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Silence	By : kimbk Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 1903 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not know any members of Rammstein. This is purely a work of fiction: it does not intend to reflect any aspect of the members' lives and I do not make any profit from this work.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
Author's Note: Oh my God what the hell happened to the site? One hell of a shock it was trying to figure out what happened. Although, never mind that, the seventh and third-to-last chapter of 'Silence' is up!
The pacing is considerably faster in this one. It might be because it's (along with the sixth) one of the earliest chapters to be written and pacing was pretty different back when I thought this would be a four-parter. Lots of things come to a head here, and while I can't spoil... well, I don't if this chapter is darker than the previous one, I don't think it's as bleak for one, but it is quite heavy. Any anger/medical deduction/complaints about pacing/suggestions for future chapters will be accepted after what I've done is all I can say. xDD
You've probably picked up that with each chapter, I've mostly kept to the chronological order of albums when it came to the quotes used in each title. Ch. 1 uses a quote from 'Seemann' in 'Herzeleid', Ch. 2 uses 'Bestrafe Mich' from 'Sehnsucht', Ch. 3 uses 'Sonne' from 'Mutter', Ch. 5 and 6 use 'Morgenstern' and 'Keine Lust' respectively from 'Reise, Reise'. Ch. 4 is an odd one out as it uses 'Let Me Break' from Emigrate's titular album. I did this to try to invoke the sense of time passage. And of course all quotes, in the title and in the chapters themselves, are relevant to the situation presented in each chapter along with Richard and/or Till's thoughts, even though they might not be immediately obvious! The meanings of the full songs are less relevant, though; for example, 'Bestrafe Mich' in its full glory is about the interaction of God and man shown through a rather S&M viewpoint, and of course none of that actually happens in chapter 2! Perhaps I will write something about this one day, but not here.
This chapter's title comes from 'Feuer und Wasser' from 'Rosenrot'; this one is a little different because people might not feel this way, but I believe that 'Rosenrot' is a beautifully sad album overall. Their weakest, but at the same time their deepest. The full line is 'Sie wird sich nicht an mich verschwenden... Ich weiß' ('She won't waste herself on me... I know'); it makes the entire album for me because of the sheer emotion and almost tangible pain that Till conveys when he sings the last two words, so that's why I chose them. It's more the sheer emotion than the words or meaning, I think. It's also a song about the pain of unrequited love. Take from that what you will.
-------------------------
Till carries on not talking while the rest of the band carry on practicing their instruments. There are no vocals provided to balance them out, but they can at least try to improve their skills while they're at it. Might as well; they're all resigned to the thought that Till isn't going to come around until after the concert, although they don't say it out loud. They've trusted the older man far too long for that, and this courtesy is the least they can give him at this state. At least it's just the rehearsal and it's also a Sunday, so only about half of the crew will turn up - it's not going to be a huge-scale disaster.
It's the day before the rehearsal is due to take place; the clock is showing seven-fifty in the evening and Till has locked himself back in his room for an early night. They all know that he'll be out and about in the odd hours of the morning, though, getting some sustenance and maybe having a drink or two. Out of concern for his privacy, they don't want to intervene, but at the same time they want to make it easier on him as well. The thought of Till cooking something in his painful solitude, in the middle of the night with only darkness and silence for company, is too melancholy a thought for them. Paul volunteers giving the man a bottle of good wine, Olli agrees, and they leave together to buy a few things so that they can provide Till and themselves with a hearty meal. They all need it.
"I'll make dessert," Flake says as he rises and heads to the kitchen. "I haven't baked in a while, but he could probably do with a bit of cake. Everyone likes cake. Win-win situation there."
"I want to help," Schneider volunteers immediately, springing to his feet and rolling up his sleeves, a determined light in his eyes. He's still beating himself up for Till's condition, and Richard can see that he'll gladly jump at any potential chance to make things a little better for the singer. "the poor bastard's been through enough..."
"Sure you can. What should we make, though? I'm thinking of a Black Forest Cake myself - is that his favourite? I know someone in the band loves it best."
The drummer shakes his head. "No, not for Till. I'm sure that's Risch's favourite," he turns to Richard. "is that right?"
"Oh yeah. I like the cherries."
"There you go. I think Till's favourite is Prinzregententorte."
Flake nods at them both gratefully. "Well, that certainly clears things up. Danke. Though I must say, that's very specific knowledge you have there, Doom..."
"It's the only cake he wants to buy whenever we're around Bavaria. And when we're not in Bavaria, he goes around looking for similar things too. Seen him doing that for years," this makes sense, Schneider has a quite prolific sweet tooth and often does follow Till in their occasional excursions for cakes. "and really, I don't think he would have minded the Black Forest Cake... Remember making that with Paul years ago?"
"Oh yes," for the first time in ages, Flake manages a surprisingly fond smile at the memory. "I'd nearly forgotten. Probably the most important cake I made in my life until this point and I barely even got to finish it..."
Richard doesn't know what to contribute to this assemblage. He sits by the kitchen table, contemplating his options - he'd quite like to write Till a letter, but he isn't sure if he'll do it well. He's got no desire to write huge incoherent paragraphs or just make do with a few lines, and isn't sure how to achieve a middle ground between that. He was never good with letters, that was always Till's field. Everyone else is giving Till food or drink though and he wants to make his contribution a little more personal. Finally he goes for the simplest and the most direct option that he can think of: he goes to his room, fetches his CD player, and puts a CD compilation of mariachi music in there that he places on the tray. Till's preferred warm-up routine for every concert or rehearsal includes him putting on about an hour or so's worth of mariachi music while he's getting ready, he's been doing that for quite some years now, and he's sure that the man will understand the underlying message: I believe in you. Go get 'em.
