A/N: This was just a little story I thought up while listening to Godspeed by Red Jumpsuit Apparatus. Me, being me, took the basic story of the song, expounded upon it and ended up with this. To let you know (and if interest warrants it) this story will either have three or four chapters. So please, let me know what you think! And thank you for taking the time to read this.
The motion of the boat beneath his feet was his only reality in that moment. The gentle rock and sway of the ship was familiar and comfortable; it had become his life over the past weeks, months, years; he didn't remember how long it had been. It felt like years.
The gentle rocking had become a comfort; a comfort that was about to be ripped from under him.
The gun was heavy in his hand. He had been trained to handle it, trained extensively. But despite this fact, the piece of metal always felt awkward and bulky in his hands. In another life, in another time, he had loved to play piano. With the outbreak of war the hands that made music were instantly turned to a much more practical use.
Killing.
There are shouts as the rocking of the boat grows unsteady and choppy. He runs to the side of the ship where several rows of men have already assembled. The silence is grim and heavy; they all know what they're about to face.
All eyes turn to look at the land they are headed towards and all minds return to happier days. The young man thinks of the piano back home he's had since he was a child. It was partially out of tune, but even the slightly discordant tunes he plays over and over in his mind rings with a surreal beauty.
The blaring sound of a trumpet is played and men begin to shout; they are nearing the beach. The music stops; his head is filled with a white blankness.
Kill whoever you see.
Don't think about it.
They're not a person.
They're an enemy.
The musician's hands tremble as the soldier's mind tries to steel the young boy for what he's about to face. The out of tune cords return to his head as the other men around him work themselves into a lather of frenzy. He joins in because it's expected of him; when he's in a frenzy he doesn't have to think.
The cords play over and over at the edges of his frenzied haze.
The boat rocks and pitches, bringing to an end the methodical motion of his life. A glorious yell rises into the air as men begin to pour out of the boat and on to the beach. The musician cowers while the soldier drags him along.
Kill whoever you see.
Don't think about it.
They're not a person.
They're an enemy.
The cords of a Beethoven ring in his head crowding out all other sounds. There is no gunfire, there are no screams of pain, there are no bodies crashing to the ground; just the angry passionate sounds of piano.
It's his turn to go and the soldier's mind carries him forward. The useless piece of steel is held in his hand and the boots that are a half-size too big carry him through the shallow waters. There is the feeling of metal whirring all around him, but he can't hear it.
The sound of discordant music rings too loudly in his ears.
He sees a boy.
No, not a boy.
A target; an enemy.
The steel is lowered and trained at the boy's heart. The soldier's finger is placed on the trigger just as the notes of the musician's mind reaches a furious crescendo. All fades away as the notes fly in a flurry in his mind and his hand remains poised to pull the trigger.
The boy doesn't move.
He stares with large blue eyes.
He also holds a useless piece of steel.
The soldier pulls the trigger and the musician collapses as the frenzy of angry notes comes to an end. The last notes ring through the air that itself rings with the heavy sound of silence.
The boy crumples to the ground.
The musician and soldier both run towards the boy that never pulled the trigger. The sound of gunshots return, as does the screams of lives lost.
A discordant song.
The fucking sound of people dying.
The boy with blue eyes lies with his face down in the dirt, his blonde hair matted and dirty. The musician reaches him before the soldier and he slowly rolls him so that he's facing up. Up close, the solider quickly evaluates how young this baby-faced soldier is.
…Only about 22 or 23…shit…
The blue eyes still stare, but the red that spreads from the wound inflicted by the solider quickly works to eat away at those blue eyes.
Then the baby-faced soldier's hands start to move. The soldier feels himself stiffen, but the musician can tell instinctively that this boy is no threat to him. Instead, he watches in rapt fascination as the boy reaches instantly, almost as if he had rehearsed this countless times, for his breast pocket.
A thin slip of white is in his hands and he pushes it towards the musician. The musician takes it eagerly while the soldier stares at it warily. There is writing on the front; a name; an address. He turns over the frail page in his hands to see that the back is sealed with wax.
He realizes it's a letter.
"…Please…"
One word; that's all the baby-faced soldier says. The musician's eyes are drawn away from the letter to look once more at the quickly fading boy. His large blue eyes are pleading, but they still don't speak louder than that one word.
"…Please…"
The musician nods even as the soldier yells at him that it's a trap and he's being stupid. The baby-faced soldier gives a weak smile and moves his lips in an attempt to talk, but no words escape the jaws of death.
The next second, the red eats away at his blue eyes completely and his body goes limp.
The musician stares at the once alive boy in his hands and he feels tears well up in his eyes. Even the soldier is silent for a moment of respect.
He has just killed.
And he continued to kill.
There were so many battles; so many lives lost. Each time the musician pulled the trigger and watched a man fall, the pleading blue eyes of the baby-faced soldier filled his thoughts.
