Nothing and Everything
A Doubtful Sound
~2001~
“This is a take!”
The little red light flickered on, but the man remained hunched over his microphone, his eyes closed, his fingers drumming against his thigh. The music played on without him.
“Conor! What are you doing?” The recording engineer’s voice had exasperated edge.
“Sorry–I’m sorry.”
“Alright…” The engineer gave the singer a quizzical look from behind his thick glasses as he slammed the glass door behind him, leaving Conor alone in the sound-proofed room.
The music began again. Conor took a shaky breath, cupping the microphone in his hands. He sang uncertainly, resentfully:
Does he kiss your eyelids in the morning when you start to raise your head?
?And does he sing to you incessantly from the space between your bed and wall?
Does he know that place below your neck that is your favorite to be touched,
and does he cry through broken sentences like I love you far too much?
This was too much. Conor managed another phrase before his breath gave out, his voice breaking. His head fell into his hands. A drawn-out sob. Silence. The engineer threw up his hands, muttering under his breath.
“Fuck! I’m sorry,” Conor ran his hands through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut, “God, I’m sorry.” He apologized to anyone and everyone who would hear it. The engineer laid and awkward hand on Conor’s back as monitors flashed green and yellow behind the glass.
“I-I think I need some air.”
The engineer nodded, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his flat nose, opening the glass door and ushering him out. He had seen it all before.
Conor stepped out into the bustling New York street. The prematurely frigid September air stunned his lungs as he took long strides down the block; taxi horns blaring, people shouting. His only goal was to put as many city blocks between himself and the recording studio as possible. It was unbearably constricting, suffocating.
Stopping for breath, he extended his arms upwards, resting his palms on the cool cement bricks of a skyscraper as if the steel-skeletoned building would support his weight. He tuned out the sounds of the city, concentrating on his own breath. In, out, shuddering, living.
And suddenly, the sky shattered.
A flash of broken brick and fractured steel.
A fire.
A scream.
Sirens.
Screeching cars.
Momentum.
Colors.
Memories and memories spiraling downwards, gathering force until they crushed everything beneath them.
Conor crumbled, cradling his head in his arms as ash fell like warm, gray snow all around him. And in those few apocalyptic seconds, it was laid out before him. Everything in perfect detail.
It had all started in a garden, at a wedding.
Two men: a friend, a lover, a beginning.
And as the world fell to pieces all around him, Conor allowed himself to remember.
“This is a take!”
The little red light flickered on, but the man remained hunched over his microphone, his eyes closed, his fingers drumming against his thigh. The music played on without him.
“Conor! What are you doing?” The recording engineer’s voice had exasperated edge.
“Sorry–I’m sorry.”
“Alright…” The engineer gave the singer a quizzical look from behind his thick glasses as he slammed the glass door behind him, leaving Conor alone in the sound-proofed room.
The music began again. Conor took a shaky breath, cupping the microphone in his hands. He sang uncertainly, resentfully:
Does he kiss your eyelids in the morning when you start to raise your head?
?And does he sing to you incessantly from the space between your bed and wall?
Does he know that place below your neck that is your favorite to be touched,
and does he cry through broken sentences like I love you far too much?
This was too much. Conor managed another phrase before his breath gave out, his voice breaking. His head fell into his hands. A drawn-out sob. Silence. The engineer threw up his hands, muttering under his breath.
“Fuck! I’m sorry,” Conor ran his hands through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut, “God, I’m sorry.” He apologized to anyone and everyone who would hear it. The engineer laid and awkward hand on Conor’s back as monitors flashed green and yellow behind the glass.
“I-I think I need some air.”
The engineer nodded, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his flat nose, opening the glass door and ushering him out. He had seen it all before.
Conor stepped out into the bustling New York street. The prematurely frigid September air stunned his lungs as he took long strides down the block; taxi horns blaring, people shouting. His only goal was to put as many city blocks between himself and the recording studio as possible. It was unbearably constricting, suffocating.
Stopping for breath, he extended his arms upwards, resting his palms on the cool cement bricks of a skyscraper as if the steel-skeletoned building would support his weight. He tuned out the sounds of the city, concentrating on his own breath. In, out, shuddering, living.
And suddenly, the sky shattered.
A flash of broken brick and fractured steel.
A fire.
A scream.
Sirens.
Screeching cars.
Momentum.
Colors.
Memories and memories spiraling downwards, gathering force until they crushed everything beneath them.
Conor crumbled, cradling his head in his arms as ash fell like warm, gray snow all around him. And in those few apocalyptic seconds, it was laid out before him. Everything in perfect detail.
It had all started in a garden, at a wedding.
Two men: a friend, a lover, a beginning.
And as the world fell to pieces all around him, Conor allowed himself to remember.