Never Come to Be
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Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Trent Lane lost himself in the sensation of his rough fingers stroking the strings of his Fender dreadnaught acoustic, head bowed as the song drifted through the cemetery, the notes rising and falling as they were carried off on the wind. Jesse Moreno sat beside him, strumming rhythm and singing harmony when called for. The song was by a band Trent had seen in New York when visiting his baby sister, Jane, who lived in a tiny studio in downtown Manhattan and drew a comic strip for the Daily News. Trent remembered going into a club for a beer, and there they were on stage, kids-- college kids--ten years younger than him or more, with ten times the talent he ever had as a musician. The singer didn't have much of a voice, to be sure, but he had charisma and stage presence and could shred that axe like a bastard. Trent had sprung five bucks for their CD and gazed down at the cover for a long moment.
When Distance Fails. Cool name.
"When you open up your eyes
I see the many tears that dried behind your smile..."
The day was overcast, sky a blinding grey that seemed to reflect the grief and emptiness Trent was feeling, the hopeless bereavement that had swallowed each day since that afternoon at the hospital... the day he had lost her.
"Cross my fingers and wait.
Kiss your lips and taste...
The good life that will never come to be."
A tear fell, hit Trent's guitar and slid down to drop into the grass at his feet. He seemed not to notice, kept playing though his voice grew rough. The wind gusted unexpectedly and carried his anguish far into the sky where he knew the woman so many had come to bid farewell now watched, those deep brown eyes he had so come to love sparkling behind her glasses like jewels in a window display.
Never come to be.
Trent stood looking down at the casket, a single flower held in one calloused hand. He bit viciously into his lower lip in a hopeless bid to stay in control and dropped the blossom onto the polished wood. The violet sat atop a mountain of roses, dark and small and mournful. The metaphor was too much for the broken musician and he wrenched his gaze away. Heavy boots crunched forlornly over grass and gravel as Trent left the funeral behind. His part was over and staying would only bring him lower than he could possibly stand. He did not look back.
Days, moments spent in the sun with the woman who very well might have been his soul mate tormented Trent, an unbearable torture with only one remedy. Weeks bled into months as slowly summer lost its warmth and autumn its color. Winter sank its roots into Lawndale and Trent's ruined heart as he slept away the days and rocked through the nights, playing and singing until his fingers bled and his voice gave out, painful and raw. When Distance Fails's CD played constantly, stuck on repeat on track 5 as Trent lay on his bed, wrapped in filthy sheets and trapped in fitful slumber. Bittersweet dreams held him willing captive, his mind filled with visions of auburn hair and rose kissed lips lifted in that sarcastic smirk that filled him with longing.
...as you begin to sleep and dream,
I will now whisper in your ear to never leave...
Daria drove in from Boston to see him. She was different, far removed from the diminutive teen that had secretly longed after Trent for two years in her youth. She stood just a few inches taller, but now wore black slacks and a silk shirt rather than her old outcast gear and her hair was styled into loose curls, though the length was much the same. Daria's glasses were rectangular and slim, but the eyes behind them were so much like hers it hurt Trent to see them.
Daria's gentle, sympathetic tone sharpened when Trent refused to look at her. She quickly went from supportive, almost plaintive, to angry. She yelled at Trent, who lay on his disgusting bed littered with dead roses, many of the petals loose, some crushed to brown-red dust which lingered on his skin and hair, foil chocolate wrappers and pictures of Trent's love lost. Old Valentine hearts were strewn about, some on the bed, most across the floor, plundered of their gaily wrapped treasures and tossed aside like garish corpses. Love letters and greeting cards, most wrinkled or smudged from constant handling, coated his dresser and night table. Lipstick kisses closed every note, some of the ink blurred by tears. Daria, her last nerve spent, swung her hand and bit her lip as the slap connected with Trent's gaunt cheek. He felt a momentary chill as the band of her engagement ring made contact with his stubbly skin. His door slammed as she stormed out, but he did not blame her. She could never understand; those who walk in the sun knew nothing of the pain of those banished from the light. Trent lay his head back against a stained, deflated pillow and closed his eyes.
