Half a World Away (Chapter 8)
Title: Half a World Away
Summary: The blood stains on his memories will never fade away; not even by the passage of time, or the reek of his regrets. He will never come back. He will never love him again.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: the title comes from a song by Secret Garden; and I assume everyone already knows that none of these ever happened.
Warning: Angst alert!!!!!! Be aware!
A/N: I’m really sorry for the long wait, but it was inevitable as I wanted to make this chapter the most effective because I gave the floor to Ville and I think I owe it to him that much. The Finnish sentences all come from Google translation so please do forgive me if they’re not accurate. And please, if you find any mistakes (grammatical or lexical) let me know so I can fix it. Thanks.
Previous Chapter:
Chapter 7
The original drawing by 666ville666valo
Chapter 8
“It's not that I'm afraid of being hurt again:
Nothing again can either hurt or heal.”
- The Cocktail Party, T.S. Eliot
Sometimes, when he was all alone in his solitary tower, when the night was hanging behind the ever closed windows and the stink of all his loss was scattered around his consciousness and the stain of death was painted over his image, he would die. He would lie in bed, eyes closed, arms resting next to his body weightlessly, and then he would stop breathing. And he would think breathless thoughts; of a kind of pain that ran through his veins and infected his heart; of a loneliness that slowly took over his strength and brought him down like the decadent citadel that he was; of a love that failed him, like his breaths, like his hope, like his voice that faltered when his hands were gripping the microphone stand with all his might and his memory…what was the next verse?
And love turned into ashes on the tip of his tongue.
“From lashes to ashes, from lust to dust, in your sweetest torment I am lost.”
He sang it with a playful smile as his fingers danced over Bam’s shoulders to the rhythm of the music. He couldn’t let Bam know how true every word he sang was; how deep-rooted, how still so fresh and painful. Bam smiled cheekily back, took hold of Ville’s hand, and for a moment that lasted a heartbeat, Ville envied his raw happiness that pierced through his heartache like a raging thunderbolt and came out from the other side, untouched.
“Oh shut up! Don’t sing it like it was meant for me.” his tone was teasing. His blue eyes cut Ville’s tranquility like daggers of carelessness and it left Ville burning with a desire to tell him that yes, it was meant for him. Perhaps not at the time when he wrote it, but right now, as he was singing it…it was meant for Bam and Bam alone. For whose cutting could draw more blood than Bam’s? Whose every dismissal was a stab, every betrayal a bullet? Who was the dearest to Ville, the closest and the furthest, other than Bam?
“What if I told you that it’s meant for you?” he asked cautiously, his voice still carrying a touch of playfulness his eyes lacked. God he was so afraid. Don’t let me fall, Bam.
Bam shrugged, “I wouldn’t believe you.”
And he believed he could conquer the world. What a laugh. What a fucking cruel joke. With a bunch of words on his hand that nobody truly understood (What’s the hidden message, Ville? There never was any fucking hidden message, goddamn it!); and a suffocating hope that did nothing but to deceive him (I love the power of that belief… don’t start on the self-pity now, Valo.) and a friendly pat on his shoulder (you’re gonna make it, Vil. You’re a fighter)…he was no match for the world. He could never be tall enough to reach the sky or strong enough to break through the walls of solitude, no matter what he was led to believe. He was the architect of his agony and halfway through it, had lost the plans. Even in misery he was incomplete. Even in pain he was alone. What had love done to him? What had they done to love?
“It’s not love if it hurts.”
Standing on Seurasaari Bridge, the sea looked peaceful. And the night was dusted silver and dark purple. A wind was blowing, soft and shy; it smelled of a winter he was soaked in. Bam was next to him, but his presence was thinner than the air around them. Ville tried to breathe him in; he that always smelled of joyful summers in the backyard with fresh grasses and starry nights, no matter what. No matter how close he got to Ville’s wintry presence, his unique scent was always there. His scent was just as much a part of him as Ville’s heart was not, and Ville wondered how much of himself he had to let go for Bam to let him in.
“What’s your kind of love?”