Two hours after they put the tray in front of Till's door and walk away, Flake sneaks back to look and reports back that it's not there anymore, that Till must have carried the tray back inside. Richard nods and hopes that his message was received; he leans back with his guitar in hand, strumming quietly as a last-minute additional practice session.
"... Open surfaces," he closes his eyes and remembers Till saying a long while back. "that's why I love Hispanic culture... the warm-blooded rhythms that you can dance to, you know? And the women..."
Don't think about that now, Richard tells himself, and focuses on remembering their warm-up sessions. There have been so many of them that they're all just kind of merging together into one, but if those moments in life had a stock soundtrack, both he and Till (and only the two of them) would immediately understand it as mariachi.
Yes, he remembers.
-----
Till makes one more request just before the rehearsal, which is a plea for them to keep silent about his condition to the management and the concert crew; they simply nod and do as he asks, keeping their intense feeling of dread to themselves. All six of them are thus quiet and unusually nervous when they get on the bus to the rehearsal studio, prompting some of the roadies to comment on it. Till spends the entire time in his cubicle, but leaves it immediately when the bus stops and exits first, his expression calm and collected - but as reassuring as this is to the crew, it doesn't settle any of the other five's minds.
They set up their instruments within the studio and get to tuning in silence; without their usual chatter, it takes much less time than it normally does, but they make the warm-up session last as long as possible while the singer's getting ready in another room. They're trying not to give Till away for as long as they can, they know to do that much without the need to discuss it. (Richard will realize that they were doing this subconsciously much later on in the day, heightening his opinion of the band by a significant margin.) Paul does a voice check on all the mics so that Till won't have to, noting that they're all working fine - this would be good any other day, mic failures during rehearsals are not an unknown thing, but it's all just leading up to the inevitable reveal. Richard is reminded of one line from their songs that sums their situation up perfectly and almost laughs at the sheer irony of it.
('Weiter, weiter ins Verderben!')
He sometimes swears that Till is a prophet, except that this really shouldn't be at all funny or even happening, for that matter.
The singer comes in and takes up his position almost as if on cue when they're all satisfied that their instruments are tuned. He turns to the rest of the band and nods once, indicating that they should start with the first song in their planned setlist. Schneider hesitates for a second, looking very ill at ease, but reluctantly launches into the intro and lets the others follow his head.
In the increasing tension, Till stays absolutely still, not even moving to adjust the mic, his eyes closed in rapt attention. The instrumental opening is over and he opens his mouth -
"... Kann... man... Herzen brechen...?"
- and begins singing. his voice as deep, gorgeous and clear as if he did not spend the entire week and a half in pure silence.
To say that the others are shocked would be an understatement. The instant the first word leaves Till's lips, Schneider stops playing and stares incredulously at him, and neither Paul nor Richard get past two chords. Olli and Flake don't appear to notice for a moment and keep playing the accompaniment for a few bars, the older man singing along smoothly, before they realize that they're the only ones playing and that Till has actually started singing (in that order) and stop completely.
"Till...!"
The singer gives them with an odd look, gesturing with his head for them to keep on playing. Stunned, they hastily obey him and soon they're belting out 'Links 2, 3, 4' with passion and insanity bridled into one, just the way they like it whenever they perform that piece. That song segues to 'Sonne' as smoothly as ever, and whilst the band is all amazed at how well Till is keeping up - in fact it's beyond just keeping up, he's leading them better than ever with his voice - they don't question it yet. Something quite out of the ordinary is taking place and they're not about to ruin it by demanding that the man explain. The roadies and the rest of the crew watch on, pleased with the performance, unaware of what Till's been like for the past week. Except for that hiccup at the start, everything has been in order - and such incidents aren't uncommon during their rehearsals anyway, so this is simply another day to them. That's how it ought to be,
After an hour and half, the rehearsal is finally over and the band members take Till aside, their faces still full of awe and shock. "However did you do that, Till," Paul yells, slapping him on the shoulder. "did you recover overnight or something? Will you be able to manage the concert?"
Till nods; he looks very tired, but there is a slightly satisfied glow about him nonetheless.
"Can you talk to us now?"
But his reply is not the nod or the 'yes' that they've all been expecting. The older man opens his mouth, closes it again, and quietly excuses himself outside where he gets on the bus and into his own cubicle. Flake follows and tries knocking on the door but there is no reply; not even the sound of shuffling can be heard inside.
"Any luck?" Richard asks anxiously when Flake comes back outside. The latter shakes his head and adjusts his glasses.
"We have to take him to the doctor," he says.
"It's a Sunday."
"First thing tomorrow. Let's call up. Faux pas be damned."
-----
They let Till go to bed when they get back, acknowledging that the man is quite likely exhausted, and discuss things over some dinner. It's a good thing that they know this particular doctor personally and he's a very understanding one; he has prioritized Till's case for Monday morning. With the kinds of things they get up to onstage and offstage, someone like that at hand is a blessing - he doesn't even blink anymore when he sees them with burns or cuts gained from their antics. But that day's events are something to ponder on, for sure. If it was never a problem with his vocal cords to begin with, then what problem could be so great that it's shut Till Lindemann away from the world? This is beyond just a self-loathing phase from him. But he did sing through the entire songlist, that's an irrefutable fact, and his voice hasn't degraded in the slightest.
