Author's Note: Hello faithful readers! Ready to witness me playing mind games on our favorite So Weird characters? Well, you're in luck! Read and Enjoy!
Disclaimer: #I take a few shuddering breaths and try to keep myself from sobbing at the horrible, undeniable truth of the next statement# I don't own So Weird, nor do I make any money off of it. #Sobbing begins in earnest# Why, why, why?! #I calm down.# Okay then… on with the story! =o)
****Narrator's POV****
Love is so very fickle, is she not? She strikes at will, disregarding such petty things as society's constraints, practicality, and even the will of her unsuspecting recipients. How very rude. As it is, it's a very fine mess that she's gotten Carey and Fiona into now, is it not? But it is not our place to defend or condemn her doings. We are all simply observers to this tangled affair, hoping for the best and wondering about the outcome. In all the long years of my existence, I have learned that mortals can only exist in three states of being: complete happiness, complete unhappiness, or some measure in-between. Our story's lovelorn protagonists have seemed to slip slowly into the depths of despair (such a melancholy existence, to be sure…though perhaps I am merely being melodramatic). Will their story have a happy ending? We can only watch and wonder.
****Carey's POV****
As I regain consciousness, I shoot up into a sitting position on my bed. What the hell was that? I'm breathing heavily. Breathe. Breathe. That dream was not good for my mental state, I'm sure. Now I can't stop myself from thinking about other things I could do with my Fiona. Things that go way beyond just kissing her. I've dreamt about her like this before (and yes, those dreams included more than just a single kiss), and I felt extremely guilty afterwards (just like I do now), but this last one was just…it was simply…magnificent. It felt like she was there, in my arms, on my lips… I know she couldn't have really been there, of course. After all, it was just a dream. Hell, I realized this even while I was as dreaming. I refuse to dwell on reasons why this particular manifestation of my imagination seemed more real than it should have been. Not everything has a paranormal explanation, right? Right. Well…maybe.
Good God, I think too much.
"Carey, wake up!" I hear Molly bellow outside the door. My ears ring. "Come on, everyone, we're at the hotel!" she continues.
"Alright," I snap. Perhaps I shouldn't be so irritable (after all, I did ask her to wake me up). I try to lighten my comment by adding an ungracious "Thank you." "Your welcome!" Molly chirps enthusiastically, as giggly as a schoolgirl half her age. I roll my eyes, thankful of the barrier of the locked door. Honestly, Fiona never acts that way, as if she were a pathetic pool of hormones melting at the feet of every cute guy she meets. My Fi never acts so…I'm doing it again. Thinking about her, that is. I find that doing this isn't my obsession; rather, it's my life. I really am pitiful, aren't I?
I'm such a baby. I may very well be the first person ever to annoy himself to the point of madness.
I've officially got a headache now.
****Molly's POV****
Sometimes I can't help but wonder why I am the way I am. Which, by the way, is royally fucked up. I loved-- I mean, I love--Rick, and I want to remain loyal to him (or, at least, the memory of him), but it's just so hard. Irene says that it's time for me to move on, that I should have done so a long time ago. Maybe she's right. And that's where the hate comes in. I hate Rick sometimes. I hate him because he died. He said he'd never leave! I hate him because of how he hurt our family the way he did. His death almost killed us too! And I hate myself, also, for feeling that way. I know that it wasn't his choice to leave us. It just happened. Life is like that, and we can't do a damn thing about it. Then, at those times when I love him again, and I'm "Molly the crying widow" once more, I find that I still hate myself. Because I find myself looking at other men in ways that "Molly the crying widow" should not be indulging herself in. Most recently, I've been eyeing Carey. I tell myself, "Are you crazy, woman? The boy's half your age!" but this doesn't seem to help. And then the hating cycle starts again. I need a man. Definitely.
"We're almost there," I hear Ned call from the driver's seat, flinging his comment over his shoulder towards the general vicinity of Irene and myself.
"'Kay, thanks Ned," I respond, seeing as how Irene is occupied, chattering a mile a minute on one cell phone or another, planning and altering and directing like a Queen bee with a sugar high. Sometimes I could swear that she has a secret shrine set up somewhere dedicated to worshipping Alexander Graham Bell, the inventor of the telephone. Hmm…ironic, her last name is Bell too… but I'm getting off track here. I have to go tell Jack, Annie, and Carey that we're almost at the hotel. Mmm…Carey. A finer piece of man-candy I've never seen. I make sure to wipe my mouth with the back of my sleeve before I go and wake him. After all, drooling isn't appropriate, now is it?
I'm pathetic.
*****2 hours, 12 minutes, and 34 seconds later--Band Practice--Molly's POV*****
Finally, after what seems like forever, our band practice/sound check is complete. I've been trying for the last half hour to remember a time when I actually thought that this was fun.
I impatiently tap my foot as I sing the last few lines, and a few seconds later the song belatedly (in my mind) dies.
Yes! It's over. Time for dinner.
