Disclaimer: "Did you write this?" No, it was written by Frank Wedekind in 1891.
Notes: My first Spring Awakening fic. The spoken lines are from one of the translations of Wedekind's text, and a few musical lines are mixed in. Moritz is a bit scatter-brained in this because, of course, he's overwhelmed, really losing it- and then later, literally scatter-brained.
"A single word would have done it."
I only had to say yes. One word, one simple word. And I didn't, I couldn't, now I can't… one word…
But I'm not much good with words. Wasn't much good, soon. Must not have been, since I couldn't pass… if only I had passed.
Time's passed. It's passing, and I'm passing. But I'm done, I was done so long ago… I've done myself in, it's not what anyone else has done. I'm done. I'm done!
A single word… a single word…
A single. Alone. Like me. But we're just words, to be forgotten. No, worse that that, not forgotten, unnoticed, never heard to be forgotten. Never remembered… will they remember me?
Will she? Will they remember her? Will they remember her as I do? The memories, pirates and wigwams, children in the grass… if only I could forget it all. Remember to forget, that's how I live- no, lived. Tried to live. God, I tried… and they'll forget to remember me.
But Ilse can survive on her own, she can live as sure as I can't. She knows how. She's got life, and that's more than I've got now. She doesn't know, but she will soon. What will she think? No, I don't want to know- just more things on my laundry line, their things, things to hang… may be I should hang, would that be less painful? Dangling from the branches, swaying in her blue wind…
"Thank God she can't hear now."
If only she could hear… but, even if she were here, she couldn't hear, none of them can. They're there, and I'm here, and none of us hear each other, it's all just a mess, just screwed up mess…
"I'm not in the mood."
I can't feel anything. And I feel too much, loads and loads, all their loads; and it overloads me.
"You have to have a clear head and feel good."
My head's a mess. All messed up. Gun to my head, and squeeze- one bullet through, my brains scattered, hanging from the willow branches. There aren't many of them… God, I can't feel anything…
"A pity to miss such a chance, though, a great pity!"
For the love of God, all I had to do was say yes! What would have happened? Oh, who knows? Who knows?
"I'll say I had great crystal mirrors over my bed… trained an unruly filly… made her strut across the carpet before me in long, black, silk stockings and black patent-leather shoes and long, black, kid gloves and black velvet round her neck…"
Ilse… Is this how they treat you?
"…stifled her with my pillow in a sudden attack of madness… when the talk is of lust I shall smile…"
But it's a stranger, not me. The lie's too strange for me to fall into, but the truth's stranger. Strange. I'm strange, I know, so strange…
"I shall… SCREAM! I SHALL SCREAM! TO BE YOU, ILSE! WHERE PRIAPUS REIGNS! UNCONSCIOUSNESS! IT SAPS MY STRENGTH! THIS CHILD OF FORUTUNE, CHILD OF SUNSHINE, DAUGHTER OF JOY UPON MY WAY OF SORROWS! OH! OH!"
How to be her! How to survive! How to feel the gun on my chest and to merely tremble, to pass out in some trash heap not know if I should wake up! I wouldn't wake at all, if each waking moment held the wake of fear. Awakening, in spring- such a terrible thing to know.
Dancing through the king's tapers, and watching the angels dance beside me, calling my name. 'Moritz,' they say, those angels. 'Moritz,' and they laugh.
So what will I say? I'll tell them – the angels – I got drunk in the snow. Then sang and played pirates. Yes, I'll tell them. I'm ready now. I'll be an angel.
And, the tapers, now they're soaked through with blood.
"How did I get back here?"
How? I must have stumbled… all the stumbling, I'm stumbled so far… but not so much farther now, to stumble… not much farther left for me, before I'm left, left behind… There's so much I've left behind.
"That grassy bank. The king's tapers seem to have grown since yesterday. The view through the willows is the same, though."
The same… but not for long, not with my brains dangling down on the passers by, dripping as they just pass by, screaming at my passing… trying to say bye.
"How sluggish the river is!"
Slug. Lazy slug. That's what my father will say, "Moritz, he was always so slow." When they pass by this spot, when they think of me, if they think of me, they'll wonder, I suppose… Am I slow in the brain? Or are they rushing? They'll be rushing by, I think, too hurried to say bye, too worried…
"Like molten led…"
So slow… time's slowing down, like they say it does… they're right again, like they always are, with their books… who'd have thought I'd think of books, or know those kinds of tales. They happen, though, those tragedies, in history… in science… Does that make me right?
Right hand or left hand, right or left… so left behind…
"Don't let me forget."
I'll remember them, I will, if they remember me. Even if they don't, it can't be helped.
Forget these itches, this sadness, these sticky dreams, these stirrings of manhood… but it simply can't be helped. I'll always remember… remember me, please, remember…
Remember, this isn't your fault.
They'll know that. Or I hope they will. Oh, what do I care? Why should I when they don't. Not one of them. Not Mom, not Dad, not Thea, or Anna, or Wendla, or Otto and Georg, or Hanschen and Ernst, and Melchior can't understand. Yet, they understand too well; they can't know this dark I know well.
They've hung me out to dry… I can see the vulture swooping, ready to pick at my eyes… who will close them? They simply can't be open… but I can't close my eyes. I want to see them, in my mind, those flames…
"Look at those sparks! 'In and out and roundabout!'"
The letter, it's burning… dying… dying like her advice, dying like me, for all it did to me.
Angels- I'll be an angel! I'll be flying, flying like a butterfly…
Flying- shooting! The shooting- shoot, it's come so soon… maybe I will close my eyes, as not to see the killing shot… oh, who cares, it's already been shot. The moment he called my name, it was done. Everyday in class, all done. I'm done.
No… not quite… What to say?
Eighty lines of Virgil, sixteen equations, paper on the Hapsburgs… the Sassanids, the sermon on the mount… the Parallelepipedon on my conscience… parallelepipedon.
All those things I haven't done- will they lay there in my sack, undone? Forever? 'Til they burn- I hope they don't cremate me…look, the sparks are gone now.
One more chance, one to turn back… Ilse. She took it with her, that chance I had. Offered it, and then stole it for herself. I hope it does her any good, because it's done me naught.
How to live when I never feel a thing? No, I feel too much, and it burns, it overloads, it kills… it kills!
"Before I lit that match, you could still see the grass and a strip of light on the horizon."
It's so far away… away, I'm going away, my own way…
It's so dark.
"It's got dark now."
"I won't go home again now."
Oh, god, I forgot to write a note…
This really ruins the effect, doesn't it? Um, review? Please, remember?
This really ruins the effect, doesn't it? Um, review? Please, remember?