The discussion that night reaches such heights that the band members wonder by the end of it whether they were just collectively hallucinating the past two weeks. What aspect of that period exactly they were imagining, though, is debatable - Till losing his voice, or regaining it? "Maybe he didn't like the cake and just wanted to let us know?" Paul states helplessly and Richard isn't sure whether he wants to punch the man in the face or burst out laughing so he just shrugs and carries on trying to solve this mystery. This chain of thought is broken the very next day when they do another rehearsal (after the visit to the doctor), and Till again manages to perform admirably whilst still not saying a single word to any of the roadies or his bandmates. Most definitely not paralysis. But at the same time, it seems absurdly clear that the man isn't purposefully withholding speech from them, either - under persuasion that day, he does try to talk, and it becomes obvious enough soon afterwards that he still genuinely can't. Flake gently coaxes the man to try singing as well, but even that ability seems to disappear once he gets off stage. Considering Till's general phobia of performing, this is one development that nobody can get their heads around. Two days left before the concert, and while they are immeasurably relieved that the singer will be able to perform, their concern has only deepened in all other aspects.
Till Lindemann has been silent for fourteen days as of 4th February 2008, Monday afternoon.
Well, that's not entirely true. But Richard doesn't know how else to word it, when singing has been the only thing Till's done so far to demonstrate that he's not gone completely mute altogether. None of the band members have been spoken to, and if anything he'd even say that Till is even less communicative than before. He now uses small gestures and increasingly-laconic written phrases to talk to someone, and it's rare that he even resorts to those at all. Till makes his presence known by simply being there, listening and watching. It's very bizarre for sure.
"Let's think in practical terms," Olli says. "at least we didn't have to cancel anything. We can relax after this... give him enough time to recover properly. There's our doctor too. So really, there's nothing to worry about - let's just get this over and done with."
And the bassist being the logical and sensible person he is, he is right; the concert itself goes off smoothly. Dressed in his grenadier-style uniform and with dark makeup highlighting his eyelashes and his lips, along with having become a little thinner and paler during those two weeks, Till actually strikes a beautifully menacing figure reminiscent of their 'Reise, Reise' tour days when he gets on stage. Richard's breath catches in his throat when he sees the singer take his position near the mic, fiddling with it lightly to position it closer to his mouth; if not for the fact that he's seen the man in his severely depressed state for the past two weeks, he'd be utterly mesmerized and utterly fooled by the masculine charm that Till suddenly appears to be exuding. (He's never quite realized how handsome Till can be with black lipstick on, as weird as that sounds.) The audience certainly buys it, for sure. As he sings his way flawlessly through their many songs, Richard sees that everyone else in the band is just as nervous as he, waiting for the potential moment where they might slip up or Till might suddenly lose his voice again. Paul's shoulders are very tense for one, and he's not fooling around onstage as he usually does. Richard himself is trying to play every note with the utmost precision, so focused that his fingers feel completely numb around the guitar pick within five songs. But the singer never falters, he looks out in the direction of the audience as his voice rises and falls to the music, holding out his arms as if to embrace the crowd, his eyes wide and almost childlike in their gaze. Their unified support and tension has actually invoked a sense of seriousness within them; when the final note is sung and they all bow in gratitude, the arena bursts into applause and euphoric screams of 'encore!'. The band is back, with the hardest and most resolute sound to date, promising great things for the future. Only the younger guitarist still sees that behind Till's smile lies that hollow, blank emptiness that still hasn't dissipated since the start of his downward spiral. He's still not looking properly at his adoring fans, singing only to the lights and to the night stars, still so far away in a world that transcends reality and Richard's worried gaze.
Rammstein are back on track again, but Till isn't.
-----
The pieces of the puzzle fall into place somewhat, a fortnight after the concert and a month after he stopped talking. One month, thirty days, the magic number; it's midafternoon and Richard is making a cup of coffee for himself, and just as he's feeling a curious sense of deja vu at this simple act, the door to the flat opens. Till is the first to charge through, leaving the guitarist to blink after him as he hurls himself into his room, slamming the door shut behind him.
"What the..."
Flake and Olli are next, both looking completely and utterly shattered. "Risch," Flake whispers as he collapses on the sofa. "Risch. Oh my God. I think we've fucked up big time."
"What's going on? What did the doctor say? It's not permanent?"
"It's not an issue of permanence," Olli says just as softly as he sits down next to the keyboardist. "I think things got clearer, what with Till not having talked for over a month now. There's not an official diagnosis at hand and we've not been given further instructions, but... the doctor thinks it might be selective mutism."
"What? Selective mutism? Are you for real?" Richard blurts out. "why in the name of - why to us and not when he's on stage? He hates being on stage! And I thought only children could...!"
"It's not just for children," Flake mutters. "and we can't... answer those questions. Not yet. What the hell am I even saying?" he shakes his head, distracted; the guitarist bites his lip in nervousness as he watches the scene. He hasn't seen Flake this disoriented in years. "I mean... well, he hasn't chosen to be mute, that's what I'm trying to convey to you. If it is selective mutism, some kind of event or series of events must have happened that triggered it, and he likely had no control over that. But once it's set in, apparently it can get stronger with will. And he's communicating less and less every day... you see where I'm going with this?"
Olli nods grimly. The guitarist stares at them, trying to digest this information. "You mean," he whispers, the words sounding heavy as they fall from his lips. "you mean... there might be a chance that he genuinely wants to be..."
"Maybe he's feeling as if he'll complicate personal matters by talking. Surely you've noticed that since Till lost his voice, we've been really holding back on the arguments. Till's gone mute, not deaf or blind, he must have seen it... and he's the lead vocals for the band, maybe he's mentally aspiring to be just that and nothing more..."
His coffee's going cold and his head is spinning. "But..." Richard shakes his head before sinking down on the table. "but... but that's insane," he whispers, clenching his eyes shut as he feels a migraine starting to form, rubbing at his temples to try to combat this situation. "are we saying that he's dehumanizing himself because life is too hard for him to go about? There's no way... no, I don't want to believe that, he's not even here in the room at the moment, stop speculating and just...!"
"Risch."
