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by d a m n a t i o n shag_chic@hotmail.com Disclaimers: The title and basis of this story is taken from the song, 'Fragile' by Kylie Minogue. It's sort of like a written form of a Music Video. No infringement is intended. Full disclaimers can be found here. This is the third part of the Lyrical Ballads. I have never felt so helpless. When I lost my twin, I retreated into myself. Yet, even as silence ruled outwardly, my thoughts were vocal. I was able to translate my pain and despair through the things I wrote, living my life through characters that took form in my shaping; characters that laughed when I couldn't, and cried when my own tears refused to fall. They had a voice, and from their lips tumbled forth the things I wanted to say. They took on lives of their own, but I had the ultimate control. Even in my darkest moments, I had words. They were my solace, my refuge. They used the gaping hole in me to stir up the feelings in those who read them. But now. . . Now, they refused to come. And I haven't a clue what to do about it. I was convinced that I had done something to have caused this--this horrendous twist of fate that has left me muter, if that was possible, than I have ever been in my entire life. I do not speak, you see. Everyday speech is made up of different sequences of sounds; the lack of it was a hinderance that I overcame easily with a notepad and a pen. Words, however, are a different thing. They are tools that allow one to weave, construct, create, sculpt; they have the ability to make beautiful a reality that is, in truth, bleak and ugly. The inability to write took away the only voice that mattered to me. I scrunched up the fingers that were resting against my head, pulling two fistfuls of hair as I clenched my jaw in frustration. The pristine whiteness of the the top sheaf of paper gleamed mockingly at me, as if to say 'you cannot write'. I cannot write. The flow of words that came to me with such ease once seemed to have fled. I could not bear the silence; the irony of it all did not escape me. My traveling companion, Maxine, and I lived from hand to mouth. She was a songstress whose voice awoken forgotten feelings in me. And when she asked me to leave with her. . . My fists loosened and flopped onto the table lifelessly--that was the last time I had written. Since then, we had driven aimlessly, determined to journey but never with a destination in mind. The flat tyre we got the first few days of travel took a huge chunk out of our meagre funds; we stopped occassionally for any chance of replenishing it. Maxine had gotten a gig at the local bar while I earned my keep at an asian restaurant as a kitchenhand. The pay wasn't much, but it was enough for us to take leave in a couple of days. According to the map, we were nearing the coastline and I was silently hoping that we would make it there before summer ended. The knock that sounded startled me. It was short and crisp, and I knew immediately that Maxine was back. Of its own violition, my heart skipped a beat. Sweeping my worries to the back of my mind, I waited as the key turned in the lock and the door opened inward slowly. "Hey," she greeted quietly with a smile. "Thought you might be asleep." The dim, amber lighting of the hostel room bounced off mahogany strands. She had the most beautiful hair. It tumbled down her back in thick, luscious waves--enveloping, then releasing her as she moved. "Been writing?" she asked, her eyes falling on the writing implements lying on the table before me. I looked down. The sheaf of paper that stared back was still blank. Still silent. Still useless. My earlier frustration returned full force and I stood up abruptly. Without acknowledging her, I climbed onto the bottom bunk of the double-decker bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping that sleep would overtake me and bring my muse back to me. The bed groaned under her weight as she hoisted herself up onto her bunk. I heard her fumble about as she tried to make herself comfortable. Not too long later, silence enveloped the room again. This time, however, it was interrupted by the punctuating staccato of my heart. I lay frozen, afraid that the smallest movement might draw attention to me. Even my own breathing sounded alarmingly loud. "Chase?" My heart tripped again. I cleared my throat in answer. "Kick my mattress when you want me to shut up, okay?" This was a nightly ritual. Maxine would tell me about her day until we both fell asleep. I knew that she was trying to bridge this gap between us. Why, I did not know--for was I not just a stranger to her? I had allowed myself to believe that I might have found comfort and security in another person, but daylight chased away any illusion of that. I had appeared at what had to be one of her lowest points in life. She had just lost her mother and must have been feeling lost and vulnerable. She must have identified with the longing in my manuscript, and offered her protection and fierce loyalty in the hopes of drowning out the loss she must be feeling. What would she think if she knew what I felt each time I saw or heard her? Surely it would change the dynamics of our new friendship. I could not risk the possibility of losing whatever she had to offer. This was the first time since Caine's death that I could actually remember feeling alive and some part of me was desperate to hold on to it as long as I could. And so I must endeavour to bury these feelings I had for her. They would bring me nothing but grief. My eyes slowly fell shut to her voice. I loved the way she spoke--the way her lips caressed words and formed sounds. Everyday speech was made extraordinary by Maxine Lawrence. But I would, and could, never tell her that. I wasn't sure if it was the light