Requiem

by psp7master

Rating: teen
Tags: Dark
Length: 2063

Vinyl Scratch can finally hear music.

18+ Vinyl Scratch can finally hear music.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2013-04-09 16:20:02 UTC

Requiem

Requiem

"The light would be intense and warm in the beginning, but then flicker down to nothing, taking the castle with it. It would be like burning down the place we've always called home. Destroying all hope of safety, forever."

~To Bandy, the person who inspired me to write this~

***

The light is warm and welcoming. I am marching on through a thick barrier of boughs that prevent me from reaching my goal. The green grass is tickling my hooves as I trot on, making me want to scratch them. I cannot, though; I still have something to do.

The trees are brown-ish white, calling out for me as I pass them without looking back. I cannot look back now: each time I take a step, everything that I leave behind vanishes in a purple explosion of silence. I cannot stand silence, not for so long.

I am not sure how long I have been here. I am shifting back and forth, and turning right and left as I follow the narrow, steep path outlined with pebbles and rotting leaves. I cannot hear my steps, and this is driving me insane.

My legs tremble, creating a beautiful wobbling sound. I want to crack them, if only to hear the wonderful beat of the kick drums. This place lacks music.

A masked eagle descends from the orange-tinted sky, passing through the forest in a fast, fervent sweep. It screams, but there is no sound coming out of its broken beak. It rushes behind me and vanishes in a purple explosion of silence.

I feel my legs tremble again, almost giving way. They are moving in a broken rhythm, fast, young, vigorous. I want to crack them so much.

Desperate, I try to stomp my hoof against the ground. It falls through the soil like it would fall through soft jelly, the very earth blocking the sound. I move along.

I can hear faint, soft beeping. It is approaching me from the other side of the forest, luring me, making me want to run ahead and reach the beautiful noise. I no longer want to crack my legs.

The forest is empty, because it doesn't exist. I know it, but I keep moving on, to jump into the sound. My trembling legs create a wobbling sound that compensates the beeping.

The noise grows louder, and I try to quicken my pace. I cannot run, but I can at least trot faster towards the beeping sound. I want to hear it; I want to touch it.

My hoof presses against a worn-out bough, and I hear a crack. My heart leaps to my throat as I take in the beautiful sound. The crack accentuates the downbeat, just as the beeping is upbeat, and my trembling legs rush the rhythm mercilessly.

If I crack them, the base of the track will be complete.

***

I am lying on a soft bed in a hospital ward. I can't hear the sound, and that drives me insane. I try to move my legs, but they don't comply. I cannot move at all.

The beeping is distant; it is inside my head, but my ears cannot perceive it. I try to hum along with the rhythm, but my lips don't obey. Neither does my throat: it cannot let out even the raspiest of sounds. Suddenly, I want to crack my legs again.

I can see a grey earth pony beside the bed, her long black mane falling onto her trembling shoulders. She is crying: I know it because I can see tears running down her cheeks, hiding in the damp fur. I want to tell her that it's gonna be all right, but I cannot open my mouth. I don't remember her.

I close my eyes and try to focus on the beeping inside my head. It is a square pattern, the jumping eighth notes, and I have a wild desire to add some diversity to it. My legs don't tremble, and there is no wobbling sound. I want to crack them so badly.

The grey mare touches my hoof, rubbing it softy, with great dedication and care. I don't like it because she doesn't make any sound as she does so. I try to shrug her off, but my body still doesn't obey me. The only thing that keeps me sane is the beeping.

The offending hoof is no longer touching my body, and I dare to open my eyes again. I cannot see the grey mare, but I can feel the imperceptible violet scent of her perfume. Violet is the colour of stateliness, uptightness, silence. I don't like violet at all.

My legs are connected to tiny tubes that deliver transparent liquid into my veins constantly. The tubes are silent, and so is the liquid, but they almost look like pipes. Pipes, on the other hoof, make sound... I wince, and strain my mind: now I can hear pipes.

I'd rather hear some bass or drums, but pipes are all right. They blare softly, rolling around the tonic note carefully, mixing in with the beeping. The beeping slows down. Now it gifts me with a fourth-note rhythm.

The pipes speed up, and the melody becomes more complex. I wince and try to crack my legs. I cannot reach for them, and the beautiful wobble sound is off my limits. This music definitely lacks bass.

I want the melody to be full and complete. I want it to occupy the whole of my mind, leaving no gaps. However, the pipes play strictly at the centre, and the beeping comes to me from the left side of my head. Something needs to fill in the right channel.

I close my eyes again, trying to take salvation in the strange kaleidoscope of music that I am able to hear. I tap my hoof against the bed, but it doesn't make any sound. Maybe that's because it hasn't moved a millimetre. Celestia, I'd give anything to crack my legs right now.