Bam turned to face him, but there was a faraway look in his eyes that told Ville he was not really there. Was he imagining this?
“My kind of love?” and then he shrugged, like by doing that, he could shrug off the weight of Ville’s question the answer of which always hurt them both. “I don’t know, Vil. I don’t think I even believe in love.”
The wind picked up and blew Ville’s long hair to his face. There was something about this scene that felt unreal. Had he and Bam ever been on Seurasaari Bridge? “What do you believe in then?”
Bam put his arms around his shoulder and span him around. Ville wanted to be confused; like he didn’t know what was happening and what Bam was about to say. But he knew this scene already. Perhaps, this was one of his reoccurring nightmares where he woke up to one after another. Perhaps, if he wished from the bottom of his heart, all of this would fade away and never come back.
“In here and now.”
But where was he now? He was not here; hadn’t been here for almost three years, or four. He wasn’t sure. It felt like a hundred years but he knew it wasn’t that long. He didn’t have a hundred years to live. Only two months from now. Or less; not that it mattered much. Every breath he took in could be his last; he missed every heartbeat that he could not trap within his chest. His fingers brushed against the jarred edge of his restlessness and he cringed. He remembered his pain beating under his skin, its pulse replacing his heartbeats and he told himself, as he lied down in bed to celebrate yet another past day of loneliness, that just for this once, it was ok not to breathe.
He pushed the door open and let himself in. He looked the same and yet he didn’t. If Ville stared hard enough at Bam’s head, he could almost see the traces of Missy’s fingers that had recently been entangled in Bam’s unruly curls and when Bam walked passed him, he took a deep breath and was almost repulsed to find Missy’s scent all over him. What was he doing here, again?
“What’s wrong with you, Valo? I called you several times. Why didn’t you pick up? I was half expecting to find your body hanging from the ceiling or whatever you miserable poets find romantic enough to do away with yourselves. ”
He wasn’t exactly mad at him, and his tone was not exactly joking. He sounded scared, underneath all his nonchalance, and Ville wondered why.
“I was dreaming.”
That stopped Bam in his track and he turned on his heels to face him. The expression of amusement suited his blue eyes, Ville noted.
“Dreaming? Dreaming what?”
Ville ran a hand through his long, tangled hair and sighed.
“Dreaming you away.”
XXX
“We are the fools of Time and Terror: Days
Steal on us, and steal from us; yet we live,
Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.”
- Manfred, Lord Byron
Pain shot through his scalp, a moan escaped through his parted lips involuntarily, and he slowly opened his eyes to the morning brightness. It was not the first time his chronic headache jolted him out of sleep. And it was not the first time that he found himself with his cheek pressed upon the pillow and his vision painted a dark, stinking crimson. There was a time when he would throw up, finding himself drenched in his own blood; dry blood on his face, still wet blood on his pillow, the awful taste in his mouth, the awful stench in his nose. But no more. It still disgusted him, but after years of waking up to the same nightmare, he had learned how to deal with it. He could not escape it. He could not fight it. And he most certainly could not defeat it. He just knew how to ignore it long enough to get himself into the bathroom and wash the blood away. If only he could wash off the disease just as easily.
No…I don’t even want that anymore.
His hands shook as he gripped the porcelain basin, shoulders tensed and held high. His head was still throbbing, little dots of black appearing and disappearing before his eyes. His stomach was in knots, it felt like there was a center of gravity in there and all the tissues of his body were being drawn to it. The pain was worn-out; he knew all its jagged contours by heart; had cut his willpower on them more often than not and each time had lost a tiny bit of his resistance. But there was something new about his pain this morning he could not simply dismiss. Like when he accidently looked up and found his eyes on his reflection in the mirror, he didn’t feel the usual urge to look away. There was a pull in there; in those familiar eyes he had not felt connected to in ages. Green eyes, wide and unprotected, bore into him and Ville felt his blood run cold and come to a halt in his veins. His knuckles went white as he gripped the basin harder, as if by doing so he could slow down the time that was floating around him and smashing his still resisting body with its high, violent waves.