And then suddenly a pair of hands are holding him by the shoulders, another pair of arms grasping him gently around his torso and helping him sit down on the sofa. He raises his head to see that both Olli and Flake are looking at him worriedly.
"Risch. Calm down. It's bad enough that Till's not well."
"Ja. I didn't mean any offense, I honestly didn't. You are right, it is speculation and nothing more - Till's the only one even remotely close to knowing what's really going on, and even that's not a certainty. But it's not as if we can march in and ask, either, so I was just trying to think of possibilities."
The bassist's words come through, but Richard's confusion hasn't lessened any. He drops his arms and sinks into the sofa, staring blankly ahead as he tries to put those events in a logical sequence - Till losing his voice, partially regaining it after two weeks, and then possibly being diagnosed as a selective mute. But then, did he ever lose his ability to sing to begin with? They had never seen that one coming, but now that it's obvious that Till's speech and singing abilities are two distinctive things, that is a possibility also. And what about his creativity, which still hasn't come back, and his ever-decreasing communication with the outside world? It's far too confusing for Richard to even try to understand, and he lets out a pained groan with the effort, causing his two bandmates to lean in closer in their shared concern.
"I'm fine," he mumbles before they can ask. Neither seems convinced, so he changes the subject. "... who else knows?"
"We haven't told Paul or Doom yet. Not sure how to even start."
"... Doom's not going to take this well, is he?"
Olli actually shudders at the thought. "No. No, he isn't. And why would he, when none of us can? Till's taking it the worst of all."
Pause.
"Suppose that it actually is selective mutism," Richard says slowly, loathing even the sound of the phrase from his lips. "suppose that Till actually has that... how long is it going to last? How do we make it better?"
"It's hard to say. But if the core of the problem is resolved, he very well might recover gradually. As for how long it'll last... weeks, months, we don't know."
This doesn't bode well and he feels like he's suffocating. Richard rises to his feet shakily, the keyboardist supporting him as he gets up; blearily he stares at Flake, wondering when his resentment against the man dissolved into nothing and when he became someone that he could hold onto like this. "I need to get out," he says, his mouth feeling dry. "I... I need to get out of this flat for a while... have a think..."
"You do that," Flake tells him quietly, but his expression is firmly set. Only his painfully-tight grip on the younger man gives his own fear away. "you need it. But don't get drunk. I don't want you getting hurt because of Till, he can't help it, and you shouldn't beat up yourself because of this. If you get yourself intoxicated and headfirst into an accident I will never let either you or Till live it down. You understand that, right?"
Richard nods numbly and he lets go. "I've got to find Paul and Doom too, can't keep this a secret forever. Are you coming with me, Olli?"
The bassist shakes his head, looking almost on the verge of tears himself. "No, Flake. I can't leave Till alone. And I can't bear to see what those two are going to look like when we tell them. I'll stay here for the time being - that's not cowardly, right?"
"No," the guitarist says before Flake does. "no, it isn't."
With those words, he turns and all but runs out of the flat, not sure where he's going but simply needing to leave, to see the sunlight, to run as far as he can. February is more than halfway over, and more frost is melting off the trees day by day. Winter and its days of cold sunlight are nearly gone and spring is coming, but there are neither green leaves nor bloom on the trees yet, perhaps there never will be.
-----
And it's nearly eight in the evening when Richard comes back, breathless and nursing a stitch in his side from the sporadic bouts of running that he's done. His head is only a little bit clearer than before, and even that's simply in the sense that the shock's worn off. Olli greets him at the door and says that Flake hasn't returned, nor has he received any calls from any other members of the band - he looks surprisingly tired and still very upset, and for that moment looks everything like the youngest member of the band, stirring a sense of protectiveness and empathy in the guitarist's heart.
"I think I've changed my mind about not going out," Olli says hollowly, rubbing at his forehead. "I think I want to go out for a walk as well. And I should probably face up to it and go to find them, too, now that you're here. Keep the fort for me, Risch?"
"I will. Be safe, Olli."
When the door shuts, leaving Richard alone in the darkness, he switches a couple of lights in the flat on and sighs heavily. He hasn't eaten anything for a while - he should have asked Olli whether Till's had any meals, in retrospect, but it's a bit too late for that now. No reason why he can't ask the man himself, although Richard does hesitate (understandably so) when he glances towards Till's door. How's the older man coping? He's not sure if he wants to know. But his excursion into the outside world has calmed him down enough that he can at least try, so he walks up and knocks on the door.
"Till? It's me," pause. "I'll come in after ten seconds. If you don't want me inside... block the door, and I'll understand."
He waits politely for ten seconds before trying the handle. It opens smoothly and without barriers - he steps inside the room, which is vaguely lit with only a desk lamp. There's also another light there, flickering on and off, that he squints at as he steps inside, closing the door behind him. Till's lying on the bed, holding a lighter above himself and blankly staring at it as he flicks it on and off repeatedly. From the looks of it, he's been at this for a while - he doesn't even look away from what he's doing to acknowledge Richard.
"Stop that."
The man acts as if he didn't hear a thing and keeps going.
"If you drop that thing you might end up setting yourself or fire, and I'm certainly not going to stick up for you if that happens. Stop it!"
He didn't expect much, but Till actually looks away from the lighter to stare at him for a long moment; then without protest or even a hint of spite, he lowers his arm, shuts off the lighter and puts it on the chest of drawers, even pushing it away from him. Richard watches and finds himself shocked at two things: one, that he's actually gotten through to Till for the first time in ages, and two, that there is a long cut on the other's arm that certainly wasn't there that morning.
"Till," he gasps, and before the other can react, reaches out with both hands to grab the other's arm. Till looks down at himself and grimaces, trying to pull away, but winces soundlessly as the effort threatens to open up the cut again. Besides, Richard is holding him too securely. "Till... what happened to you?"
