falling apart, and selfishly as he is, he starts to try and fix his future by going into damage control. Øystein is smart. His parents had connections that ran deep into the primitive law enforcement systems of rural Norway. He and Pelle had taken a train to his home in Sweden, where they drove home Pelle’s Volvo, which they later named the Mayhem machine. That's when Øystein used to be kind to him, but those moments became increasingly more fleeting as time passed.
Pelle’s afraid of Øystein. His friends talk amongst themselves about how reclusive he seems when Øystein is in the house, but grows more social when he’s gone. That drive home to Kråndstad was when their relationship had been irreversibly damaged. They started bickering, annoying each other endlessly with unnecessary comments and jabs. Øystein started getting jealous, started feeling like Pelle was impeding on his plans, taking from him what should be his. Popularity, fame, recognition, it rightfully belonged to Øystein, because he invented this shit. Not Pelle. Not Jørn, not Jan. Just him. And there's nothing he wanted more than total control of it.
Pelle was close to leaving. He was already back in touch with the members of his past band, Morbid, and was planning on pursuing a career in music back in sweden. Øystein couldn’t have it. Things for him were falling apart, and fast. The band was going through a rough patch. Ever since Jan and jørn moved out from the cabin due to Pelle and Øysteins incessant bitching at each other. The cabin was a very hostile environment, everyone waiting for the next yelling match to start. Øystein was drinking too much. He was going too far and it was obvious to everybody but him. Too far was never enough for Øystein Aarseth.
He was a bit of a megalomaniac, a manipulative evil man who had no concern for the welfare of others. He had been a communist, experimenting with different types of thought processes before telling his friends he wanted everyone to “suffer violently then rot and die under dictatorship”. He saw his friends as sounders. A sounder refers to a small group of pigs. That's how he viewed the humans around him. Not as people, not as prey. Pigs. And there's no one he took his issues out on more often and more violently than Pelle Ohlin.
Pelle lived back and forth between Jan and Øysteins houses, the winters especially brutal in the half broken down shack with no heating. On the days where the freezing darkness swallowed Norway for up to 22 hours a day, the conditions became unbearable. They had managed to get him into a youth home around the winter of 1988. He had traveled home to Sweden for Christmas, excited to visit his family and friends after so long. When he returned, however, some of his beloved comic books were missing, and there was evidence that someone had broken in. So somebody did want to hurt Pelle, and his name was Øystein Aarseth.
Øystein has a history of death threats towards people who manage to get on his bad side, which isn't hard to do. Even Pelle’s little brother, Anders, got hold of the rumors in which Øystein poisoned someone who dared to talk negatively about him and his band. Additionally, he openly told everyone within earshot that he had absolutely no aversions to killing people, on multiple occasions saying that he would “make use of the corpse”.
Pelle had recently found out that the band was planning on splitting up, and it broke his heart. He was living alone in that horrific cabin with only Øystein there to keep him busy. He would venture outside for long hours into the woods, writing lyrics and letting the nature and the beauty of it all control him.
He was very connected to nature, the mystic glamor of fog filled woods with the strobing effect of leaf filtered sunlight entrancing him beyond anything else. And Øystein hated it. He hated that Pelle was outside and not having to be responsible. That’s how he saw it, at least. To Pelle, it was escapism. Escapism from the aggressive environment of being surrounded by a negative energy that was just so Øystein.
Pelle was devastated upon hearing that what he’s worked so hard for has gone down the drain. He had imagined years of this band, being as rich and famous as the pictures that Øystein elaborately painted inside his head. A spider spinning a web. That’s all he was. But, the fly was giving chase, writhing in the sticky strings and all too close to breaking loose together. Øystein couldn't have that. Not at all.
Here he was, blinded by unfiltered rage as he pulled into the cabin’s driveway faster than he’d ever gone before. He takes a moment in the car, thinking his way through the winding path that the police would ignorantly follow. It was perfect.
He slammed his car door hard as he followed his way to the back of the cabin, towards his room. He jumped up onto the railing, steadying himself as he tried to jump up into the window that had been left ajar for this very purpose. So very well planned. Foolproof, even. He manages to heave himself up onto the ledge that can't be wider than 2 feet, staying low as he figured falling would be less deadly if he at least was in a better position. He slides his way to the floor of his room, the disposable camera in his pocket falling to the floor. It was time to make things right.
He gets up, softly jogging his way to the closet where he knows they keep the gn, exactly where he left it. He loads it quietly, silently thanking Varg for sending him the ammo. It would be useful. He also grabs a large hunting knife from the box underneath, and heads to Pelle’s room.
