I used to sit the shadows of the wings and watch him sing it, the blinding light of the stage spilling into the darkness where I sat. [Oneshot. Sad Frerard-ish.]
I used to sit in the shadows of the wings and watch him sing it, the blinding light of the stage spilling into the darkness where I sat. Every night, every single night, I would forget everything- forget my guitar and my sweaty skin and the pound of my heart from playing- I would forget everything and just listen.
I must have heard him sing it hundreds of times, sat on the cold, hard floor in the dark, amongst the props and tangled-up guitar leads, just watching that silhouette light up the stage with agony as he sung, but I never grew sick of it. I couldn’t ever grow sick of it, because it was the sole most beautiful thing in the world, such a crumbling world, to hear that pure, ragged-round the edges croon radiating beyond the confines of the room.
He poured out the heart and soul of the simple words, setting them alight, rendering every human being in the room spellbound, enthralled by the blinding honesty and talent that seemed to emanate brighter than the warmth of the stage lights, filling everyone up with its blinding brightness.
I would hunch up small, just like a kid, knees pulled into my chest for comfort, because listening broke me so painfully; stripped away every and any precaution, and left me to exist in such a raw, pure, alive way, for those three minutes.
It broke me and re-fixed me all at the same time; breaking me with the pain and fixing me with the beauty of it. Each time I’d be a little more scarred, a little more worn, but so, so much stronger from its fragile, unstoppable bravery.
At the soft, lilting piano intro, a hush would weave a web over the audience’s screams, and they would just stand and listen with their hearts, listen with all they had in the dark, listen to the voice of one, astounding person, just like me, hidden in the wings.
He didn’t dance about the way he did throughout the rest of the set and he didn’t make any quirky little comments between verses. He just stood there and simply sang- so agonisingly, so beautifully, so passionately- so purely.
His voice held such overwhelming emotion with every single word he crooned into the microphone, cradling it as though cradling his patched-up soul. He made the song so fragile, so vulnerable- yet so powerful. It held a different kind of power to any other song we’d every written; it was so simple, so pure, so full of emotion- but it was a lonely melody. A melody only one of us would sing.
Sometimes I would close my eyes and let the music absorb every inch of my being, let the potent strength of it well up inside of me and spill over the edges; too precious, too rare to be contained.
But most nights, I would watch the way he sang. The way his eyes brimmed with the strength of his sentiment, so agonisingly full of life; the way his lips quivered around the most vulnerable words as if he was scared to utter them; the way he hung onto the ascending melody as if it was the only thing stopping him from falling and falling and falling to the darkness.
I sat in the darkness, where he was afraid to fall- to the sidelines, out of the light. Sometimes, he would glance back, knowing I sat and watched him sing, but he never acknowledged my presence- he was too caught up in the song, too much part of the whole atmosphere exuding from his being on the stage through the whole room to do anything so human as wave or smile at a familiar face.
Some nights, he’d sing as if it was beautiful. Some nights, he’d sing as if it was agony. The best nights were when the two collided and he sung as if it was both. That was when the emotion overflowed, too strong to be contained in the confines the modern world set. That was when you could forget everything, because when the music filled you up, there was no room for anything else but it’s tentative, beautiful bravery and suffering.
That last night, he sang as if it was killing him- as though the velvety, agonised beauty of it was slowly tearing him apart. His voice soared above the rafters and radiated flawlessly through the hundreds below, floating, soaring so powerfully it hurt- hurt so much, so beautifully, leaving everyone enchanted.
I could feel the ghost in reverse of salt inside me, and hugged my knees closer still to my chest, as something broke so painfully- and didn’t re-fix itself. Couldn’t re-fix itself.
His song reached the crescendo, resounding so purely, so powerfully through the room, far stronger than the golden glow of the stage lights or the screams of the crowd. It was the power of someone’s soul, soaring out into their dream, soaring out into the darkness and caressing everyone who was hurting. It dipped down, torn round the edges.
And then it broke.
Like a floating feather that would drift freely, untainted, for eternity through the dust-particle illuminated air, soft and light- until it hit the ground and shattered, becoming jagged and ugly, as though touching reality tainted it- turned it to something bitter and hard.
My breath caught in my throat as I stared out from the shadows of the wings, and in the collided choreography of reflecting stage-lights and a thousand people and the shadows and the soulful, sad lilt of the piano, his eyes found mine.
Their softly agonised, breaking- broken- gaze held mine for timeless heartbeats they’d never have, turning my soul inside out, healing my scars and cutting deeper ones. I swallowed, suddenly feeling as though I was saying goodbye in this silence, as the sliced-up emerald of pure, unobliterated emotion got lost in my own russet gaze, filtering through my ribs and getting tangled up with my heartstrings.
Then he turned back to crowd, waiting for his final curtain-call from the piano’s soft, sad notes. But his eyes never left mine.
They held onto me and I held onto them for the last time, as he sang the final, painstakingly beautiful word, drawing out its agony, the final note ringing out so clearly, so powerfully, so purely, I felt as though I would break completely.
Then it was gone. Dust of dead lungs. His beautiful, agonised eyes held onto mine for a last, timeless pause as his final note faded out into the black air, shattering my soul to the floor along with those broken, black feathers of tainted truth.
And then he turned away, and walked out of the spotlight.
What did you guys think? Please let me know, as I actually felt oddly nervous about posting this. I think it's 'cause it was something that flowed out so easily and hasn't really got a clear plot- it was very much just inspiration and emotion...Did it still work? Rates and Reviews would honestly make my day- I'd really appreciate to know what you think of this, and I'd love to know how you perceived the ending, as I left it kind of ambiguous, although hinting. Thanks so much for reading!