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The Girl Wants to Believe
Nov. 23rd, 2008 10:51 pm“There is no feeling, except the extremes of fear and grief, that does not find relief in music.” - George Eliot
Fight or flight. The path of least resistance. Letting the past dictate her future. These were all topics of discussion from Pippa’s ongoing therapy sessions, subjects that beat home the fact that she wasn’t really making any progress. She’s stalled herself at ‘functioning’ and has stopped trying to move past the idea of simply getting by. What was it that was stopping her? Fear.
Fear of what?
Memories. Flashbacks. Remembering.
But it’s already happened, you’ve survived and you know the outcome even if the memories are unpleasant. You know you managed to survive. We’re supposed to fear the unknown, not what we are already familiar with, right?
Maybe. Maybe not.
Start small. What’s one small thing that still scares you? One little trigger you keep avoiding?
Music.
Music?
His music.
That must make things very…
Difficult, yes.
Pick one song. I want you to listen to it. Don’t turn it off. See what happens.
I’ll try.
You try.
She was standing in his living room, in front of the stereo, CD in hand. The jewel case was open, the stereo on and the tray open and waiting. Still, Pippa couldn’t quite do it. She knew the song. Knew the track. Knew that it was exactly three minutes and forty-six seconds long. She could recall a lot in three minutes and forty-six seconds.
Pippa licked her lips but resisted the urge to wipe the sweat she could feel across the back of her neck. Tried to ignore the shadowy twinge of pain that shot along her left hand, culminating in a dull throb where her fifth knuckle ended in a stub of mottled flesh instead of an elegant pinky finger. Blinking back tears, she twitched at the sound of an open palm striking her bare flesh, wrinkled her nose at the foul smell of decay. She didn’t even have to play the music to remember.
She couldn’t do this. Not today, not now. Fight or flight. She wanted to choose flight. Wanted to drop the disc on the carpeted floor and run from the room. Run for the safety of his arms. If you can’t do this, how can you be certain he’ll even be there to hold you? Isn’t he worth fighting for? And isn’t his music part of him? Part of what you love? Pippa closed the jewel case and turned off the stereo.
Maybe she wasn’t ready to face the music on her own, confront the memories alone. Rory wanted her to talk to him about things, wanted to help her. She only had to listen to one song, all the way through. Her shrink never said she had to play the CD. Just listen to the song. Now the question was, could she ask Rory to do this for her and would she be able to explain why she needed this from him?
The musician was in his bedroom; Pippa could hear him fiddling with an arrangement at his keyboard, sometimes switching to one of his guitars to test some little element or another. She stood in the doorway, watching Rory, trying to find the courage to interrupt. Pippa didn’t have to search long; the fey had been aware of her presence and eventually turned to smile at her when she remained silent.
“Ro…can I ask you something?” Her voice was small and hesitant, almost childish in the uncertainty it carried. That alone was enough to bring him to her side, concern turning his bright grin into something more soothing as he nodded. Pippa wound her arms about his waist before continuing, “Will you hold me, rock me…like you used to? Sing to me? I’d like to hear my song.”
Her song. Believer Girl, Rory’d written the tune for her and turned it into something for the band’s set list months ago. She both loved and loathed the melody, the lyrics. When that monster, John Larch, held her captive and systematically stripped her of everything but fear and the promise of death, he’d played that song over and over…without knowing the significance it held. She hasn’t been able to listen to it since.
But now, if she could be in the one place where she felt safest, if she could just listen to the words and the warm, rich sound of Rory’s voice…hear the song stripped as bare as she’d been…maybe it would help. Maybe she could heal. Maybe she could fight.
“Please sing to me Ro…”
Pippa Kerr//Last Call//738
Fight or flight. The path of least resistance. Letting the past dictate her future. These were all topics of discussion from Pippa’s ongoing therapy sessions, subjects that beat home the fact that she wasn’t really making any progress. She’s stalled herself at ‘functioning’ and has stopped trying to move past the idea of simply getting by. What was it that was stopping her? Fear.
Fear of what?
Memories. Flashbacks. Remembering.
But it’s already happened, you’ve survived and you know the outcome even if the memories are unpleasant. You know you managed to survive. We’re supposed to fear the unknown, not what we are already familiar with, right?
Maybe. Maybe not.
Start small. What’s one small thing that still scares you? One little trigger you keep avoiding?
Music.
Music?
His music.
That must make things very…
Difficult, yes.
Pick one song. I want you to listen to it. Don’t turn it off. See what happens.
I’ll try.
You try.
She was standing in his living room, in front of the stereo, CD in hand. The jewel case was open, the stereo on and the tray open and waiting. Still, Pippa couldn’t quite do it. She knew the song. Knew the track. Knew that it was exactly three minutes and forty-six seconds long. She could recall a lot in three minutes and forty-six seconds.
Pippa licked her lips but resisted the urge to wipe the sweat she could feel across the back of her neck. Tried to ignore the shadowy twinge of pain that shot along her left hand, culminating in a dull throb where her fifth knuckle ended in a stub of mottled flesh instead of an elegant pinky finger. Blinking back tears, she twitched at the sound of an open palm striking her bare flesh, wrinkled her nose at the foul smell of decay. She didn’t even have to play the music to remember.
She couldn’t do this. Not today, not now. Fight or flight. She wanted to choose flight. Wanted to drop the disc on the carpeted floor and run from the room. Run for the safety of his arms. If you can’t do this, how can you be certain he’ll even be there to hold you? Isn’t he worth fighting for? And isn’t his music part of him? Part of what you love? Pippa closed the jewel case and turned off the stereo.
Maybe she wasn’t ready to face the music on her own, confront the memories alone. Rory wanted her to talk to him about things, wanted to help her. She only had to listen to one song, all the way through. Her shrink never said she had to play the CD. Just listen to the song. Now the question was, could she ask Rory to do this for her and would she be able to explain why she needed this from him?
The musician was in his bedroom; Pippa could hear him fiddling with an arrangement at his keyboard, sometimes switching to one of his guitars to test some little element or another. She stood in the doorway, watching Rory, trying to find the courage to interrupt. Pippa didn’t have to search long; the fey had been aware of her presence and eventually turned to smile at her when she remained silent.
“Ro…can I ask you something?” Her voice was small and hesitant, almost childish in the uncertainty it carried. That alone was enough to bring him to her side, concern turning his bright grin into something more soothing as he nodded. Pippa wound her arms about his waist before continuing, “Will you hold me, rock me…like you used to? Sing to me? I’d like to hear my song.”
Her song. Believer Girl, Rory’d written the tune for her and turned it into something for the band’s set list months ago. She both loved and loathed the melody, the lyrics. When that monster, John Larch, held her captive and systematically stripped her of everything but fear and the promise of death, he’d played that song over and over…without knowing the significance it held. She hasn’t been able to listen to it since.
But now, if she could be in the one place where she felt safest, if she could just listen to the words and the warm, rich sound of Rory’s voice…hear the song stripped as bare as she’d been…maybe it would help. Maybe she could heal. Maybe she could fight.
“Please sing to me Ro…”
Pippa Kerr//Last Call//738