Apparently, I've thought this too soon, for no sooner have I gratefully hoped down from the stage than I hear Carey call out for my attention.
"Molly," he says, "Just one more thing…" He gracefully props his guitar against a nearby speaker and steps down from the stage, till he's facing me.
"Yes?" I prod, as he has not continued, and does not seem like he's inclined to do so anytime soon.
"Well…" he begins, seeming to mentally grasp for the right words. I idly wonder why he seems to be having trouble with saying whatever it is he's trying to say. It couldn't be that he's going to ask me out…
…could it?
"Wellyousee,IwrotethissongandIwanttoknowifyou'dsingit," he blurted.
"What?" I ask, missing his entire statement.
"I said… I wrote this song and I want to know if you'd sing it," he repeated, this time at a more normal speech rate.
"Oh," I said. I hope he can't tell that I'm sort of disappointed.
"Okay," I say, my tone sounding exasperated and unenthusiastic even to my own ears.
"Good, thanks Mrs. P," he says, sounding relieved.
I wish he wouldn't call me that.
He fishes out a sheet of crumpled paper from his pocket and hands it to me.
As I skim over it, I must admit that it looks pretty good.
Nice melody, interesting lyrics…I never knew that Carey was this good a songwriter.
"Could we try practicing it right now?" he asks eagerly after I've finished looking over the paper.
"Alright," is my response. After all, waiting a few more minutes for dinner isn't going to kill me.
Carey beams. Really beams.
I fight to keep myself upright as my knees turn to jelly at the sight of his pearly whites.
We get back on the stage and inform the other band members about the few extra minutes of practice, and then we're ready to rock. Carey, apparently, has made copies of the song for all the band members (with all the musical notations included, too) so all we have to do now is try it out.
"One, two; one, two, three, four," I call, and we begin.
About thirty seconds through the song, and I realize something's wrong. Something's off, but I just can't figure out what.
About a minute into the song, I realize what it is. Me.
That is to say, my voice just doesn't sound right with the harmonics of the song. I decide to continue singing anyway, but about halfway through the song I just can't take it. We sound horrible.
And so I stop singing.
"This just doesn't sound right," I complain, after the rest of the band proceeds to stop playing as well.
"My voice just doesn't go with it," I elaborate.
"Maybe we should let Annie have a go at it," says Evan, one of the rodies.
Before I can protest that her voice was too high a pitch for it, Alexander, one of my band members, protests.
"No, she doesn't have the right pitch for it. It would sound better with a lower voice," he says.
I mentally agree.
"You're right." I tell him.
"Maybe you should try singing it instead, Carey," says Ned, who'd wandered in about ten minutes ago.
"Yeah," I say. "You wrote it, after all," I add.
Carey's face turns a peculiar shade of red.
"No, no, never mind. Let's just go to dinner," he says, embarrassed.
But everyone in the room has already seen that the song has some potential, and we're not letting him change the subject that easily. Dinner can wait.
"No man, just try it once. If it still doesn't sound right, we'll forget it," Alexander pipes in.
Carey's face gets even redder.
"Okay…" he says, giving in to our prodding.
I move away from the microphone and go stand by Ned.
Carey cradles his guitar and shyly moves toward the microphone, visibly calming himself.
Who would have guessed that Carey is self-conscious about his singing?
Suddenly the song is underway, the sweet strains of the acoustic guitar floating in the air, soon accompanied by the edgier notes produced by its rougher electric relation. And then Carey begins to sing, and it's like magic.
Time seems to slow as, suddenly, a sweet voice, mellow and yearning, pierces the air, entwining itself with the sounds of the instruments.
The voice is soft, sweet, and hauntingly unearthly.
It flows like fine wine from Carey's lips, and has virtually the same effect, for we become intoxicated.
Words sung by this voice are suddenly infused with immense power, to hurt or to heal, and I find my emotions torn asunder and thrown into the wind in tattered shreds as the lovely voice continues its sorrowful song.
I am amazed.
I am in awe.
And suddenly, I understand.
I remember now the yellow rose he gave Fi at the airport, at their last goodbye.
I remember now the hug they shared, their flustered expressions, the intense look they shared right before she left.
He's in love with Fiona.
I don't know how I ever missed it before.
The boy's head over heels, down and out, completely in love with her.
If I'd never realized that before, it's all been made clear for me now.
I am suddenly very depressed.
But I'll get over it.
I always do.
(Author's Note: Hey everyone! Sorry for making this chapter center so much on Molly. I just didn't want her pining over my boy Eric Lively…er, I mean Carey… for the entire story. She'll find someone eventually. I wanted resolve that whole issue early on, and make sure that you all knew that this is a Carey/Fiona fic, not a Carey/Molly fic (which I deplore, for some obscure reason which not even I know). Alright…well, I'll see if I can get the next chapter out sooner, and see if I can make it longer too. I would have added some more length to this chapter, except for the fact that doing so would mean that you'd have to wait longer for it. Oh well. See you later! Bye! =o)
