Singing Your Song

Sight without seeing

He came in the room, instantly recognisable by the stench of tobacco that clung to him. He shuffled around in his coat, throwing it carelessly on the floor and kicking something out of the way as he, with a groan, collapsed into bed.

Nagi shuffled, huffing and filling her cheeks with air. It wasn't fair, the way he'd do that. Just burst in here out of nowhere, disturbing the quiet moments she had been savouring with herself and the room. Couldn't be helped, she guessed, as the stench of cigarettes mixed stale with fresh and a trail of smoke passed across her vision. 

"There's something wrong with you", she stated, matter-of-factly, and curled away from him.

"Haha. You really think so?" He replied, annoyingly shuffling around and doing who knows what, the whole bed rocking.

"... Turn the light out", she said, eyes focusing on nothing in particular.

"Good grief," he sighed. "You think that's fair? Insulting me and then not even replying when I answer? You're so rude."

"Just turn the light out. Rotten."

"Rotten?!"

"Yeah."

He was laughing, a deep, wheezing laugh that briefly shot up into a whistle. "Damn. Okay. Guess we found out what was wrong with me then. Something's gone and died in me, lungs folded up, liver turned to soup, pancreas rotting away."

"Just like an old man."

"Haha, wow. Looks like you're rotten too. Seems like your heart's gone."

Nagi turned and lifted her legs, but before she could kick him, the light flickered out. She sighed, the last annoying blip of light coming from his cigarette each time he stuck it in his stupid, crooked mouth.

But, at least, a long blip of silence followed that - as he seemed to just enjoy his cigarette. She concentrated on the drifts of smoke, her mind unwinding to those abstract, pretty swirls. She watched the way his fingers played along the cigarette, the almost elegant shape his hand formed as he tapped ash onto the floor. But whatever serene thoughts she was having were quickly interrupted.

"Hey, so. Why don't we find out?"

She groaned, pulling the covers up over her head.

"Find out what?"

"What's gone wrong in us. Where we're all rotten. Play a bit of doctor diagnosis."

"..."

"Come on Nagster."

"The only rotten thing is your mushy brain." She rolled away from him, imagining a world where she was asleep.

"Haha, maybe. Why don't we find out. Sing."

And at that, her eyes snapped open. She swallowed her excitement, keeping her body still. But she couldn't help but betray herself. not arguing against his every suggestion as she usually would - and let her lips gently open.

It began with an eerie croak, like bubbles bursting in her throat. And then he began to sing, too, his croaking closer to clicks and more confident - a slow, rattling sound. But when he did that, oh, when they did that - it reshaped the world.

Even though her eyes could only see the slight outline of the edge of her quilt, in her mind, she could see this whole room. Every inch of mess, every speck of dirt suddenly so vibrant and palatable, as though she could taste the room from the sound in her mouth. The stacks of unread newspapers and rolls of toilet paper and the salvaged mess of unneeded tech collected from god knows what corners of Spira. Each thing with its own distinct shape, forming like a texture in her mouth, in her throat, formed perfectly in her mind.

And then, his voice encouraging her, she sang louder - excitement driving her confidence. Their voices melting through one another, the sound of the world as he saw it reverberating in her head and vice versa. The images he could see - beyond these paper-thin walls and rotten tiles, beyond their tiny living room and cluttered hallway, out into the streets. Colourless at first but married to their memories, the red of Bevelle a sharp sweet texture and they saw it together, their street with the cluster of markets and late-night partiers forming slowly. She could feel the hair on their skin, the stretch of their intestines, the way their stomaches pushed food and alcohol together as she felt them stumble, and for a moment, it was as if she was stumbling too.

She grew drunk on this sight, this overwhelming sight that, as they sang more and more, was nothing like seeing. To see meant that she had to focus her eyes ahead of her, but this was like the whole street was within her mind all at once and all the torn papers and piss and dancing drunkards and spilled bottles and high buildings and sleeping children and arguing, loving, fighting, screaming, laughing adults were all at once part of her and him. And as they sang, she could see the individual indents on his lips, the scratches in his lungs, the rhythmic tug of his heart.

And she laughed, she couldn't help it. It just came with being so overwhelmed, that laugh soon mixing with his and they half laughed, half sang together. Half laughing, half singing, as they saw Rock get up from the sofa, angrily pacing towards the room, and they were giggling already at the thrill of being told off - long before he threw the door open.

"Shut the fuck up! You sound like shitty old machina, grinding right in my fucking ear."

And that was that for their singing, because then they were just laughing.

And yet, for all she'd searched his body for rotting parts - for all she'd scanned his brain and it's infinite network of pulsing electric this way and that, she hadn't been able to see any of that darkness that would soon take him away.

So then, for then, she just laughed.