36 years…36 years is long enough, isn’t it?
“ISN’T IT?” he shouted as he grabbed for the china statue of an angel resting silently on the basin and hurled it with all his might against the mirror. The angel broke in his hand and the mirror cracked, hundreds of frightened eyes staring back at him, pleading with him to do something. Ashamed of his fear, even after all this long, he dropped the now broken angel to the floor and placed his hands on either side of the mirror, head tilted downward, his whole body shaking with a long-time suppressed rage finally let loose.
Under the pale skin of his pretence, he felt old; old and scared. Old and scared and lonely. Pathetic. An overused Bible tossed aside, inches of dust resting on its cover. Once worshiped and now forgotten. Pathetic. A tragedy with laughing audience. Pathetic. Misunderstood. Pathetic. Forlorn. Pathetic. Old and scared; pathetic…lonely…pathetic, pathetic…
“PATHETIC!” he screamed and hit his fist against the wall with each shaky, dry sob that left his throat. He was thankful that no one was a witness to his breakdown. He was thankful that he was at least allowed to break down…one last time. He was thankful. He really was.
“Mige, would you please hurry the fuck up? We’re already behind the schedule as it is! And Lily, stop fooling around on the phone! You can talk to June after we’re done in the studio. Antto, what is that? How many times do I have to tell you eating is forbidden during rehearsal?”
Ville knew he sounded like a bossy bitch, but he didn’t care. If he left this lazy lot to themselves, nothing productive would ever come out of this shitty studio. They had less than two months to record their debut album, and yet everyone acted like they had all the time in the world. Their laziness was driving him crazy, and this was their first and only chance at showing what they were worth. Two months was such a short time. How could they finish recording by the end of summer?
“Ville, chill out, buddy! I’m just making sure the amps are working fine!”
Ville glared darkly at his bassist.
“Yeah, and that was 15 minutes ago!”
His outburst didn’t startle Mige, as he was hoping it would. They were all used to Ville’s dramatic attitudes by now, and that in itself only served to make the 20-year-old singer even more agitated.
“Kulta, calm down. We’ve been rehearsing for months before coming to the studio. We’ll pull it off, promise.”
Lily’s soft voice always had a magical, calming effect on him, but this time his words failed to bring the reassurance he was hoping to convey.
“I don’t care how long we’ve been rehearsing. We’re now goddamn recording, and with you flirting all the time on the phone and Mige fucking with the wires and Antto stuffing his face, we’ll never be able to finish the album on time! And where the fuck is Pätkä? He was supposed to be here 10 minutes ago!”
“Ville?”
“Ville?”
He tensed as Mige’s voice reached through all the haze and brought him back to the present time. He suddenly became aware of the pain in his hand, and the cracked mirror against which he was resting his forehead. He could feel Mige’s eyes sweep over his slouched form, find the broken pieces of the china statue lying on the ceramic tiles beneath his bare feet and finally noticing the cracked mirror. He did not move.
“What are you doing if you don’t mind me asking?”
Ville managed a faint smile and slightly turned his head in Mige’s direction.
“Reminiscing.” His tone was light.
Mige rose one of his brows, “Is that another term for trashing hotel rooms?”
Looking at Mige, looking into those deep eyes, looking at that warm smile, he could have told him. He could have told him about those wide eyes in the mirror; about that helpless expression, about his fear. He could have told him the truth. But at the last second, he chose not to. He’d always take the easiest way out when it came to his pain after all.
“Could be.”
XXX
“Sway with me, sad things -
Fingers split on a forge
Old age like breakfast shell
Used books, used people
Used flowers, used love
I need you
I need you
I need you:
It has run away
Like a horse or a dog
Dead or lost
Or unforgiving.”
- Sway With Me, Charles Bukowski
He had never felt this sick before; not even eleven years ago, standing on shaky legs, staring blankly at the result of his blood test or even when Bam’s fist had struck his face for the first and last time. He knew what it meant, though. This morning, the eyes in the mirror told him everything he didn’t want to know. This morning he had a vision of a red sky with twinkling stars and a yellow moon hanging low to the ground. He felt like he would die tonight.
