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Postkarte aus Tarragona	By : runningnakedinthepark Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 1739 -:- 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 (1/9)
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.

Imagine

I would sneak my hand through the fibers of your flesh, right under the last curved bone of your ribcage, my fingers would make their way between blood vessels and my palm would round over the shape of your heart. Your heart would beat in my hand and I would feel it quicken, like gasps, that quiver; the life of it – your life – in my palm, on my flesh covered by skin. And then I would feel the love, because isn’t that where love and all the other feelings are stored?

That’s how we will see whether your heart is just as dry as you claim to be. Because this is your excuse, that you are drained of all feeling, that there’s no more love in there. And then you play the roughened by life man, the impassible, and the non-impressionable. And he…

*

Above us only sky… That blue, infinite blue and endless sky. And I was looking at it, not staring amazed, not squinting and wondering what the fuck was going on, no! I was just looking at it, as if drugged by all that blueness, uniform and soft blue. And while my sight was sunk in that endless blue, my ears were picking up the monotone swooshing of the sea waves, and of the breeze that was throwing specks of sand on my face and on my body, as I was lying on my back.

A beach.

I propped my elbows on the ground and lifted myself a bit. Yes, I was on a beach. A beach covered by dark yellow, brownish sand. An almost empty beach; only the garbage bins, with plastic bags that looked like trapped wings as they were slapped by the breeze and the sand it carried, stood straight like silent guardians. I rolled a bit and looked behind me. There was like this railroad built on the rocks lining the beach. Beyond the railroad, buildings and houses, not too big but painted in beautiful and cheerful colors. Vegetation. And old ruins. Ancient ruins.

It didn’t look like the bed I went to sleep in the night before.

10,000 days in the fire

I live in this old former firehouse in New York. When I could afford a large house in Europe, I chose this place – from the windows of my den I have this gray image, this inner yard between the wings of this building I live in. And it is all so urban, so –

Anyway, the night before, yes!

It was winter time. Cold. Some traces of dirty, frozen snow here and there throughout the city. This is the place where I was the night before. And I was alone. For once in a long time, I sneaked alone, into my empty bed, thinking that finally I might get some rest. Soon I was to embark for Europe and get together with the band and finally start working.

Yes, I was tired, and maybe now I was actually in my bed, tired, finally fallen asleep and dreaming that I was standing up on that beach. I spotted a couple walking toward this piece of the shore that was the furthest point on the beach into the sea. I brushed the sand off of my jeans and my shirt. This was too weird.

I looked around again. Yes, I saw right, those there were palm trees. Palm trees? In New York? In winter?

This must be a dream, I thought to myself. A dream or… I hesitated a second, staring at the horizon. No, no, and I shook my head to shake that thought away too. I could remember very clearly that I didn’t take any “stimulants” the night before. But then, how could I tell for sure?

How they survive so misguided, it’s a mystery

Because I could never tell during… I could never tell anything during. I was told, sometimes, by others, about some of the things I did or said, during… Actually, he was the one that dared to tell me. He would call me, even if it was during the night for him, there, in Germany, but he would call to check on me and see if I was OK.

So, my heavy sleep would be cut short suddenly, I would wake up startled, almost scared, my heart beating like mad. I would stretch out my arm, fumble for that piece of evil machinery, almost knocking it down, and I’d answer without even checking to see the number of the caller – my eyes still closed. “Yes?”

His deep pitched, but soothing voice would be telling me that I had called him again hours ago and that he just wanted to make sure I was alright. I would invariably mumble that I was alright. He would laugh. That calm, yet rough voice. He knew very well I wasn’t remembering much from the previous night. So he would tell me, but just as casually as he would tell about how he locked his keys in his car. No judging, no questioning, none of these was transpiring from the inflections of his voice.

That voice that I fell in love with so much one day, that I wanted to hear it on and on. That voice that I wanted to get even more intimate with, to unite the sounds of my guitar with it as it was singing along. I guess after a while I forgot all that, and I started to want something else for me.

We were like a handful of Morocco sticks, released from the palm, and we fell on the smooth, white surface of the table, randomly.

Time to feed the monster...

It was sunny and warm on this beach, but it wasn’t hot. I was OK with these jeans and this shirt… the hiking boots. I felt like smoking, so I searched through my pockets and there it was, my pack of ciggies and the lighter.