You're not showing his condition any respect if you phrase a question like that, you idiot, he chastises himself as the words leave his lips. Taking a deep breath, he scrutinizes the cut again - it's by the side of Till's wrist, quite shallow and there's just the one. But he can't think of anything that might have happened to the man during the whole day that might have left him with a mark like this, unless...
"Did you do this to yourself?"
Till doesn't nod or shake his head to this. What he does provides no answers at all, but succeeds in disturbing the younger man regardless - he gives him a long unreadable look before his body suddenly goes lax and he resumes staring blankly up at the ceiling again. It's as if he doesn't even care anymore, and the possibility that Till really has done it to himself - and that he'd do it again in a heartbeat because of how little he actually cares - angers and terrifies the guitarist to such an extent that he can barely hold onto the other's arms because his own hands are shaking too badly.
"Did you clean yourself up?" Richard demands, forcing himself to adopt a calm tone of voice; after all, his first concern is getting his friend all patched up. Till looks straight up at the ceiling as if he didn't hear anything, his face completely and uncannily devoid of expression. "... well, it can't hurt to do it again."
He looks at the chest of drawers; a tube of antiseptic cream is sitting on top of it, and he takes it, screwing the lid open and peering at it. Knowing that Till won't resist him, he rolls the older man on his back and grasps his arm, massaging the cream gently into the cut. Till doesn't even flinch; Richard works without uttering a single word, not trusting himself to say the right thing. But the tension is getting to him in too many ways for him to handle - he might be causing Till pain, and the lack of any reaction makes him more nervous. And then there's also the simpler fact that he's touching the older man and feeling the bulge of his muscles and his human warmth beneath his fingertips, the sensation awakening his desires and bringing with it yet another flood of self-hatred that he simply can't seem to rise above such lowly thoughts as he pulls away and turns around to put the antiseptic cream back in the drawer-
"Why do you have to scare me," Richard cries, almost on the verge of shouting at Till proper. His fists clench around the edge of the drawers, and he actively has to fight to stop himself lashing out physically at the older man, keeping his back turned to him to prevent such a scenario from occurring. "why? Why do you have to make me terrified for you all the damn time?"
He doesn't dare to look at Till. The terror courses through his entire being once more before fading into nothingness, and he bites down hard on his lower lip, trying to avoid another outburst. "I don't like seeing you hurt," he says. "and suffering in its many forms is all you've gotten out of life in recent times. Why the hell would you want to add onto it? It wasn't you though... right? I - I don't even know what to say. I can't handle this. I want to hear you, I want you to tell me it's going to be okay, I wish you'd just hit me over the head and tell me that it's just a scratch or something, but... you can't speak-"
A hefty, uncomfortable silence settles over them. Richard exhales slowly, covering his face with both hands. "Sorry," he whispers. "I didn't mean to sound angry. I'm... Jesus, I'm so freaked out right now. I think this tops everything I've freaked out over in the past years. Your diagnosis... and that cut there... I don't know what to think. I don't want to believe any of this-"
Richard doesn't get to finish this sentence, which is probably a blessing; Till's hand closes around his shoulder and forces him to turn around. Their gaze locks in midair, the guitarist's blue eyes meeting the other's green ones, and he's left startled and a little breathless at how suddenly emotional Till looks. The older man's eyes are wide and filled with an almost innocent, apologetically wounded look, and that look alone speaks so much of his feelings - he could stare into them forever, but Richard brings himself back down to earth when the realization dawns upon him that Till might be trying to ask for something.
"... Hmm?"
Till gestures with his head towards the dresser. Richard walks back over, immediately spotting the notepad and pen and assuming that that's what the older man needs. He's proven correct when he holds them up and the singer reaches out a hand for them. "What do you want to say?"
Without taking his eyes off Richard, the man sits up on the bed and scribbles down something on the pad while holding it so the guitarist can see what's being written.
Thank you. For everything.
Till pauses for a moment before writing the next line; and only then does his gaze fall onto the notepad.
I'm sorry. All I do is mess everything up for you.
Richard suddenly feels a lump arise in his throat; it's upsetting to see Till in such a state of self-deprecation, but even more troubling is the fact that while he wants to deny it with all his heart - no, Till, what are you saying, of course you don't mess up everything in my life, get a hold on yourself - the words won't come. And even if they did, they would be nothing but empty consolations, words without true weight attached to them, and that's not what Till needs right now. Richard swallows hard to get rid of the feeling and sits down cross-legged on the bed, facing the singer.
"Look at me."
Till's eyes flicker upwards, but he doesn't raise his head. Richard reaches out with one hand, gently lifting the other's chin up so their eyes are locked with one another. Without breaking their gaze, he then moves his hand downwards to rest ever so gently on Till's chest.
"You're still alive, Till," he whispers, pressing his hand onto the warmth, wishing that he could delve into the layers beneath and touch his bare skin. He picks up the singer's right hand and presses it onto his own chest, hoping that he'll reciprocate the gesture. "see? Your heart's still beating. So is mine."
The older man carries on looking at him, but eventually his eyes move downwards over Richard's chest, his hand twitching lightly as he too presses his hand deeper.
"You can feel it, right?"
It seems like an age, but Till eventually nods slightly.
