Okay, so maybe I'm a tad bit of a troubled soul. .o Anyways. This was just to take a break from When the Pawn Hits; it's a short little fic, and an angsty one at that. So maybe it's not so much of a break from that. ^^; Ah, well... The usual things apply, I do not own Brad and Schu, I wish I did, we can't always get what we want, blah blah. Just read. (And review, too. ;.; I live for reviews~ )

The Sound of Silence

Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence

His hands know what they are doing, yet they tremble slightly.They are not hands that tremble often. Their fingers are perfectly slim, perfectly capable. They have pulled the triggers of countless guns, silenced countless voices that ring out no more in his helpless mind. It is easy to see these hands do not waver often. They are the hands of a killer.

Slowly, they lift the shaking needle. His eyes are quiet, calm, dulled jewels as they watch over the actions of his hands as if they do not really belong to him. As if they are controlled by some being he does not know -- does not want to know.

A being he fears.

But he does not stop the hands, because this is the only silence he knows, from the chaos, the cascading roar of death and the empty scream of living, the blazing, burning light of hate, the ravishing, hungry force of love. A numb merging of his thoughts with countless others, men he might have been, women he will never know, children that he once was, and the aching chasm of death he will, eventually, fall into.

In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
´Neath the halo of a street lamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence

He had thought himself strong enough to resist the call again. But love is a weakness. Then, he passed the door, saw the needle, like an idol, like a dream, shining with the luster his own eyes had once had. The danger forbidden him. Love tears through you, it leaves you with nothing if there is no one to love you, too.

And the guilty cannot inspire love. Therefore, the guilty are never loved back.

Somewhere in a dark alleyway, a child cries out -- it is too late for the redhead to do anything but let the scream run through him, shrieking in his veins, burrowing into his muscles, finding its way to his heart, threatening to burst him apart. The stitches of his human body seem ready to snap, to unwind from his flesh and leave him with no protection from the cold wind.

His hand wavers slightly, and he drops the needle. It crashes to the table, a sound so loud to his senses, making him step backwards, away from the echoing, screeching sound.

Ihm ist nicht mehr zu helfen.

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared
Disturb the sound of silence

Again, his alien hands return to the needle, fingers clasping it's small body to the tanned skin. A slow heartbeat pulses out through the hungry veins in his wrists, his forearms.


His knees are weak. His feet slip on the floor below him. He grasps at the edge of the table.


"I need quiet." He falls to his knees, leans up against the wall, pulling himself into smallness, the needle clutched in his hand, against his sweating palm. Flame-colored locks fall over his eyes. Lonely, empty eyes, searching over the cold room helplessly, watching himself from far away. Unable to stop the hands that don't know of the true Hell who lies in wait, hidden in the promising silence...


'Fools', said I, 'You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you'
But my words, like silent raindrops fell
And echoed
In the wells of silence

/ "...and what are we trained to be?" asks the careful man and "strong" says the little boy "and what do we hate?" asks the angry man and "weakness" says the little boy.../

One hand lifts the needle, testing, probing ready flesh. His eyes scream out in protest, his mind in despair, and his hands are hungry. To forget. To sleep without nightmares. To lose thought without the uncertainty of death. To slip into unconsciousness, into SILENCE.


/And the night sky is dark but everything is quiet, wide eyes in a round face, then tears, and pain, and hands against a slim waist, pulling, the smells, the harsh cold of stone, flashing agony that will not end, the angry sounds that begin to fill your mind with death, death, death, and you are guilty you are guilty and you cannot escape, not when the moon is still watching, the moon knows, the nighttime knows--/

He swallows. His eyes fight his hands.

/--And you breathe enough, once more, to find love you find LOVE but the man who would save you stands back and scowls behind glasses and you are afraid and you are that little boy and the moon still knows all, you cannot change that, there is no love there is no sleep there is no rest mien Gott I want rest...--/

But his eyes are dulled by lack of sleep--

/-- "never talk back" "never call me that" "here is where you walk" "here is where you must stand" "what do you hear" "your loyalty--" "this is how you aim" "- is ours--" "this is how to keep the gun steady" "--you--" "and this is how to pull the trigger" "--are not your own--" "move" "go" "run" "stay" "--you--" "love is a weakness" "--are never your own--" "you are a weakness" "and what are we trained to be?" stingflashblindingpainisitevenyourownmemory "strong" "and what do we hate" "--you--" "weakness" "--are mine" loudscreamcry.../


And he begins to cry, hot tears burning down his cheeks, because...

He is weak.

/And the sun is going down the moon is coming out the moon knows, one somber silent white cold freezing vivid eye against the darkness of the angry bruised velvetpurple sky.../

He presses the needle to his flesh, harder this time, even as he closes his eyes, and his hands are begging for the endless voices to fade...

/-- "never talk..." "never..." "here is..." "this is..." "you are mine..." "keep the gun steady..." "...pull the trigger..." "movegorunstay..." staggerstumblefadeaway.../

And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said, 'The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls'
And whispered in the sounds of silence...