I think about the strange grey mare with violet perfume. I can't remember her name, but I instantly don't like her. There is this violet attitude to her that screams silence. I want to hear some bass.

The room around me flickers and fades into nothingness.

***

The cave around me is dark and cramped, with the walls around me threatening to crush me. I am no longer walking, or trotting. I am floating above the rocky ground, my hooves barely scratching the surface. As they do, however, they emit a sound. It adds a nice touch to the growing symphony of beeping and pipes, just like a rolling record adds a nice touch to the music you put up on a gramophone.

My legs don't tremble, but I no longer want to crack them. Wobbling would ruin the music, and this track demands something better. I can see water falling from the grey ceiling in small droplets that hit the rocky ground. This is the percussion I need. Mentally, I add that sound to the track.

The wind enters the cave through invisible gaps in the dark walls. It isn't howling, but it is, inside my head. The howling is warm and intense. It clashes with the smooth tune of the pipes. Yes, this is exacly what I need on the right channel.

Now I have a panoramic melody playing in my mind, a melody that occupies the whole of my head. Beeping. Percussion. Pipes. Wind.

I don't need beeping anymore, I realise. It has served its role as the base for my track. It has been a metronome; an insurance against breaking the rhythm. Now, I know I will never break the rhythm. The beeping needs to go away.

There, all better. Suddenly, I feel more exempt and free than I have ever felt. The offensive beeping is gone, and I can hear the symphony clearer. However, it desperately lacks something. Sadly, I don't know what, yet.

I hover into a large opening. It is cold and unwelcoming, dark and chilling to the bone. Off in the distance, I can see a castle made of blue-ish black stone. It radiates upbeat music, the smooth jazzy tunes of Manehattan downtown, the kind of music you would hear in a bar some fifty years ago. Wincing, I turn away from the castle.

This is not my music. My music is bass, and drums, and wobble, and various glitches. ...Or is it? Suddenly, I don't know anymore. I really like the wind and the pipes, though.

With the beeping gone, my head feels light and dizzy, and I close my eyes. I know my legs will carry me away from here. I know I am approaching Music, even though I can't hear it right now. I can't hear it with my ears, but I can feel it inside my head.

Wind. Percussion. Pipes. This is classical music, I realise. For some reason, though, I don't hate it.

I enter a violet chamber of wood and rusty metal, even more spacious than the one I'd been in before. The cave is gone, having disappeared behind me in a purple explosion of silence. I want to leave this room, but my body moves forward, along the cracked wall. I see a grand piano in the corner. It is a player piano, and I add its music to the symphony.

Finally, now I have the chords. It is a simple progression, but I am creating a classical symphony. That's all right: it suits my music well. I close my eyes again, trying to delve into the track. I check the instruments.

Wind. Percussion. Pipes. Piano. It lacks something.

A needle enters my vein.

***

I can hear beeping again. It bothers me. It is ruining my symphony of life and beauty. I am in the hospital ward again.

I see the grey mare talk to a pony in a white gown. The grey mare is crying, while her interlocutor is saying something, shaking her head. I can't hear them, but I don't want to. I have to stop the beeping.

Thankfully, the beeping grows slower. Now, it is half-notes. Half-notes are fine. They don't clash with my symphony too much.

The grey mare turns her head towards me, and her violet eyes widen in fear. I try not to look at her, but I still do. She approaches my bed and kisses me on the forehead, below the horn. I wince because I don't like the violet-tinted pony.

She picks up something from the floor. It is an instrument: a cello. I eye the mare in curiosity. Is she going to play it?

I hope she does. I really need a string section! That's what the melody is lacking so far! If she plays her cello, I might stop hating her, I tell myself.

She puts a bow to the strings and starts to play. My ears still fail to hear the sound, but my mind substitutes it with a touching solo that resonates inside my head. I add it to the symphony. Now, it feels complete.

Wind. Percussion. Piano. Strings.

Beeping. I open my eyes. The beeping is still there, breaking down my music. I try to stop it, straining every muscle in my weak and tired body.

The beeping grows slower. Now, it accentuates the beginning of each bar. I can live with it. However, it sounds too much like a kick drum now.

This symphony doesn't need a kick drum. This is classical music. It sounds good without drums. The percussion is enough.

The mare stops playing as I open my eyes and look at her. She glances at my left, where the beeping is coming from, and starts crying. I conclude that she is a silly mare. Why cry when you can bathe in such divine music?

You just need to hear it. You need to give in to it, forgetting who you are, who you were, and who, assumingly, you might become. You need to let music lead your life, and give your soul in exchange. A realisation dawns upon me.

I am not creating this symphony. I merely hear it. This music is not of my device, or hers, or anypony else's. She drops the bow and kisses me on the lips.

The beeping finally stops.