...eventually part six...
Previous - this entry written on May 03, 2006 at 3:47 pm - Next

It's the same story that plays out everywhere, over and over. That, I've always thought, is why her music strikes so deep - it's pure, yes, pure in ways most singers can never even dream of, but it's things we've all felt. Seen. Heard. Done. It's our lives taken to such a point of clarity that it rips us apart to hear.

She sang now, night and day, only silent for the brief moments it took her to gulp down her food, swallow the soothing liquids that were brought in every hour or so, and catch a few hours of dream-filled sleep. She no longer sang to him, not for days, not for weeks, instead lifting her voice and that strange second tone to the mockery of a window or pitching it to occupy the empty cage. He was silent, curled up more often than not in the furthest corner of the room from her, eyes open, fixed on her as if the moment he looked away the world would fall apart. Days of this, and his eyes were dark-rimmed, body often trembling. After the second week, he barely ate, only touching food when it was shoved at him, when her handlers turned their attention to his weakened form and demanded he swallow enough to stay alive.

He wanted to die, and she... she was already singing his dirges, screaming her loss, knowing by now that her songs were heard by many ears and reminding each one how it felt to lose the one thing you love. Sometimes, when she slept, he would creep closer, stretch out beside her, not quite touching... not daring to. Simply being there, so that when she woke with tears in her eyes, convulsing from whatever horror haunted her sleep, for just a moment she could cling to him before she once again pushed hm away.

Both of them now were unclothed, filthy - she resisted any attempt by her keepers to bathe and her hawklike shrieks protested as well if they offered him the comfort of warm water. Both were gaunt, his body stiff from so often huddling in on himself, hiding from the gaze he knew she would not turn on him but feared regardless, her body aching from near-constant movement, pacing the room that was now truly a cell. She drove herself, and him, to the point of exhaustion, three weeks and finally a month passing before the collapse.

He had closed his eyes, tired, so tired... and when he opened them again it was to see her falter mid-note and tremble... her eyes roll up... and her body tumble gracelessly to the floor. A moment later his arms were around her and he was shouting with rasping, unfamiliar tones to the listening microphones to send for a doctor, lifting her up and walking unsteadily to the door, kicking at it until it opened and refusing, as certainly as she had denied them the right to help him, to let her go alone into the hands of strangers. The two guards who were first to the door caught only a single look at his face before falling into step, one in front, one behind, leading him through the maze of corridors with the unconscious Songbird still held tight.


Needs editing. Needs it badly. Needs elaboration too, this is mostly to keep it fresh in my mind. I hate my head. I hate my body. I hate having bits of stories shoved into the forefront of my thoughts only to feel them slipping away while I'm typing. I hate a lot of things. I... want to go cry. I don't think I can, though.

Please, someone, just shoot me?

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