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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.

Chapter List
- 5
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Title: Postkarte aus Tarragona (6/9)
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.

The role of darkness is not to be seen...

I finally found a street bathed by the warm and joyful rays of the sun. I just started to walk slowly along it, not even caring where it would take me. I just kept walking like a man that just got out of the house after a long sickness. Even the colorful facades of medieval houses seemed to be smiling as they enjoyed the warmth of the sun.

I never liked to cut off all the connections, definitely. I never liked to completely cut off all the connections. I never could do that. I...

It looked like an entry gate to a park or rather a courtyard. It had nicely trimmed tall trees, flowers and these huge, thick walls made of sturdy gray blocks of stone. Defense walls. I went through the gate and started to walk along the lane.

I took refuge in that city of the New World, but I brought him with me there too. I carried him in my heart across the ocean, across continents. I brought with me in my luggage that longing for him. From time to time glimpses of how I could have been crossed my mind, regardless of what I was doing in that moment. And I would freeze. I used to freeze, my mind still chewing on the memory of that passing image, followed by that suite of feelings and sensations, like the tail of a comet.

Short circuit in my mind. My fingers sneaking between his thighs – warm flesh, smooth skin embracing my hand. Next – I was clenching my fist to tell myself that it was just a sensation. Just my mind. Like that purple-orange butterfly I spotted again, in another glimpse, on the streets of the old city in the Old World. It was the end of summer, beginning of autumn, streets were covered by bright, bronze colored carpets of dead leaves. Streets were sided by these trees that resembled flames – golden flames displaying all the possible shades of this color. I thought it was just another leaf falling to the ground. But in the next instant I knew it was her.

She was still there, walking on the boulevard decorated by the autumn, with her purple dress waving over the silk of her thighs, with that bright orange umbrella. After I’d left this world and been for a while in my newly found home – finally home, mine, just my home, for me – I came back. And there I spotted her. Did she wait for me, here, hidden among the shadows of the dawns and the sunset? I didn't take her with me. I took him. I crossed the ocean to encounter these glimpses. His cheek resting against mine, a thin film of sweat between the skin of my face and his, his head tilted back, his mouth slightly opened, suppressed, guttural moans slithering from his throat. His eyes closed, lost in his own dark circle of pleasure. Please, say my name. Please, whisper it. Moan.

Of course my wife wasn't a replacement for him! She wasn't any kind of replacement.

Shadows had been my spotlight...

The ancient walls I was walking on were built on a hill. I could see the city and the mountains afar. The incredibly tall trees were rocked gently by the wind. On my right, the old town, on the left, the new one. Between them, the rusty cannons, the palm trees, trees and flowers. An ancient Roman fountain and a statue. And quiet. So quiet.

Above, only sky.

I always had this obsessive image of the way his t-shirt was rubbing against his nipples when he moved or even breathed. And I always wanted to touch. To touch him. There's a ghost hiding in my shadow. He was the ghost, and I hid it there for fear not that someone would find out – him! Oh my God, not him! How I loved-hated the idea of him knowing of me! - no, but for fear that someone might steal from me even that. Someone. A person, God or life itself. Oh, how envious of us are the gods! Fucking perverts, sitting up there on their asses and spying and peeping at each move we make.

Did his love end with you, Till?

That's what I wanted to know. How could he not see? I was sure he saw, but he preferred to pretend that he didn't.

And when I saw her, his future wife, I froze again. I couldn't even hate her. Her smile matched his. The glitter in her eyes when she smiled matched his. That small being, in that tiny and gracious body, so delicate and fragile, held so much strength. I turned my head.

How can you compete with that?

The future sells silence...

Those voices, those people, telling me I'm screwed up in my head. I am... I smile to all these people I call friends. It's like sinking into a sea of oblivion, getting your mind focused into all those minor things and nuances of day to day human interaction. Let's have a band. Let's clean our souls of all the debris of the pains endured, let's put it all in songs. Wrap your grunt of suffering in notes and sounds. Then say “This is me!”.

Well, it was me.

Another cig, another first smoke tickling my lungs, another long exhale. I hated quietness. Happiness. Comfort.

Maybe if I’d gone back to the beach, to lay on the sand and close my eyes, let my face be caressed by the voluptuous, warm rays of the sun, I would have fallen asleep and then woken up from that dream.

It was a dream, wasn't it?

