Author's Note: I know I should be working on the five billion unfinished stories I'm in the middle of writing, but I couldn't get this out of my head yesterday. *shrugs*
I strongly recommend listening to 'Delicate' by Damien Rice while reading this.
We might live like never before
There's nothing to give
Well, how can we ask for more?
We might make love in some sacred place
The look on your face is delicate
"Hey."
So why'd you fill my sorrow
With the words you borrowed
From the only place that you've known?
And why'd you sing Hallelujah if it means nothing to you?
Why'd you sing with me at all?
"Hey, man."
His voice trails off as he sits on the ground, his back against the brick of a building and his legs crossed beneath the guitar in his lap. He looks up and finds a man standing over him. The sun from behind the man makes him nothing but a dark silhouette with a halo of light around his body.
He holds his hand over his eyes, across his brow, to try and block out the brightness.
"Yeah?"
"What song is that?"
"What?"
"What song is that? I've never heard it before."
"Oh. I, uh, wrote it myself."
The man above him nods.
"What's it about? A girl? Or a boy?"
He sighs. He doesn't really want to get into this, but this is the most attention he's got, and he's been out here all day, playing in the hot summer sun.
"Yeah, it is."
"Ever sing it to them?"
"No," he says, his answer abrupt.
"Why not?"
He laughs once, dryly.
"I don't see her anymore."
The man pauses, looks away thoughtfully.
"You'll see her again."
He laughs once again, this one sounding more like a bark. Then, he shakes his head.
"I won't."
"You will," the man insists. Before he can protest again, the man continues, "You will! This is a good song. So when you see her, sing her this song."
He doesn't know what to say, so he stays silent while the man shoves a hand in his pocket. He throws whatever he's pulled out in his open guitar case, and then begins to walk away.
"Sing her this song," the man shouts once more, and then leaves for good.
He looks in his case, and finds a dime and two pennies next to the few bills that had been there previously. He shakes his head, and places his fingers on his guitar strings once again.
"I won't see her," he murmurs to himself.
He never sees her.
It's not without reason. Or perhaps, the opposite is true. There's no reason for him to see her, and life goes on accordingly - what used to be mere days (hours, even) turn into weeks turn into months turn into years, and he doesn't see her. Not anymore.
He thinks of her, every so often. Not that much, and with less and less frequency as time continues.
At first, it was hard, not thinking of her. It was the most formidable task he'd ever faced, and he sometimes feared that he wouldn't be able to do it. But she faded with time. He convinced himself most of the recollections were too good to be true. He told himself he'd half made her up, and with time - with time - she moved from the forefront of his brain to the peripherals of his memory, until she was just a whisper he'd almost forgotten.
There were things that would always remind him of her: summer thunderstorms, Big Cat bars, the scent of peonies and lavender. But even those didn't hurt anymore. She was a book he knew he'd read, but couldn't remember the plot of. She was a breeze that blew so softly that it barely moved across his skin.
That's why he'd torn through his apartment last night in search of a light blue folder, full of every song he'd ever written about her.
He'd found it, at some time nearing 3am, under a box of old polaroids he didn't care to look at anymore. He'd sat down on his bed, opened it slowly, the dust on the front making him sneeze twice, and pulled out the first song he saw.
DELICATE
He grabbed his guitar, plucked the strings at random until it began to come back to him, and he smiled, in spite of the song's context. His mother had taught him that music lived in your soul, and no matter what, it would never leave you. This song remembered him, despite his neglect.
He didn't let himself think about it too much. Instead, he told himself that this music was his - himself in his barest form - and he wouldn't let her steal these parts of him. She'd taken enough from him. She wouldn't take this, too.
That's how he ends up sitting on the corner of a busy Atlanta street, singing a song he'd written at the lowest point of his life to strangers, most of whom didn't give a shit. The man who just left him was an exception rather than a rule.
You'll see her again.
"I won't," he breathes, once more. And then, he starts to sing.
Why'd you fill my sorrow
With the words you borrowed
From the only place that you've known?
Why'd you sing Hallelujah if it means nothing to you?
Why'd you sing with me at all?
A/N: If this turns out how I envision it to, it'll be pretty long. Rick's music will mainly be that of Damien Rice and early Bon Iver, maybe some Iron & Wine, and other songs thrown in as I see fit.
I know this chapter is short, and vague and kind of choppy, but it'll progress in a more normal style from here on out. Let me know what you think, and if you're interested in this continuing, with a comment.
xoxo,
Rebekah