It took me a while until I managed to light my cig. There was this breeze blowing, splashing anyone daring to stand, with specks of sand and drops of salty water snatched from the foamy tops of the big waves of the sea. But these splashes felt rather like warm kisses, rushed pecks on the face placed by this shy, yet playful lover. Someone that wants with all its being, but doesn't dare to tell it to you, directly. Someone that ends up acting childish, wanting to let you know about their feelings, using all these tricks...

I didn't need to use any tricks, I knew him too well. I tried to tell him directly, but, as always, my timing was bad. He wouldn't have been interested by this sort of game anymore. No matter who it was, he wouldn't change his decision. No man in this world would be able to make him switch sides again. This was his answer to me, as I started the conversation about him being with a woman. He was trying to get into the other league - the league of straight men, with wives, kids and family life.

The league of men in denial, that would end up hurting everyone around them, even themselves - especially themselves - just because they were stubborn enough to go against their own nature. The league of self-deluded idiots!

Across the oceans in my mind

Angrily, I started to walk along the beach, towards that piece of land elongated into the sea. The city was behind me, and it would have been logical to go check it out, to see where I was and maybe figure out how I had gotten there. I wasn't interested in that anymore. Maybe things had happened that way so I could be with myself for a bit, away from everything that was my world. I knew I needed to sort myself; he would tell that to me, from time to time. Not directly, but it came out from what he said. He, Till. My friend, who always managed to reach out his strong hand across the ocean and to pick me up, from that pit into which I would have thrown myself. My friend and my enemy, in the same time. No, not enemy. Rather like an adversary. Yes, that. Because he managed to have him, toss him aside and get away with it. By the time I would have had the opportunity to step into the picture my chance was gone. Christoph had decided that he was straight, that he had found the girl of his dreams and that he wanted to marry her.

My steps carried me along that shore of reddish rock, lashed by the agitated waves of the sea, and I stopped at the furthest point of this tongue of land. I couldn't perceive anything else except the thundering of the waves crashing on the rocks that emerged like fangs - rotten rocky fangs. The salt water dug round cavities into them, furiously, grinding them inch by inch, every day. Drips of heavy, cold water were sprayed each time the waves hit the shores, remains from the huge tongues of the sea wetting my shoes and the ground under my feet.

One day I couldn't take it anymore, so I stood up and I left. I ran fast and far. I crossed half of a continent and an entire ocean to find this New World to sink into, to forget and be healed of the past. I wanted back my restlessness, and my freedom. I guess I am like the ocean, grinding into the rocks in my path, digging into them, huge cavities, until the whole structure collapses. And it was about to collapse. My band, my own creation. After setting it up and taking it to the top of the world, I was slowly destroying it.

I always sensed that among other instincts we have this instinct of destruction. We destroy things around us, whether it was us who created them or not, and we also crave to destroy ourselves. And most of the times we don't even realize it. We aren't aware of it.

Lost keys

So was I running from myself or from them? Was I running away from this darkness in my soul, from these restless demons? No, the restless demons played another trick on me - they went quiet, even the darkness inside me seemed to shut itself in, and all I was left with was this choking sensation of missing something. There was nothing new for me there anymore, in the Old World. Or was there, but I ceased to see it anymore? So now I spend my days in that old firehouse in New York, and when I get back here, on the continent wearing the name of one of the many mistresses of Zeus, I start seeing again the fascinating and wonderful details.

On this tongue of land - three palm trees with branches bent by the breeze; three solitary silhouettes, keeping each other company. I looked at them and then to the endlessness of the ocean and thought that even if this was Florida, how the hell had I gotten there?

No recollection, none whatsoever, about the night before. I thought then that I must have been sleeping and that soon the ringing of the phone would wake me up. It had to be Till. Worried, even if not letting it show. Maybe he felt somewhat guilty. He knew how I felt. Maybe he blamed himself for Christoph making that decision. How could Christoph be with him for so long and then just switch so abruptly with 180 degrees?

This was the question I would ask him, on those nights when I was so tired, upset and high, that I would pick up the phone, dial that damn number... I wouldn't remember much in that state and after, but my fingers, by themselves, were able to dial that number. And what usually triggered that was something like a flicker, in my mind. Something I imagined, something I saw, something I wished for.

To be continued...
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Postkarte aus Tarragona