"I'm scared, Till," the guitarist says quietly, fighting to keep the tears back. "I'm scared. Because you're hurt and because you think you'll hurt me and the others by just existing. That's why mine's beating fast. Yours is too. But it's beating. So it doesn't matter that you think that you mess things up for me, Till. We're human. That's what we do. If..." Richard falters slightly before carrying on. "if... you really... did mess things up for me, all the time, then... I don't think I would still mind because it would make you who you are. And if you mean your voice, then I can wait. I've waited a month. I can wait longer. It's not that difficult, because I at least know that you can still sing, even if it's not to us. I knew you seven years before I even realized that you had the voice of an angel. So... so I can wait that long again, as long as it takes, until it comes back again and you can talk to us once more," he takes his hand off Till's chest, closing both his hands around his arm, hoping that the sound of his heartbeat is getting through. "and that is as long as you breathe in this world and your heart keeps beating."
Let him believe me, he pleads desperately to a God that he hasn't thought about and hasn't believed in for years. Please let him not think this is sentimental bullshit, Gott, please let him believe me, please let my message through. He briefly feels as if his heart is about to stop when Till pulls away, but the singer then grasps at his sleeve; Richard looks over to see that the older man's fumbling beneath his pillowcase. He soon produces the guitarist's CD player, with the earphones wrapped neatly around it and the CD inside. He hands it back to the younger man while making a motion for him to wait while he reaches again for the notepad and writes something down, now looking very tired.
It was one of the most beautiful gifts that you could have given me, he writes. Thank you.
Richard becomes immensely relieved but very sad upon reading this, and curses himself for being so emotional, letting Till's soul get to him in the most inconvenient times. He briefly ponders if he should tell Till to keep the CD player, but he doesn't want to ruin the gesture, and there's no practical reason for the older man to keep the mariachi music around when they aren't going to be performing anytime soon. So he takes it gratefully, letting their hands touch, lingering just a tiny bit longer than what would be normal before he pulls the blankets up.
"Sleep," he whispers in Till's ear. "you'll feel better soon."
Much to his relief, the older man obediently closes his eyes. Within seconds, his head lolls back on the pillows slightly and his breathing slows; he's not yet fully asleep though, his eyelids are flickering a little. Richard almost reaches out to embrace Till just before he falls asleep, but catches himself at the very last second. Till might not be comfortable with it, for one, and he's not sure whether he'd be making both of their lives any better by doing such a thing. And the fact that he can't even express such a basic form of affection to the older man anymore saddens him, especially seeing as there was once a time when they were more open and honest with one another. Even just a month ago he'd hugged Till - but with that memory comes the reminder that he hadn't actually returned Richard's embrace back then, and that it's not going to happen now.
I could hug you before, Richard thinks to himself. I'd hug you quite often, in fact. I even kissed you once, too. Do you remember, Till? Back when I asked you to join the band? Why is it that we were so much more intimate back then, when we didn't actually know quite as much about one another? Why then, and not now when I want to more than I've ever wanted to hold anyone else?
No answers come, and much to his chagrin, seeing the older man asleep makes him feel even worse. With that vaguely peaceful yet sorrowful look on his face, his long eyelashes casting a faint shadow over his closed eyelids, it's not helping in the slightest. Richard wonders how he's managed to stay close to someone who's caused him more pain than anything over all those years, then realizes that he could say the exact same for Till and his relationship to the guitarist itself. Hurting and being hurt continuously, lost in a vicious cycle of giving and receiving. Their shared purgatory. And looking down at Till, who looks so vulnerable and helpless in sleep, Richard finds himself closing his eyes in despair as a single tear rolls down his cheek and onto the other's bare wrist.
"See you in the morning," he manages to whisper before getting up and retreating back into his room, collapsing onto the bed; his vision is beginning to blur with tears that he's wanted to shed for all this time and never could. But he still has the sense to turn his body to face the door, because the thin wall works both ways, and curls up even further in bed so Till won't hear him if he starts sobbing and oh goddamn it.
-----
He doesn't even remember the last time that he cried this hard.
-----
Schneider doesn't take the news well, as expected. Paul doesn't either. But by the time everyone is informed, it simply becomes established that nobody's accepting the situation fully, and this means they refuse to acknowledge Till as a selective mute. "This doesn't change anything," Paul says decisively after his initial bout of shell-shockedness, casting a determined glance at Till's door. "Olli was right. He's our mute bastard, and even then I'd hesitate to call him mute."
"We can't force him to change - he doesn't need pity. Time is what he needs and we've got enough of it, more than enough. No one is to treat him or anyone else differently because of this."
So they just learn to live with Till's mutism, and stop fighting against it completely. This is precisely the cure that the man has been seeking, although none of them (not even Till himself) really know it. It certainly does take longer than a few days for the singer to recover, and when it happens it's fairly evened out and gradual. But he takes only weeks, at any rate, and his progress is surprisingly fast.
-----
The first member of Rammstein that Till finally breaks his silence to is Doom Schneider, about six weeks after the diagnosis. Even then it's not much more than a few words, but for the utterly defeated band, it's even better than poetry or music or anything else in the world. Paul is tuning his guitar with Richard when it happens and Schneider is in the next room eating a pastry. Till enters the room with both guitarists quietly when they're discussing rising replacement string prices, and when they both fall silent for a few seconds and give him a little hello, he replies with one of his rare smiles. It's not speech, but this puts them in a better mood almost immediately because in recent times Till's hardly smiled about anything.
"Till, could you get Doom for us?" Paul says in an almost offhand manner - they've gotten used to him beckoning them when they have business to discuss - but nothing can prepare them for what happens next. Instead of nodding and coming back with the drummer in tow, Till turns to the door.
"You are wanted, Schneider," he calls, his voice as clear and strong, and Paul nearly drops his guitar in surprise while Richard just gapes at him. The drummer runs inside the room in response and stands there in shock, staring at the man; he looks back at them with the same faint smile on his face.
"Am I hearing things, or did he just call for me?" Schneider asks shakily. They can only nod. "Till, I - I can't believe it!"