never come to be
He dreamed of the end. Sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chair at her bedside as the monitors beeped and blipped and counted down the remaining heartbeats of Amy Barksdale's life, clutching her cold hand and begging whatever higher force there might be to let them have one more day, just one more day in the sun before it set forever.
just maybe this beautiful dream will come alive
but all that I can do is sit and watch you die
He dreamed of her smile, tinged with melancholy as she held his eyes with her own, those deep brown eyes that never lost their shine for a moment, even when the Leukemia left her body a starved ruin and she could no longer find the strength to stand. Her smile wavered as her breath caught, and Trent cursed god then. Cursed the supposed almighty being that had allowed him to find the love of his life, only to drag her away in such a painful manner. Amy held out her other hand for Trent, a lone tear wavering on the verge of release as her fingers trembled and Trent took it. Without a word, he raised that thin, dry hand to his cheek and held it there as he lowered his lips to hers softly, sweetly if for the last time.
kiss your lips and taste...
The tear found its release as Amy and Trent whispered their love and the heart monitor sped up for a moment before slowly running down to a single, monotonous drone. Their gaze never broke until the light went out of her eyes and the doctors came in to declare a time of death. The Morgedorffers were in the waiting room, along with Rita Danielson and her daughter. Trent saw none of them; the sun was gone from his sky, the world encircled by an eternal curtain of night.
the good life that will never come to be
The moon rose as Trent's eyes drifted open, wet obsidian which drank in the scant light drifting in through shuttered windows. Slowly he sat up, hands passing through long, greasy hair before he ran them over his cheeks. With the moisture collected from his spilled tears, Trent slicked his hair back and pulled it into a loose ponytail. The tail had been Amy's idea, he reflected as he sifted through a pile of clothes in search of relatively clean attire. After a few short minutes he found a long-sleeved black tee and badly ripped jeans, disrobed and stood in the stillness of his room, listening to the long since memorized song drift through the air.
never come to be
You can't be a real musician unless you have long hair. That was what she said. Trent's lips pulled into a pained smile and his right hand touched his chest, not quite covering the tattoo over his heart. Amy was etched into his skin in scarlet script, a heart traced around the letters to symbolize how she filled him with all the love he could ever hold. She had had a matching tattoo, his name etched into her wrist with a tiny heart looped through the tail of the 'e'; it had been their version of wedding rings, as neither had felt the need to actually get married to cement their relationship. Their love was enough.
the days we should've had... I wish I'd just forget
The lithe musician came out of his reverie and dressed. His movements were slow but sure and soon he was ready to go. The clock at his bedside read nine-eighteen as he checked his guitar case for picks and extra strings, and at nine-twenty two he stepped out into the hall. His eyes looked out on the world, cold and broken as shattered stones in the winter snow. Behind him the song played on, caught in its eternal loop, much like the man with the broken smile who hid in the darkness, forever in fear of being blinded by the sun's painful light.
i hate this hospital as much as I hate god, I hate this funeral and wish that I'd forgot
On stage at McGrundy's Pub, Trent wailed his pain out at an oblivious crowd in vain effort to lance the festering lump where his shredded heart once dwelled. He happened, by chance, to look into the audience and was surprised to see Daria smiling sadly up at him from a table at the left of the stage. Without thinking, he smiled back then closed his eyes and lost himself to the music. One day, he might be ready to crawl out of his grief and step once more into the light, but the loss was still too fresh, her face all too clear in his memory. One day he might be free of the guilt of watching his love die, unable to fight the murderous invader ripping her body apart. But that day was still far off in an uncertain future, and in Trent's ruined heart, the night held sway.
never come to be
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Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
Music, When Soft Voices Die by Percy Bysshe Shelly.
Lyrics from "Your Lullaby" (c) When Distance Fails 2005, used without permission.
6/22/09
