"𝗠𝗔𝗧𝗘, 𝗱𝗼𝗻'𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗼𝗹 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳. 𝗦𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗰𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝗮𝘄 𝗵𝗲𝗿."
𝐋𝐈𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒, the greatest rock band the generation has ever seen, the bona fide rockstars of their time.
𝐌...
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✧ 7th January 2008 ✧ London, England
SHE NEVER concluded that it was remotely possible for a lingering scent to bring monumental comfort during a battlefield of havoc, yet somehow Maia began to wonder its likelihood.
The pieces were never expected to make it out alive. Something in her heart told her so. The essence was heavy and weighed down with a devilish sense of knowing that this.. whatever this thing was with Libertines, the needles of the clock were slowly coming to a dying end. And what had been the most horrifying strike she faced was the fact that Maia had somewhat accepted it. She passed over the authority to their disabled ship to Christian Cartier, her inner voice sour with a calling that deeply wanted to asphyxiate the bassist and force his neck down the balcony just so he could ultimately see the thick damage he had done to their band. Surely, he had to know. The idea that he could be so ignorant and prideful as not to identify the reddened mark he had vandalised on their reputation was utterly shocking.
What was twice more astonishing than that was Carti's tendency to then shift the blame on the front woman, claiming that she had not done enough to compile the current greatness of the band ever since he began steering the direction. He held a specific notion that she was intentionally chaining herself back to idleness just to nick him, and she thought him to be absolutely fucking absurd. So entirely absurd that the two of them had gotten into a verbal argument in the studio (after recently deciding that another album had to be in the race of development, although it would soon become evident that the partial results from these sessions was to be terminated due to the band's split months later), and this quarrelling eventually escalated into physical tantrums involving the throwing of index fingers and occasional toss of the closest things to their limbs.
Maia made a victim out of a nearby headset (to which she refuses to replace up to this day) whilst he had taken a step personal and flung Anette's drumsticks straight into the plain wall, and whatever supposed amicable and mutual breakup the two agreed on turned thorny as the drummer threatened him with ungodly crimes. Their producer was forced to interject and pull them apart as though they were a group of troubled school kids. It was almost too embarrassing and pathetic to see what had become of them. Not even the mildest remembrance of their youth could axe through the tension and overt resentment they greatly developed for the other.
To look at Carti and now find nothing but the sole hatred and void he directed at the two girls, a grating contrast to his once protectiveness and floundering love for the both of them—–that was unnerving. Maia would go as far as to say that it practically dimmed a light in a small part of her grasp. She had many wishes, and it took her a lengthy amount of time to finally recognise that some of those wishes did not belong outside of the genie. Sometimes they were better off dead. Oftentimes, they were better off unexplored. Forgotten, and accepted.
Perhaps it explained why she moved not an inch when Christian Cartier stormed out of the studio with nothing but his crude curses. And neither did she react when Anette Jenkins muttered something along the lines of fuck all of this before disappearing from her sight, too. Not disappointed, and certainly not dejected nor angered. It merely came and went, that fleeting feeling. She could not quite explain it. She was simply okay.