"Don't mention it," the singer answers quietly, and leaves the room after a small nod in their direction. By this point Paul and Richard have thoroughly forgotten what they wanted Schneider for, and they follow suit, bombarding the man with questions and whether he can talk to them properly now, but Till only looks at them with a strangely alive glimmer in his eyes. Apart from those two sentences, he doesn't speak again for the remainder of the day - but it's definite progress and they leave him be to get on with it a little further once the initial shock fades.
Flake and Olli are informed shortly afterwards, and they express delight at this as well. "We shouldn't press him too much, though," Flake says while nodding wisely. "I'm just glad he's started up, even if the honor of getting him to address one of us first went to Doom..."
"That was hardly my fault!" Schneider protests, but he can't keep the grin off his face. "we'll have him back with us in no time. But speaking of which-" he turns to the two guitarists with question marks in his eyes. "-why did you two want me over in the first place? I don't think I ever got to hear it."
"Damn it if I can remember," Paul answers, but he can't stop himself looking ridiculously pleased about the situation either. "it was nowhere near as significant as getting Till to say something."
Richard nods in response, but his mind is actually wandering far away elsewhere. This improvement has come far more quickly than expected - which is nothing but good - but he keeps thinking about what Flake said. Why Schneider, he thinks to himself, even though there really isn't a logical reason for it to be not Schneider - he's a bandmate, same as everyone else, and that's really all it is. And after all the blame that he's placed on himself, it's probably a good thing that he was acknowledged by Till first. But the guitarist can't stop the increasing feeling of discomfort within him. He'd always thought that while all six of them got along perfectly well with each other, Till and he were particularly close, and not without good reason; is it so wrong to feel a little bothered about the fact that he chose someone else to talk to first?
He doesn't know, but keeps on hoping anyway. It's the best he can do.
Of course, like most beautiful things in life, Richard's hope goes vastly unrecognized. The second incident occurs soon after he breaks his silence to Schneider, but not immediately afterwards; after that fateful day comes a few more of complete and utter silence, which prompts fears amongst them that perhaps he is relapsing. But they treat him with patience, and they are rewarded four days later when Till casually asks Flake for a cup of morning coffee over breakfast. He is the second bandmate to be addressed and after much rejoicing, he gratefully makes the singer a cup of coffee which Till savors and declares supreme before getting up from the table and back to his room. He emerges three hours later with five pages worth of lyrics that he presents to the others, and goes to the kitchen to make his own damn coffee while everyone else reads them over. This three hours' worth of output is more than what Till has produced in the last month, and they're of a quality similar to how things used to be back in their 'Sehnsucht' days. Not long after this, Olli and Paul are acknowledged in the same day during group practice, an incident that they celebrate with fine dining and wine.
He's soon holding sustained conversations with the band on an individual basis. Till is seen chatting to Flake a lot especially, although never for more than ten or so minutes at a time - more seems to tire him out - and recovers quickly, day by day. He still remains quiet when they're talking in a group, barely speaking except to comment on a few things, but overall, he's back and good and talking to all of them.
All of them except Richard. A month passes on from the day that he first addressed Schneider, but there is no progress with Richard yet. The rest of the band has noticed this all too well, and are now respectfully hesitant to approach the topic when talking to him; but at the same time, none of them want to confront Till on this either. Whatever the reason might be, it could be something that would shut him down again if asked about, and the guitarist is not so unreasonable as to not understand this sentiment.
But there's no denying that Richard is saddened and immensely puzzled about this. It hurts to see Till talking and having a chuckle about something with Schneider when they're all in a room together and have the older man suddenly fall into a complete silence when the drummer leaves. It hurts to walk past a room and see the man discussing song lyrics with Flake within perfect earshot. Even when they're in a group, the singer doesn't comment on anything that he's saying. But soon the confusion changes into frustration, jealousy and downright loathing along with the horrible feeling that he's doing (or done) something wrong to Till without knowing what it is. He also feels that the singer is not talking to him on purpose; after all, he's recovered from his uncontrollable condition, so he must be refusing to address Richard for some reason. All of this just adds up to more and more misunderstandings and hurt and periods of intense self-loathing amongst everything else.
Did his heartfelt speech not mean anything to Till at all?
Does Richard not mean anything to him now?
Till Lindemann has been silent for...
Cross it out and try again. Till Lindemann regained speech on the... he... Till has...
... Has he, though?
... Completely?
It's as if Till's not even trying to see him there anymore.
So one night Richard finally has had enough and comes back to the flat late, drunk out of his mind. Only Till is there, sitting at the table and jotting down something on his notebook. He looks up at Richard as he approaches and quickly drops his gaze back to whatever he's working on; in the guitarist's inebriated and not quite sane state, this is more than enough trigger to unleash the flood of hatred that's been stewing in his mind for weeks.
"I guess you think all of this is particularly funny," he slurs out, stabbing the empty bottle of beer in Till's direction. The singer looks at him, and there's an emotion in his eyes that Richard doesn't particularly like the look of. It's not a look of distaste or hatred, and it's not at all a patronizing one; rather, the exact opposite. He seems rather unnerved by what's going on, worried even, and the younger man would have taken this as a sign that he cared if he were sober - but Richard is hideously drunk and resentful and Till's concern only makes him angrier. "and don't stare at me like that, either! I've just about had it with you, you know that, Dietrich? Not good enough for you to talk to, am I? You'll talk to everyone else all you want and you'll sing for hours whenever we have a show but you won't even utter a single goddamn word to me!"
