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Postkarte aus Tarragona	By : runningnakedinthepark Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 1740 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Rammstein. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Title: Postkarte aus Tarragona (5/9)
Author: Robby a.k.a. Mr Naked
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Surprise
Disclaimer: Never happened
Beta: flowers, candies and thank yous go to hannelore_k
Author's note: mentions of songs by Tool, Emigrate, Nine Inch Nails, John Lennon, Puscifer, U2, Saul Williams, Chris Isaak and Deftones.

I stick my hand into this shadow, to pull the pieces from the sand...

I tilted my head to look toward the skies – my glance met the carved in stone face of a woman, skillfully sculpted, a long dress draped around her body. She was looking down at me, watching as I walked near the warm-brown painted wall of the house on the roof of which she was standing.

Yes, I thought, I could stay here for a while, or forever, if they couldn’t find me. I could remain in this little paradise, glittering in the sun, under the spotless blue sky, with all its shadows turned into statues and bricks in walls dating from the Roman empire. Screw the banks and the telephones! A place so far away and so ancient, even its ghosts had died.

I remembered how we were in all those crowded, small and smelly hotel rooms. Endless hours on the road, having to put up with each other’s antics. That cold, oh, that God damn cold in Sweden when we went to record that first album. And always I was obsessing, always, their looks upon me, forcing that thought inside me: were we doing the right thing? What were we in the end? A bunch of clowns, gypsies with the caravan.

Of course they wouldn't accuse me of anything. They were there because they wanted to be there. And Till, with whom I shared the apartment in the beginning. Both of us retreated there to lick our wounds. We couldn't find comfort in each other's arms, but so often sex ruins things. So it was better that way.

Broken hearted. Instead of finding comfort in each other's arms, we used needles and strings to sew up our bleeding wounds. And even if sometimes the blood would still burst or at least pour lazily through the knots of the string, there was healing. The blood would coagulate, and under that crust new tissue was forming.

And even if later some tried to hit that spot again, to open old wounds or to create new ones, the scar tissue was strong, not breaking.

But he had Christoph. Of course only I knew. Thus, when we went to the States, Christoph remained home. Till wasn't hiding from me, of course, but Olli came along with us.

Remember I'll always love you...

I walked back to my square shaped tower. On the other side it had modern, metal stairs and a statue. A life-sized statue of a man in a toga, facing the sea afar. That blue-green strip, a million silver stars sparkling on its silky surface, in the sun.

“What a crappy job. To stand like that, all the birds shit on your head...”

But the Roman guy, whomever he might have been, didn't care about my bitter, mocking thoughts toward him.

I wouldn't turn into stone. I would remain still, frozen in time, as vines and other plants with long, crawling branches would cover my body, bit by bit, claiming it, setting their roots in the cracks of my bones, and first blossoming leaves would take cover in my eye sockets. And I wouldn't haunt the Earth, nor I would climb the skies to claim my place in the Heavens, whether I deserved it or not. I would remain here, covered by flexible, yet sturdy branches, and green, fleshy leaves.

Christoph stayed home, and so did she. I didn't spot her purple skirt waving like wings of a butterfly, nor her orange umbrella in the New World. And, connected to that or not, I also knew that this was my world too.

While there, I also pushed Till away. And I told him. I told him because it burned me, I had to get out of my system.

“I want Christoph.”

“What do you need him for?”

Till didn't even turn his head to look at me through those sunglasses he was wearing. Don't know if he thought he was cool with those, or he wanted to mask his hangover.

“I want to do him.”

Till didn't answer. He continued to look afar, only the reddish clouds, the palms trees, and one tall glass covered building reflected in the corner of one of the lenses of his sunglasses.

But we didn't talk about that at all while we were there. Until...

I was walking through that passage to the door of the airplane, my eyes looking down at the gray flooring resembling a carpet. We were heading back home. This hand grabbed the back of my neck and squeezed gently, keeping me from turning and hitting the bastard in the face.

“Christoph is not for share,” he poured his rough whisper into my ear. And then he walked by me, to be greeted with a smile by the flight attendants. He smiled back and waved toward them, once again in this damn airport, his passport.

I followed; the flight attendant smiled at me, but, meeting my glance, her smile was like a bird hitting its whole body into a window, because it wouldn't realize that it can't fly through the glass barrier. I still was baring the sensation of Till's warm, not shaved for few days face skin on my cheek, that soft, warm pressure.

It wasn't an interdiction. It was a threat.

Across the skies I left behind...

There were Roman ruins – those walls, made of big yellowish bricks. Steps, arches, towers. Then the medieval houses, painted in warm colors, with decorations, statues, balconies with metal bars, and plants in flower pots. The streets sneaking between the houses, so incredibly clean, made of shiny gray tiles.

Why did I land in this place anyway? It didn't make any sense. If it were to mean something, it should have been further south, in Andalusia. But this town?