He opens the door without knocking, figuring it wouldn't matter anyways after what will take place. Pelle was on the floor of his room, drawing something stupid on the back of a letter addressed to transylvania. One that would never be sent.
He approaches him with a calm tenor in his voice, and moves to stand directly before him. The rifle is heavy in his hands, the smooth wood leading to a heavy metal barrel that was parallel to Pelle’s skull.
Pelle’s voice stumbles and trips as he tries to form words but is unable to. The novelty of standing before his ‘friend’ with a gun weighing solid in his hands is quickly wearing off. His frustration is growing, a deep sadistic anger that boils his blood and clears his head better than any high he’s ever experienced.
“Øystein? This isn't funny” He says, voice surprisingly calm for someone whose life is held in another's hands. Øysteins smart, and he knows it isn't a joke, and he doesn't intend it to be one. He knows this is necessary. When the ends justify the means, it’s as perfect as it’ll ever be and he knows it. All too well.
But now, with this poser Varg closing in, the band falling apart, and Øystein losing his deserved spot in the limelight? Something had to give.
“Get up” He sneers, and it takes everything in his mind not to kick that stupid confused look off his stupid face. Pelle’s eyes are shocked, eyebrows raised and mouth slightly open.
“I said getup” his voice is just as quiet, he doesn't need to be any louder and they both know it. The threat of the weapon in Øysteins hand is more than any verbal warning he could ever receive. Pelle finally stands, slightly trembling on his long legs like a baby deer. Bambi versus the hunter, who will win?
“I want you to get up, walk over that table, and write a suicide note” He says calmy, voice not even so much as cracking for one single syllable.
“Øystein, you don’t have too-” He’s cut off by the sound of Øystein further jamming the barrel of the heavy rifle into his temple just enough to send the message.
“Shut up” he verbalizes the warning. Pelle listens.
He slowly walks towards his desk, hands fidgeting at his side. He takes out his favorite pen, and starts to write his note.
At the end he’s crying, tears hot and heavy down his face but he can’t bring himself to even care. He’s going to die. He’s going to die at the hands of whom he once trusted. He suddenly remembers a quote from a book that he managed to get his hands on through a mutual friend, one from transylvania.
Acerrima proximorum odia. The hatred of those most nearly connected is the bitterest of all. His tears flow faster as the words ingrain themselves inside of his brain. He scrawls the words in Swedish on the paper, hoping someone will understand, that someone will know that he didn't kill himself, that this was no accident.
“Are you done yet?” Øystein asks, sick of watching the pen slide across the paper. His voice is laced with the poison of annoyance, the words not doing much to disguise his lack of patience in dealing with Pelle.
“Yeah,” Pelle whispers, an air of acceptance surrounding his words. Øystein would almost feel sad, but he’s just about incapable of feeling empathy anymore. The empty spot where sympathy used to be is filled with a hatred he can not control anymore. He lets it take charge.
“Get up, and sit on the floor in front of me” Øystein orders, and Pelle complies. He shyly moves towards the spot where he was before, all too aware of the gun trained straight on his temple. He swallows.
“Here. do what you do on stage. I want to take a video of it, to promote Mayhem” The lies slip out of his mouth so easily it would make your head spin. Pelle is confused beyond reason, but he sits on the rough carpet, his knees aching as Øystein hands something to him. It’s the hunting knife, the camouflage metal handle feeling cold and daunting as he takes it from him. Pelle’s scared. He’s not sure what’s going on, and he’s actually terrified. It’s better when he’s in control, it’s okay when he’s in control. And then it all makes sense. He was never in control. Pelle Ohlin has not been in control of anything since he got off the train from Sweden two and a half years ago. He never realized because he was blinded and manipulated by the only person who he was truly close to. He understands. Øystein dragged him from show to show, putting him on display like a circus animal. Using him to promote the band. The band who couldn't care less if he lived or died.
He takes the knife, and does what he does best. He can feel the warm life drip out of his arm and onto the floor. Pelle fleetingly wonders if they’ll even bother to clean it after he dies. He doesn't think they will.
“Do it on the other side, too” Øystein speaks, sounding mildly interested in what Pelle was doing. He doesn't have his eyes open but has no doubt that he would be met with Øysteins curious eyes waiting to meet him. He doesn't give him the benefit.
Instead, he repeats the ritualistic abuse onto his other arm, feeling slightly dizzy and sick from the bloodloss. He’s never gone this deep before, there's no question that he’d rather die from his own hand then Øystein’s.
