A short story based on the inspiration behind "Who's Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses".
Narrative: He walks to the studio doors and stops. Needing just a second to give the words swirling around in his head a chance to settle and fit…set and finish in lyric form. Hand on the doorknob, thoughts elsewhere. And then like a man being awoken from a trance, he runs a hand through his dark hair, settles his breathing and glides through the doors like a man untouched and bursting to create.
You present the song and they love it. The rest of the evening and into the late hour is spent laying down a shell of the master track by your mates and the vocal tracks with the working melody, which are blended into a live demo of sorts before all is done. Final editing and mixing will be saved for tomorrow but a lot of work was completed this particular evening. It all just worked so very well. The lyrics work, the vocals came easily. How could they not? Vocals singing words born of emotions as passion and pain always came easy to you. And when drawing on your own pain, even easier. How could you miss?
Suddenly exhausted and empty you move yourself to the studio couch with the intention of listening to the playback. You spot the empty couch and call it your own as you sink in. These couches have a way of sucking you in… you swear it. That would be your last conscious thought as you lay your head back and feel yourself drift off. The warm liquid feeling of sleep draws you in and you willingly submerge yourself in it. Obviously you won't be staying this way judging by the work of a completely blind and purposely inconsiderate band mate slamming the door with a wicked grin. Looks like sleep won't be happening. If you could move your arms you'd punch the piss out of him. You mentally put that on your "to do" list with a wicked grin of your own. You needn't bother opening your eyes or changing from your comfortable position since he doesn't care a feck all if your sleeping anyway and since conversation now is likely to happen, you might as well be comfortable if you've got to be awake. He'll talk anyway and you can just keeping nodding until you drift off again. But he catches your attention with saying "It's got the makings of a great song, you know" You nod to acknowledge the compliment (just because you always yearn to hear that kind of praise, doesn't mean you have to show it). That mood shifts from casual to quickening as soon as you hear Edge's voice ask the question you were hoping never to be asked, "So… what are you on about in it, Bono?" You try to pull off casual but you're pretty sure your voice gives you away in it's hesitation and you could swear you heard your own voice nearly crack over your one worded answer, "Love". With that you decide getting away now might be the best plan and your order your legs to move your body to stand in order to walk out now and have the last word of this conversation. But that won't be happening either.
From his perch on the arm of the couch, one leg bent at the knee, foot resting on the couch and the other stretched out before him with arms folded across his chest Edge adds, "Sounds a bit like unrequited- heartbreak-pain sort of love to me". You can manage to only stare ahead. Your mouth doesn't seem to work anyway and you're sure it would betray you if it did. You continue to stare so long you nearly put yourself in a trance. You hear "You alright, mate?" everything seems a bit blurry around the edges. "What did he say?" Did he just ask me if "I'm alright?" The laugh escapes before you can stop it and you wonder if he's asking to really ask or is he asking because he already knows. Edge has a way of asking in an effort to confirm what he already knows without ever letting you know that he already knows. He's lethal with it. Bastard. It's what you love and equally hate about him; sometimes it happens at the same time. Sometimes like now. He looks surreal and almost distant awaiting his answer. You hear "Do I take that silence to mean yes? You start to feel that familiar feeling: a feeling of having been here and done this before. You continue to watch and realize he wasn't really asking you as he continues on with "Yes I think I do." You're completely thrown off balance with "I'll be off, then… get some sleep, Bono".
Suddenly you're feeling the pangs of…panic? You wage that internal tug of war between pride and need and give in to need. "Wait" you, say, in a voice you hope doesn't sound like pleading. It moves something in you and you're propelled through a series of visual shifts and you think you're going mad before the vision settles and the scene shifts to hearing your voice again but the players have changed along with the scene. It's very bright now. Warm. You realize the sunlight and you feel its warmth on your skin. You see her, the sunlight streaming along her face and highlighting her hair, giving off a halo appearance and it moves you, touching you to the depths of your soul. It's very warm here. Your focus ends on that beautiful face; ivory skin and then into the vivid blue of her eyes. Tears… not quite hidden. You can smell her, that scent that haunts you and warms you at once. You can taste the kiss eve now. You need the taste just once more. You crave it. You taste the sweet and innocent surrender and something else; you taste the salt of the single tear that could no longer be held back. You can taste and feel all the hurt and the pain even as you hide your own. It has to be this way. Nothing more can come of this. You have to let it free, this angel you found. You need to for the sake of both of you, for the sake of everyone; there can be no future here. She told you she didn't love you and even hoping she didn't and trying to hide your own knowing it was the way it had to be, it hurt. You know she was lying, as you hoped she would, as you were asking her to and seeing you needed it, she offered the lie from her lips. But her eyes held the truth. It hurts. It's painful. You feel like you're falling and you are. You feel the end of the fall. Hard. You realize you were dreaming in the delayed moments of clarity that came after hitting the floor. You wake to find yourself face down on the studio carpet, overhead studio lights darkened and everyone gone. You were dreaming. The conversation with Edge didn't happen; it wasn't real. But the image of the beautiful girl in whose eyes you could drown, was. She couldn't be yours and you know it and you know that there must be another to take your place. You realize the tears you taste now are your own.