And suddenly the darkness engulfed him like a thick cloak and then he was falling. Falling and falling and never hitting the ground. Strong arms encircled his limp body and lowered him to the ground. Frantic voices washed over him like a splash of cold water and he felt like he was going under. Something was placed around his mouth and a warm, callused hand was pressing hard against his cheek. He knew that hand; the hand of his lonely nights and hangover mornings; the hand of his silent screams and broken pieces; the hand of the days of his heartbreaks; Mige’s hand.
“Ville? Kuuletko minua? Avaa silmäsi kulta [1].”
And Mige’s voice; always reminded him of home. Of autumn nights huddled together on bed, rain viciously hitting against the windowpanes, lightening cutting through the sky and illuminating the room as they read Kellon salaisuus [2] under the bed covers. His voice was calm and collected, grabbing his hand like the lost child that he was and pulling him towards the land of the midnight sun. Ville’s eyes fluttered open upon Mige’s worried face and he gave him a breathless smile under the respirator.
“Minun Väinämöinen [3], pelkäätkö minua. [4]”
Someone got between Mige and him and Ville panicked. His hand shot out and grabbed Mige’s in a death grip. Mige leaned in close to whisper into his ear, “rentoutua, rakas. he ottavat sinut sairaalaan. se on ok. [5]”
It only made him panic more. His eyes pleaded with Mige, the only one who would understand. His eyes spoke to him; spoke the words he could not force pass his lips and his nails dug into Mige’s wrist, the pressure coming from the pain that was bubbling inside him and slowly surging over. He could not go without a farewell. Mige would understand.
“It’s ok. I’ve got him. Give him five minutes. He needs to say goodbye to the fans.”
“Now Mr. Paananen, let’s not get sentimental. You know better than anyone how critical his condition is; he needs immediate medical care.”
“Only five minutes, ok? Get out of my way.”
And Ville pushed the respirator away and let Mige raise him to his feet, his arm securely encircling his waist. When he felt steady enough, he gently pushed Mige away.
“I have to do this on my own.” His voice cracked, and his eyes were out of focus, but Mige nodded anyhow and touched Ville’s cheek with the back of his hand. Ville grabbed that hand he had always been thankful for and placed a gentle kiss on the fingers.
“Thank you.” He said simply, but his voice trembled with deep emotions and Mige’s eyes got moist.
“Come back to me in one piece.”
And with that Ville stepped onto the stage; the first time he went on stage first. It was a lovely evening, the sun was almost setting in the horizon, a velvety orange, and it was cold. The wind felt rough against his cheeks and his lips stretched into a faint smile. He closed his eyes for some seconds and imagined he was home. This was the closet he could get to home. This was his only chance. He imagined walking along Linnunlauluntie Road [6] while the wind howled into his ears and the night followed in his footsteps closely, silently, magically. He pictured the face of the moon reflecting on water and the raindrops shattering the tranquility of the bay. And then, the screams of thousands of fans replaced the sound of the wind and he opened his eyes. He gripped the microphone stand to support his weight. He was in too much pain to be standing, but he simply had to do this. He owed it to them, to the fans.
So he opened his mouth and said the words he believed in more than he had ever believed in anything else, and when he let go of the stand and walked away, leaving thousands of confused, screaming fans behind, he felt at peace.
“To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die. [7] Live long and prosper, sweethearts.”
XXX
Nope, not finished yet! But almost there :D
More comments = more motivation =sooner updates
[1] Can you hear me? Open your eyes, baby.
[2] The Secret of the Clock, by Rudolf Richard Ruth: a Finnish crime fiction
[3] Finnish mythology: wise old seer who sings magical songs
[4] My Väinämöinen, you gave me a scare.
[5] Relax, babe. They’re taking you to the hospital. It’s ok.
[6] In Töölönlahti District (Töölö), leading to Töölö Bay
[7] A line from Hallowed Ground by Thomas Campbell