Till doesn't answer, but he stands up slowly. Richard interprets this as him trying to leave, although the other's intentions are more along the lines of trying to put them both in a more even position. "I'm not done with you yet!" he continues, his voice rising to a near yell. "don't you dare move from where you are right now. Don't you dare try to get anywhere further away from me, you understand? You and I are going to settle this right now and if you won't talk to me, you can bet that this will be the last time I ever will say anything to you at all! Who persuaded you to be the vocals for the band, all those years ago, Dietrich? I did! I trusted your voice and your lyricism and everything you were capable of, I trusted you, and this is how you treat me?" at this point he throws the bottle at the wall in his fury; it doesn't shatter and simply bounces onto the floor, rolling by a stop by his feet yet again. But Till flinches at the action, which fuels the triumphant rage within him even more. He's never made Till scared of him before. The other's blue-green eyes are clouded over and he looks absolutely wounded; it shouldn't be right. Richard knows that he's hurting him, but Till is a masochist and he should be reveling in whatever pain the guitarist is causing him at the moment - it's just more material for the bastard to dwell on later and he should be grateful, he thinks bitterly, and tries to shift away the growing unease and guilt from his mind. All it matters is that he has the upper hand.
"You twofaced son of a bitch. You goddamned insufferable prick. I should have known back then that I never meant all that much to you. Don't look at me like that, you know it's true! You love the band itself and the fans and you'll happily go and screw a groupie or - whatever - but you quite clearly don't want to spare any affection for me. Talk about unappreciative. It's like you don't even care that you've got your heart on your sleeves! You're so horrible at pretending that I don't even know why I never called you out on it during all these years. I know, you hate performing, you've always hated it and me being here doesn't make one little bit of difference because you probably hate me too for making you join the band in the first place. Why didn't you just keep silent for the rest of your life if that's the point you wanted to make?"
No response. "Selective mutism," the guitarist says disgustedly, feeling for a cigarette. There isn't any left, which only makes him more disgusted with himself and Till. "selective is right! Jesus! It's like I've been invisible all this time. I swear, if I didn't want to hold onto you so much, I would have beaten the shit out of you a long time ago-"
And then nothing. Richard tries to carry on, there are years of resentment coming up that have been unsaid up until this point, but somehow he can't continue with his rant anymore as those words fall from his lips. He's inadvertently revealed too much of himself. Till looks up quickly at the unintended confession, a stunned look on his face, and Richard backs away at the sight, feeling the rage within him die down in favor of fear. He swallows hard, feeling as if he's about to be sick, his heart beating on overdrive as he waits for Till's reaction; he's still furious, but now he's really not sure if it's anger towards the older man for being an oblivious fair-weathered bastard or anger at himself for doing what's he's doing and being what he is.
But Till doesn't move nor tear his gaze away from Richard, even when the seconds ticking by slip into minutes; and when the guitarist realizes this, the only thing certain in his mind is the anger.
"Enough!" he shouts, picking up the bottle again and wildly brandishing it; this time his throw is successful at breaking it into pieces. Shattered glass rains down on the floor, the wallpaper slightly torn and stained where the bottle hit it, though neither of them are hurt. But before Richard can register what he's done, Till rushes over, grabs him and holds him in a tight embrace; of course he's struggling and shouting at the top of his lungs, but the man is simply far too strong for him. He's being picked up around the waist, he can feel that much, and before he can protest Till has him hoisted up on a shoulder and is carrying him to the bathroom. Richard pounds on Till's back, demanding to be let down and cursing the older man, but he's immovable. It's not as if he's even got enough strength in him to resist anyway, and when he's unceremoniously dumped in the shower stall he's far too disoriented to react until the singer strips him free of his jacket and boots, throwing the items outside the bathroom. "what the hell are you trying to pull, Dietrich. What the fuck."
Till then turns on the shower onto the coldest setting. When Richard cries out and flinches away from the stream of water, he backs out from the stall and quickly slides the door closed on the younger man, watching him anxiously through the glass.
"Ich hasse dich," Richard screams through the cold spray of the shower, slamming his head against the walls and barely noticing the dull ache that comes with each impact. He doesn't even care anymore what language he's shouting in or who he's addressing his screams to - Till, himself, or both. "I hate you! I hate you!"
Till's staring at him, his eyes wide and his expression frozen almost as if he's about to burst into tears; he's actually shaking, his knuckles white with the effort of keeping the door shut against his will. Richard sees the other's lips tremble when he happens to look around, and this silences him more effectively than the shower did, awakening him to what he's done and where he is. It is too much for him to bear, knowing what he's done to Till; he can't handle it anymore, he's going to be sick, and the guitarist lurches over on his hands and knees. Nothing comes up because he's not eaten properly in over twenty hours as it is, but he can't stop himself retching and dry-heaving. And despite all that's happened, the older man opens the door and enters the stall; he reaches over with a hand and rubs his back in soothing circles, turning off the shower and letting the guitarist calm down. Richard only then fully understands how low he's sunk and wishes nothing more than to just curl up and die right there and then.
"I'm sorry," he whispers hoarsely when he can finally catch a breath, leaning on his arms heavily and trembling as he forces himself to meet Till's eyes. He's not sure if he can be heard, but it doesn't matter to him at that moment. "I didn't mean any of it... forgive me... please, Till, I'm... I'm sorry..."
But his arms can no longer support his weight. Richard slumps down onto the floor of the shower stall, his vision going dark as he succumbs to exhaustion; the cold tap drips onto his already soaked and freezing clothes and he doesn't even register it. He's so numb and tired and his head is spinning and he feels like he's being sucked into a void of absolute and total nothingness and he just wants it to be over. A curious peace settles into his mind and he blanks out, not realizing that Till's dragging him out and frantically trying to shake him awake.
Oh my God. Why can't this just end?
His heart is beating so loud that he can hear it pounding in his ears; but he nevertheless wonders with the last shred of his consciousness if this is kind of what it feels like to die, and whether Till would still want to be with him wherever he's going.
- 6
- 7
- 8
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Silence