"…Please…"
The musician shut his eyes tight as the soldier continued to pull the trigger.
Then the final shot rang out; the final trigger was pulled.
The sound of shots and smell of gunpowder that had dominated his life for what surely must have been an eternity came to an abrupt end. The soldier was left with fingers that could no longer carry out what they were intended to do and the musician was left with hands stained with red that remained no matter how much he scrubbed at it.
But there was also the square of white the rests in his pocket, right next to his heart.
Even though he can't see the words, the address on the front of the envelope burns into his skin. It burns with a message undelivered; the last words of a baby-faced soldier. His hand unconsciously travels to the breast pocket were the last words of a dead man are kept. As the soldier hides himself away once more, the musician realizes what he must do.
He seeks out the address.
And he stands at the door carrying nothing but final words.
The walk up the steps feel longer than the entire duration of the war and as the musician's footsteps finally come to rest before the looming door, he wishes the soldier would make himself known and deliver the letter.
Hand it to whoever was behind the door uncaringly.
Read the emotions on the person's face uncaringly.
Walk away from the house uncaringly.
But he is not a soldier; he is a musician.
It is because of this fact that his footsteps lead him to this door; it is because of this fact that he lightly raps on the solid oak that separated him from whoever lives in the house. He can feel his heart still in his chest as he hears resulting behind the door and not a moment later the door is flung enthusiastically open.
It's a young woman with long pink hair.
Her face is hopeful at first, joyful; then she recognizes the uniform of the enemy and her face instantly drops. She pulls the door close to her in order to create a barrier between herself and the young man outside her door. Her eyes quickly change from sparkling to haunted. The musician can see her frantically looking his uniform over.
She speaks rapidly in a language the musician doesn't understand as her haunted eyes meet his own. He watches as her eyebrows rise slightly in surprise and he can't help but wonder what she sees. The door is slowly opened once more as she allows the wall to fall.
Then the musician pulls out the letter.
At first she just stares at the object as if it is something she has never seen. He pushes it closer to her hoping that he conveys that it's meant for her. He watches as shaking hands take the simple white envelope. She stares at the object in her hands as if it's the last thing in the world keeping her sane.
She opens the envelope as if she's drowning and it's the only thing that can save her. Her haunted eyes scan the pages, taking in every word. The musician stands and watches because he doesn't know what else he is supposed to do. He had come to deliver his letter; he had done that.
But as he watched the woman pour over the words, he found himself unable to leave.
The eyes of the baby-faced soldier mingle in his mind with the haunted eyes of this woman. For a moment, they are both standing there; the man delivering his message and the woman listening.
The spell is broken when he hears the sound of crinkling paper and chocked sobs.
The woman falls to the ground and the sound of tears seems to ring through the air. Then another sound rends the air, even louder than the sound of the woman's tears.
The sound of small feet padding across the floor.
The musician looks up to find a young boy in the entryway to the house. He couldn't be more than six. The musician can feel the eyes of the young boy burning into him before the boy's eyes turn to his mother.
"Mama."
The sound of feet padding across the floor and quiet sobs combine for a moment in what the musician can only describe as a symphony of shared sorrow. Then the symphony comes to an abrupt end as the young boy reaches his mother and pulls him into a hug. The musician can hear him speaking to his mother and he can catch the consoling tone in the young boy's voice. The words do nothing to calm the woman as she pulls the frail yet strong child into her embrace. She cradles his slim body as tears continue to pour uncontrollably down her face.
The musician feels like an intruder; he does the only thing he can think of.
He turns and walks away.
The cold click of his boots mingles with the sound of the woman's tears and the boy's consoling words. It's the most heart rending song the musician has ever heard.
The next day he returns home.
He clicks on the light in his apartment to find that nothing has been changed. The house is still as small and dingy as ever with a grand piano, his pride, taking up over half of the main room. It is a piano he's had since his childhood and the notes sing slightly out of tune. He has to fix that soon.
As he walks towards the piano, the quiet click of his boots of the cheap linoleum floor greets him. The sounds echo hollowly in dissonance with the silence that dominates the house.
His hands rests on the piano; his hands stained red beyond recognition.
It's then that he cries for the woman with the haunted eyes.
The tears are bitter and hot in his throat, but they quickly dry as he begins to dust off his piano. He hesitates for a moment as his hands linger over the keys.
If he touches them, will he stain them red?
PLINK
His finger touches down on the key and the vibrant warm sound fills the hollow room. The musician stares at the key, but it seems to be unstained. His fingers instinctively move to press another key.
PLINK
A sweet sound unstained by the red on his hands.
He begins to move furiously then; the notes pour out of him almost as if a dam has been removed. The notes form no song the musician has ever played before, but the soldier recognizes them as the sounds of war.
The musician pours over the keys as the sound of the woman's tears dominates his mind. He writes the song for her, for the baby-faced soldier, for the strong little boy.
For the letter that ties them all together.