or the lumpy mattress that woke me. Whatever it was, it made me crankier than I was the night before. I tumbled gingerly off the bed, careful not to wake Maxine with any loud movements. Risking a quick glance at the top deck of the bed as I made my way to the door, I was disappointed to find it rumpled but empty. I slowly made my way to the shared washrooms located at the end of a long walkway. You're pathetic. I surely was. Not only was I smitten with Maxine, I had allowed my silly crush on her to take control of my decision-making process. The thought of her sent a shiver down my side and I brushed it aside, annoyed. What the hell was I doing, anyway? I was twenty-six and I had nothing to show for it. The infrequent publications that peppered my odd-jobbing career were taking me nowhere. I wanted something. I wanted something more. I suppose the only thing left for me to do was to figure out what exactly it was that I wanted. I stared dully at my reflection and began brushing my teeth. The practiced motions were carried out without a thought. Something has to give, I decided, between spitting out a mouthful of foamy toothpaste and rinsing my mouth. Either I get over my crush or make something out of it. But since I wasn't willing to risk losing Maxine, I suppose I had to get over it. More importantly, I needed to start writing again. And as I stood there, dabbing my face dry, a funny thought hit me. Maybe the two matters-at-hand were linked. Maybe Maxine was the reason why I stopped writing. I gasped, feeling melodramatic as dread filled my stomach. I zipped up my toiletry bag and stepped out of the washroom, feeling more useless than ever. In my muted misery--pun intended--I walked right into a warm, soft wall of flesh and gasped. "Hey." I did not have to look up to know who that quiet voice belonged to. "I was wondering if you wanna come over to the bar tonight. It's Bingo night and I only have to work for about an hour." I hesitated. I knew I couldn't reject any request of Maxine's, yet something inside me screamed no. No. Enough. I really like you. I cannot like you. I'm falling for you. I cannot help it. It is hopeless. What I want is hopeless. I shouldn't say yes. I should just leave. My head lifted and our eyes met for an instant before I found something else more interesting to look at. I could never hold her gaze for too long; it made me uncomfortable and shy at the same time. But that instant was enough. I succumbed and gave the answer I knew could never be any other. I nodded. She gave me a blazing smile and my insides turned liquid. I filed that snapshot of her away in my head, handling its fragile beauty with care. It hurt me sometimes, her beauty. It made me wonder how someone so beautiful--in every word, smile, movement and touch--would want to have anything to do with me. "Great. I miss singing for you." Not as much as I miss listening to you sing. I did not catch the look of shy embarrassment that flitted across her face at her admission. Rather, I attempted to fill up the silence with a half-smile and a rueful shrug. Suddenly energized, I signed to her that I was hungry, relishing in the delight that the information seemed to give her. Oh Maxine, how I wish. . . . "I see some breakfast is in order!" She put an awkward arm around me, to which I reacted by holding my breath and keeping my movements as still as possible so that she would, by some miraculous means, forget that she had her arm around me and leave it there. Always. We were silent as our shoes clumped down the corridor. Obviously, I didn't get my wish for always, but I got a good thirty seconds that we took to walk down the corridor. When the comfortable, albeit foreign, weight left my shoulders, I suddenly felt emptier than I had ever been. By the time I reached the bar that Maxine was working at, the sky had already darkened. Praying that her hour wasn't over, I slunked into a corner, as usual, with a cheap drink in hand. My heart skipped a beat when Maxine made her way to the stage, her laughter trailing behind her. The group of patrons whom she was conversing with followed her short journey up the stage with appreciative glances. I bit down an unwarranted rush of jealousy. I allowed my eyes to caress her fingers as she fumbled with the microphone stand. I took liberties a stray wisp of her long, wavy hair, gently tucking it behind her ear. My lips lightly grazed her cheek softly in a whisper of adoration. Perhaps my gaze was a tad intense. Or perhaps she was just really good at picking me out from the crowd. Halfway through her little 'This is the last song for the night, folks,' speech, her eyes rested lightly, but surely, on me. Just for the duration of this song, I promised myself, my eyes unable to leave her features--just for the duration of this song, I will indulge in the fantasy that she was singing for me. Don't know where I am Catch my breath, can't think straight Gotta make a plan But I get butterflies Water in my eyes 'cause I'm fragile when I hear your name Fragile when you call This could be the nearest thing to love And I'm fragile when I hear you speak Fragile feeling small This could be the closest thing to love Shake and sweat, wipe my brow Scared of what's to come Lie awake, toss and turn Am I the only one But I get butterflies Water in my eyes 'cause I'm fragile when I hear your name Fragile when you call This could be the nearest thing to love And I'm fragile when I hear you speak Fragile feeling small This could be the closest thing to love But I get butterflies Water in my eyes When I think of you I could break in two 'cause I'm fragile when I hear your name Fragile when you call This could be the nearest thing to love And I'm fragile when I hear you speak Fragile feeling small This could be the closest thing to love |