This story was inspired by the ending of Spring Awakening, and also because I just wanted to see what had happened to everyone (in my opinion, of course). It's set around three years after the play ends. I was planning on writing more, but if it's just too awful, I'll spare everyone (: Thank you to anyone who bothers to read it! I know it's horrible, I'm sorry, I've never tried anything like this before! Reviews are helpful for constructive criticism (:
Disclaimer: I don't own Spring Awakening, but if anyone wants to grant me a couple of wishes...
Is this what my life had come to, then? To escape, to ignore, to numb…only to be lulled back in, the pain searing once again? Was I never going to be allowed the chance to move on in my life? This only further deepened my disbelief in a god; why would it take everything from me and refuse to give anything back? Wasn't God supposed to be made of love? Didn't he grant all lives profound meanings-if so, what was the purpose of mine? To live in a shell, never forgetting the sins of my past? Was the only reason Wendla Bergmann given permission to live only to die, leaving behind waves of mourners?
Grief raced through my veins again, and not for the first time since arriving on this train, I had cursed myself and my decision to return home to care for my ailing mother. Munich-where I was living now-was a safe, sane town; no cemeteries brimming with people I…loved. Munich did not house ghosts creeping around every corner, and memories did not linger in the air, as tangible as any solid object. It had offered me the mindlessness of working, day in and day out; Munich was cold and gray and neutral, which was just what I needed-a break from the painful, reckless danger of my hometown.
I did not need the spirit of Wendla trailing behind me, or the spirit of Moritz, for that matter. It was bad enough in Munich, with occasional and random uprisings of irrepressible images that scolded my mind like the touch of flesh against a hot stove. I had two settings, I supposed: numb and unfeeling, where I could ignore the blood on my hands; and pained and guilty, where it all seemed too much. I had yearned for the responsibilities of an adult, and I had gotten them-in the form of two deaths on my shoulders.
I chanced a glance out of the murky window of the slowly lurching train-it looked nothing like my hometown, not yet. I still had time to abandon this silly little adventure of mine, to ride instead to an unknown, less painful village. Something in me, however, stirred, when I thought of bowing out-it felt wrong, even worse than the thought of facing the object of my misery, my anger, my guiltiness for so many years. Didn't I owe it to my victims, Moritz and Wendla-oh, God, Wendla-to at least acknowledge what I had done?
I slipped into an uneasy sleep, tempted by the soft rhythm of the train, my dreams full of remembrances. Visions from my childhood, when my world had not been tinted black by atheistic thoughts; visions from my short time with Wendla, when I had not yet known the deep agonizing burn of loss; visions from my time now, when I had all but forgotten what it meant to be happy. All of them were unsurprisingly difficult to watch-they were the slow and steady downfall of the once-golden boy Melchior Gabor.
How awful was it? I'm truly sorry for anyone who was kind enough to read it! Please, please review? (: