ection>Soundtrack to Torment
an album
by
Julian Clyne
Trilby & Quill Editions
First edition
Produced by Trilby and Quill Editions.
Published and distributed by epubli GmbH, Berlin 2015.
© 2015 Julian Clyne
Julian Clyne is hereby identified as author of these words in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.
Cover art: Jill Tegan Doherty (www.jilltegandoherty.com)
Cover design: Christopher Gramer
Published by epubli Berlin GmbH
www.epubli.de
ISBN 978-3-7375-3905-0
Trilby and Quill Editions
www.trilbyandquill.com
For those who are still able to dream.
And for those who wish they still could.
For those who have understood.
And for those who will redeem.
Prelude
It feels strange that all this should begin
with good-bye.
Oh! “Sticks and stones may break my bones
but your words – now they really hurt!”
What a poetic stab in the ribs you gave me…
Thoughts ripple the mind
unknown – cold.
You: but a distant reflection.
Your soft voice rings in my ears:
Delicious soundtrack to my torment.
Nostalgic for a world I’ve never seen.
Nostalgic for a distant place.
Nostalgic for what could have been
A better life –– with you?
Left to create realities,
I get high and listen to Miles.
Parentheses, helium balloons,
Cubes in tumblers, smileys on pills:
Little compartments filled with possibility;
The potential… to replace … to help me
Escape from the confines of the netherworld.
Conjure dreams. Dreams!
But of what? For what?
Above the Clouds
Naomi’s face at the airport. I’m embarking on a journey across a continent and an ocean. It is a race against time. Yet I have no power to go faster, it is entirely out of my hands. It is unbearable: I can only watch in agony as the hourglass empties itself, grain after grain, and I know that this time there won’t be anyone to flip it around.
Naomi’s face at the airport. Her eyes, her beautiful blue-grey eyes, the colour of the Pacific on a bright sunbathed day. She’s fighting hard not to cry, and I thank her for it. To see her tears would tip me over the edge, too. She wants me to know she’ll always be there for me. And right then, she is my only glitter of hope. For a brief instant, with her hand strongly squeezing my hand, I don’t feel the pain. For an instant the oppressive fear disappears which has been growing ever since I heard about my sister’s accident. Naomi and I don’t speak. Words are useless at this point. Her presence is more than I could have prayed for. Before I head towards the security check, she leans in, forces a faint smile, and kisses me. She whispers in my ear, “I love you.” It’s the first time she said it, it’s the first time either one of us said it. I can’t return it, I can only hug her even more strongly. I leave her, hold on to her hand as long as possible, but I have to let her go. “I’m right behind you,” I hear her shout, but I’m scared that we will never again meet as the people we are now.
Naomi’s face at the airport. The vision lingers in my mind. I need to hold on to it, to treasure it, to cherish it. It will no doubt become a crutch for me to lean on. The next thing that penetrates my perception is the blue sky above the clouds. Perfect, untainted azure, as if everything was alright, as if nothing could ever break the peace, as if they were right in saying that, up here, the sun always shines. But it’s just an illusion. For I’m flying East, into the night, and up here the night is even darker.
Naomi’s face at the airport. She’s all I see, even though I try to remember my sister, try to conjure images from a happy past. But instead of memories, there are premonitions of horror. My vivid imagination becomes a curse. I start to see an ICU, tubes dangling and machines beeping. I start to see a crematorium. I start to see my parents, devastated. Then, as if my mind entered a mode of self-defence, Naomi’s face at the airport always returns, stops me from going deeper into the darkness. Tears run down my cheeks and the lady next to me asks if I’m all right. I don’t answer. I’m sorry, too; she seems nice. What use to me are the words of a stranger now? Instead I look out the tiny window and hope the sunset behind us will appease me. The clouds are the colour of blood.
Joe’s face at the airport as he picks me up. Words are useless, his expression says it all. I’m too late.
Silence
“Ugh!”
His sigh was filled with exhaustion, pain and disgust. He had just stepped out of the office. Routine. Day in, day out: pub, pint, empty banter, pint, empty noise, pint, tube, pint, empty bed. Sometimes the bed was shared, always it felt empty.
And now rain! But today he felt the need to walk, not home, not anywhere –– just to walk in the rain.
He delighted in getting drenched and watched with glee as everyone else was visibly annoyed by the downpour. The gush of rain was not, by then, surprising. Yet, to many it had come at the worst time: the 5 o’clock rush. Some people chose to stand under awnings or marquees or any kind of shelter they could find. Others ran to the nearest tube station covering their heads with document cases or overcoats. Still others sought refuge in coffee shops, bars or boutiques. There were also the pessimists, who, despite the sun’s early morning promises, had taken their umbrellas “just in case” and now strutted along on the sidewalks.
He, on the other hand, simply sauntered and slowly he drifted off, forgetting all the little things that annoyed him, forgetting the
