Rating: PG
Spoilers: None
Summary: If this was silence, Jack didn't much like the sound of it.
Disclaimer: I do not own Simon and Gafunkel's The Sound of Silence, nor do I own the character of Jack. They each belong to their respective creators and owners.
Not for the sake of reviews, but for the sake of clarity, I would appreciate feedback. I would just like to know if this garbled mess makes sense to anyone else. If not, it's all good, sometimes my stream of consciousness flows a little too freely. Enjoy!
i Hello darkness, my old friend,
I've come to talk with you again i/
Jack stepped out of the heated FBI building, looking up at the cloudy night sky as he pulled his gloves on tightly. He glanced toward the cab-filled street, sighed and took a right, letting his feet decide his destination. He closed his eyes briefly as he walked along the street, listening to the engines, horns and people talking around him.
iBecause a vision softly creeping,
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence. i/
His eyes flew open, a new rush of emotions igniting his senses. The dream was so vivid, so tangible, that he questioned its reality. With the day he had just experienced, he was beginning to question the reality of everything. The whole day had gone by in slow motion, the same way his dream had, and the two created this intermingled nightmare. He wanted them both to go away and leave him in peace with the night.
iIn restless dreams I walked alone i/
Confusion caused his brow to scrunch; uncertainty created his frequently worn frown. That dream frightened him in various ways – one being that he was completely alone. No wife, no kids, no friends, no co-workers. It kept flashing in his mind, pointing out what went wrong in his life. He wondered how one dream could cause him to become so rattled. Perhaps the case he worked and the similarities it had in his life, along with his dream, made for a bad combination.
Jack closed his eyes as he paused at the corner, waiting for the crossing sign to flash white. The visions gradually appeared again, all in muted slow motion. He found himself jogging across the street, dodging oncoming traffic. Almost half a block up the road he turned down a side alley, walking as though his feet had disclosed their destination to his tired, overworked brain.
iNarrow streets of cobblestone,
'Neath the halo of a street lamp,
I turned my collar to the cold and damp i/
A large drop of rain fell upon his shoulder, then another followed. The drops came down sporadically, landing in pools of melting snow and slush. Jack's left foot found one of these pools as he paused in front of a worn, dilapidated building.
iWhen my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence. i/
Contemplating whether or not he should enter, he stood in front of the bar, an inviting neon sign with 'Open' beckoned to the casual passerby. Jack looked out to the crowded street again, watching his breath rise through the misty night. To be honest, he welcomed the darkness. It soothed him, knowing that he didn't have to try so hard to hide his pain and guilt from inquisitive eyes and questioning looks.
iAnd in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more.
People talking without speaking,
People hearing without listening,
i/Peering through the window, his gaze filtered out the multitude of people in the crowded bar and fixed on a couple at a table across the room. They were talking with each other, yet they appeared to be speaking at the same time. The woman looked angry. The man, discontent and frustrated. Jack had lived this before, this exact scene, not at this exact place per se, but similar. He blinked profusely and shook his head, trying to separate his dream from what was in front of him.
iPeople writing songs that voices never share
And no one dare
Disturb the sound of silence.
i/Jack looked back through the foggy window, watching as the man said something and the woman immediately grew silent. He bent his head down almost in anticipation, waiting for her tears to come. Jack watched as they sat in silence, so close, yet so far apart.
i"Fools" said I, "You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows.
Hear my words that I might teach you,
Take my arms that I might reach you." i/
His gloved hand pressed against the window, realizing that no matter what he wanted to do, he couldn't change what was happening in there. He could affect the same amount of change in their relationship as he could with his already tormented marriage, his dream. Jack wanted to walk inside and tell the man to "try harder, do whatever you can to work it out."
iBut my words like silent raindrops fell,
And echoed
In the wells of silence
i/He stole a look at a woman, much like his lost victim that day, sitting alone at the bar, drowning her sorrows in what appeared to be her third shot of vodka. They didn't find the woman that day, but the case was too chaotic, nothing fit together. He left the case officially unresolved. He hated that.
After she finished her third, she brought the glass up to her eye, where another flashing light, 'Sam Adams' shone through the bottom of her glass. She sat with her distorted visions, looking desperately for hidden traces of the drink that had created her reckless state.
iAnd the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made. i/
With disappointment, she brought the glass down hard, but the only sound Jack heard was muffled noise coming from the street. The snow, piled waste high in some areas, did a fair job of creating a buffer around the city, but as the drops of rain steadily increased, so did the slush and grit that accompanied the day - old snow. The thought of a substance so pristine, so pure, which became contaminated and polluted by humans and their destruction, disturbed Jack. It was startling how similar the forces of nature seemed to be in tune with his every emotion and thought. He watched as others inside built relationships on lies, he watched the troubled couple crumble, and the lonely woman order her fourth. He knew she would be taken by the night, never to return.
iAnd the sign flashed out its warning,
In the words that it was forming. i/
Jack opened his eyes as the crossing sign signaled for him to walk across the street. His feet led him down the paved stairs to the subway, where he habitually pulled out his ticket and inserted it in the slot. He walked through the gate, his eyes glazed over, still puzzled. He wanted to ask what it meant, what the dream meant, to him and to his life. The 'walk' crossing sign flashed into his mind again. It kept saying it was okay to walk, to walk where? Walk away from his problems, the lies and deceit? Walk to his family, those he cared for?
IAnd the sign said,
"The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls i/
As Jack stood on the subway, waiting for the car to leave, he got a glimpse of graffiti, written in the white of his flashing light. It read, "It's okay to wonder." Jack sighed and frowned once more. He hated the wonder; he liked the resolution, the certainty of it all. That was what was ironic about his job, always searching, sometimes finding, sometimes not. Never certain. Nothing was certain. Not his relationship with his wife, his children, his co-workers. Struggle wasn't certain either, however, it was highly probable.
He reached his stop and ascended the stairs that led to his street, walking in a quiet, focused rhythm, sometimes hampered by an occasional misstep. He climbed the stairs to his building and walked inside, shrugging off the cold, damp night.
I And tenement halls." i/
Jack walked through the hallway that led to his recently rented apartment. He paused as he saw a newspaper lying in front of his neighbor's door. He smirked as he read the headline, "Hope is certain." For the sake of hope, and the sake of the lives of those around him, he wondered if it really was. Wonder. The ability to wonder was a frightening gift, using the imagination to wield and concoct false realities and dreams. That dream. He unlocked his door and tossed his keys on the counter. The only light he turned on was the one in his bathroom, where he turned on facet and plugged up the drain.
The dream, standing in front of the bar, being completely useless, surrounded by a blanket of white and gray. He removed his clothes and slowly lowered himself in the steaming tub of water. Once acclimated to his aquatic environment, he continued to lower himself until his head was submerged, drowning out the sound of his buzzing light, the cars on the street. He drowned out reality and listened once more to the muted, slow motion dream that meant so much, but left little to discern. Maybe this time, he hoped, the couple wouldn't fight and the woman would set her drink down and leave. Thoughts clouded his mind. Hope. Struggle. Loss. Certainty. Wonder. Silence. What was silence? Was it millions of sounds, drowning each other out? Or was it a muted dream in slow motion? If this was silence, Jack didn't much like the sound of it.
i
And whisper'd in the sounds of silence. i/