“Now your neck.” He dictates, and Pelle complies once more. He recognizes that this is where it ends. He silently says his goodbyes. His life doesn't flash before his eyes or anything like that, but it’s a close thing as the faces of the people that he loved come into a show of smiling faces before his closed eyes. He drags it across his neck sharply, not quite knowing what to expect. His body lurches forwards as he coughs violently. He can’t quite get enough air inside his lungs, and there's something coming out of his mouth that tastes like copper and slowly drips down his chin and onto his lap. Blood.
“Good” Øystein says, his voice back to its uninterested monotonous tone. He hums, an afterthought, but Pelle barely hears it. He can feel himself start to slip away. He’s thought about this moment a lot, the moment where his heart stops beating and he no longer exists. The moment in which he truly becomes dead.
His eyes are barely open anymore and he’s so out of it he can’t remember his name, who he is, where he is. He feels completely free. He can no longer see, breaths coming shallow and light through his mouth as the blood pools into a crimson puddle into the carpet. His hearing is no longer working, everything fuzzy until it stops. And just like that, Pelle Ohlin is gone.
Øystein isn’t done, though, not for a bit. He tries to pick up Pelle, but he’s too heavy, so instead he drags him across the small room and over to Pelle’s bed. He props him up against it. Øysetiens plan is working so perfectly he can’t hardly believe it. He takes the loaded rifle into his hands once more, as he had set it down to snap pictures of Pelle Ohlin’s last living moments. He pulls the hammer of the rifle back until it lies flat against the wood, aligns the .6 gauge barrel with Pelle’s forehead, and pulls the trigger. There’s a hollow boom of the firing gun, then a crack and a splatter. It was beautiful. It takes him a moment to take in the scene before him.
Pelle’s face is unrecognizable anymore, half of his head a mess of murky scarlett. The skull fragments are all around him like some type of grotesque halo. The blood is the worst, or the best, in Øysteins eyes. It was so much further than he would have thought it to. Hell, it’s even on him. He can see his white t-shirt that's been dotted with blood so dark it looks black. Pelle’s shirt, his favorite and a white one that reads I love Transylvania. It’s completely soaked from the neck to mid stomach in a deep red shower. The wooden walls of the cabin have also been stained with the same color, the splatter spiderwebbig its way up the spruce planks like a Jackson Pollock painting. If he had to name this painting, he thinks he’d name it Lords Of Chaos. That’s what they were. That’s what Øystein is, for god’s sake. He remembers his camera.
He grabs it from off the edge of the dresser, winding the spiraled wheel until he hears it pop. He takes a photo. The knife is then carried over to be placed atop the gun in the shape of an inverted cross. Click. The weapons placed across his chest like a shield. Another click.
At the end he has a full disposable camera full of corpse photos, and figures he’s done the best he could with those anyways. He examines the scene once more, trying to find something that’s truly Black Metal. Something Trve Kvlt. His eyes hook onto his skull. The fragments. The blood. He delicately pulls fragments from the wreckage of the scene, figuring he could use them later. And he does.
Later that week he carves more inverted crosses into the bones and hangs them on chains to only be given to those he finds worthy. I made Jørn sick. So he quit. He left Mayhem on his bike and never looked back.
Øystein hired Varg Vikernes to replace him, and Necrobutcher stayed loyal. They move out of the cabin, and Aaresth opens his store, Helvete. He also opened his record label, Deathlike silence.
Old habits die hard, and he continues to take money from Varg and his band, Burzam. He throws death threats out like its going out of style. Then the burnings start.
They burn churches. Varg starts it, Øysetein is jealous and makes more lies to cover his ass. Varg is braver than Øystein, and he’s not afraid of police consequences.
Øystein gets paranoid of cops, and his parents offer to buy him a nice apartment just outside of Oslo. He closes Helvete, and moves in on his mom and dads dime, and pretty much lays low, running Deathlike Silence out of his apartment.
He had gotten Mayhem back together after he promised Necroutcher that he had burned the photos of Pelle’s corpse. That was a lie too. Øystein had thrown out another death threat in Varg’s general direction, and that was all it took.
Between the royalties disputes, the threats, and what he did to Pelle, it was too much. Something had to give. So, Varg went to Øysteins apartment with the promise of signing papers for him.
Not even 56 minutes later Øystein Aarseth lies at the base of two flights of cement stairs, body riddled with 48 stab wounds, and one deep enough to go through his skull and not come out. And just like that, it was the end of Øystein Aareth. And no one was sad. In fact, Necrobutcher had found out about the little stunt he pulled by still remaining in possession of Pelle’s skull fragments, and was on his way to murder Øystein himself, but Varg beat him to it.
Everyone knew what he did to Pelle, but the words and stories he had spun ran too deep into the webs of the music world to ever be removed. A lie could travel halfway across the world in the time it takes the truth to put on its shoes.
And there is no greater example than Pelle Ohlin.