My soul tattooed on my tongue...

Short circuit. I didn't only want to touch. I wanted to kiss. I wanted to taste his skin. Did I even ask Till how he tasted? Did he tell me that, too, during all those stories he told? Short circuit. My thigh squeezed by his thighs, thin film of sweat between his skin and mine, the slow movements as he was rubbing himself against my leg. Short circuit.

Of course she couldn't stay with someone like me. Of course she hurt and she cried and she ached, she got pissed off, she yelled, she packed bags, she yelled again, get the fuck out!, get the fuck out! - YOU. GET. THE. FUCK. OUT. OF. MY. LIFE. NOW.

I didn't, completely. We still talk. We're still friends, aren’t we? We live in the same city. That's dumb. But yes, we're still friends.

Sometimes the soul in you freezes.

And I was thinking - as I felt as if this huge storm was rushing immense waves over me to crush me, to drown me - I was thinking, that in the end, what does one remain with after a lifetime?

I had my only comfort. Because it was comfort for me. Everything else around betrays you. Things go away, things get lost, things die, but this was the only thing that I was sure of, any time, any day. The only thing I could trust. My music.

Shake your head and say “You're screwed up in the head, boy!”

I threw a fleeting look over that wall. Under those rooftops, all the old houses crowded there, there was life. Palpitating. Moving. Busy. And then there were the streets down below, at the feet of those buildings. When you immerse yourself in the life flowing at the feet of incredibly tall buildings, you lose track of yourself. Demons have a difficult time finding you there.

Cities with tall buildings; sky-scrapers push the firmament upwards, further and further off the ground. Gods can hardly see you there, now. Demons, the same. And the space remains void, we fill it with lights, noise, our own feelings and words and creations. Clouds are so far away, it's so hard to even spot them.

But there, along that ancient wall of immense dark gray stone cubes, near those rusty cannons, on that bench, in the shade of a palm tree - there the sky was blue, endlessly blue. Just a few hints of white, like traces of clouds.

I could have stretched out my hand and touch them.

Wait beside you in time...

And he was around me for so long. His voice. The warmth I felt on my skin when he was present, so very near me.

“You know it won't last. He can't replace a man with a woman.”

Till's right eyebrow rose a bit.

“Don't!” He said on a dry but calm tone.

“Did he do it to replace you?”

Till turned his head, not wanting to face me. I knew I had hit the right spot. Why wouldn't he tell me? He told me all those details, absolutely all the details about the way he sounded, the way he smelled, what he liked, what he didn't, when, what, how, where – but he didn't want to tell me why it all ended.

So, it must have been Till's fault.

Scraping through my head...

What other way to make yourself deaf to the demons yapping inside your skull, what better way exists than to make and play loud music?

I was tempted to run after my purple and orange apparition. Maybe if I would have done that, I would have gone to the place I was seeing it and it would have disappeared for good. But then I realized that I didn't want that. Among those dark, quivering shadows, ghosts, she was...

“You are losing it!”

I was having this tingling sensation of expectancy, waiting to feel the warmth, the sturdiness of the flesh on his palm, in the same time with that rugged smoothness of the skin. Why didn’t he want me?

Each thought, each question was a heavy, iron chain wrapping around me, tying me, squeezing my flesh, cutting my skin with the pressure.

I looked again at the sky. The thoughts were so loud in my head, I wondered whether I was speaking out loud, speaking to myself, like a lunatic.

I looked down to the entry gate, this whole place was really fortified, ready to defend the town from any invaders. Near the old, rusted canon, the orange flag with the red waves. National pride! We divide ourselves into countries, towns, categories, tribes, groups, and then we want to belong. I hated belonging. I've always been the visitor, the outsider. Somewhere, nearby, I could hear bells tolling. The echoes of those massive reverberations were filling this immense dome with its blue, endless ceiling. If I would have stood up on the bench, I could have touched it. And maybe even grasped a handful of those echoes.

I smiled to myself and I continued my walk. But the old walls would end soon, after the rows with canons, after the square defense towers, and so I had to return. Instead of ghosts crawling through the lines between the massive brick walls, there were just pigeons nesting up there. Only those trees, straight, green silhouettes, were taller than the wall on my side. And they looked as if they were the pillars sustaining the blue dome of the sky above us.

To be continued...
- 5
- 6
- 7
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Postkarte aus Tarragona