America... Outside is America...

They went with me there more out of curiosity. They visited, admired and went back home. I wanted to stay there, because that place felt like home. After getting tired of explaining, I just gave up. But what bothered me was that he, Till, my best friend - the one who was supposed to understand all the subtleties - well, he didn't. But it wasn't that he didn't. It was that feeling I was getting that he made the conscious choice to refuse to understand. And that he was thinking less of me, because I loved that place where everything was on a huge scale, on abundance, and most Western Europeans weren't impressed by it; they even resented it.

I loved that place before everything else, since the days it was some sort of paradise of the free, the promised land I could snatch glimpses of on my TV. And through the music. The fact that I knew that such a place existed gave me a sense, something to look forward to, in those times when that country I was born in still existed. I knew that I was to go straight to that place the moment I could find a breech through that system. Not only were they doing their best to prevent anyone from escaping, in that last year they enhanced their efforts to stop us. Yet, many of us, including me, managed to run away.

Then, when all it was over, I came back.

My withered eye...

Did I come back for him? Or for both of them? Was I sorry that I left them there? Or was it just that I could no longer stand knowing that I didn’t have any chance?

I wasn't thinking like that then. I had new plans - sets and sets of plans - for me, him, them... The door had opened wide for the people in this part of Europe. Hope was the general mood. Hope, while thinking of all those grand and beautiful things we were to build. Hope! And they were just as contaminated with it, so they'd agreed.

Jason was to start searching for the golden fleece. He was building his ship, and he was setting up his crew. Hope was smiling on everyone's lips.

For a while it felt as if my home was there, again.

Chasing the tail of darkness...

And where was Christoph in all that? Where was Christoph when Till was messing around with women? Where was Christoph when Till got married and then divorced? Where was Christoph when I got involved with that woman?

He was there in the background, of course, living his own life.

I could never understand how some could live on and off with someone. I just wanted him all for myself. Not to share. Not a one night stand. Not five months of non-stop loving, and then a halt of all that, a break while messing around with someone else. Why re-visit old wounds and pick on the scabs?

I did that too. I used to do it.

Yeah, love! When do we realize more that we are in love? When the thorn of jealousy punctures our hearts? Why is it that with love it can be about either pain, or pleasure? Love is extreme, there's no moderation. Was I in love with Christoph, or was it again just that chemical mix in my brain that made him the object of my desire?

For the old Romans, love - as well as anger - was some sort of madness. Yes, the old Romans. Those that conquered and built and lived in these towers and amphitheaters in this town on the Mediterranean coast. This town I now found myself thrown into, one sunny morning. And because of this madness I refused it, I refused to fall back in love with anyone, because I've been there. I know what it means. I'm bearing this old wound. The scars. And the signs left by the thorn in my heart. The feelings that rush up into your soul, like hurricanes, ravishing everything inside you, all your senses, and then just disappear. One minute heaven, one minute hell. Oh, all those doubts, all those feelings as if you're on the top of the world, all those insecurities, and, yes, that pain, that pain as if someone, something, this wild animal, bites your heart and tears the flesh open. So, I refused it.

In the same time, I needed all that. The pains. The glimpses of happiness. The doubts. The high. All these feed my creativity. They give me that something from which all the ideas pour endlessly. So, as fast as I refused it, I also ran toward it.

This is what they choose...

“Are you sure you don't just want to get over Christoph?”

Till liked to twist the blade into your wounds. Sick of all that had been happening lately, I was thinking of a way out. I was drowning. And she was like that providential hand reaching out to rescue me.

She was like my escape door when things got too messy. It wasn't something conscious. But even if they didn't show it quite clearly, I could read in them the surprise of learning about me getting married to that woman that I had just met. Back then, what I was conscious of was the love.

But I didn't say “that’s it, I'm a straight man from now on!”

Get out of my life tonight...

I suppressed that emerging feeling of pride and accomplishment that tried to overwhelm me as I was thinking that. But, hell, yes, I had the guts to admit to myself what I really was into.

I was so different from all of them. Sometimes differences hurt. They cause pain. But generally, being different is a good thing. Until you realize that your band mates aren't into working so much that their work becomes their life. Different priorities. Different perspectives over life itself. The pain lasted until I realized I couldn’t make them be like me.

I lit a cig, dragged the first smoke and expired it as I was looking at the bright golden patches of light the sun’s rays were drawing on the walls of the buildings aligned along the road. I had this pressure over my temples, it felt as if these giants of stone were surrounding me, crushing me between their bodies. I needed to breathe. I wanted the open space of the sea. I felt cold standing in the shadows cast by those houses. I wanted to go to a place to be only with myself. Quiet.

Ah, fuck them!

I looked for a way to get out from there.

To be continued...
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Postkarte aus Tarragona