Unfinished Symphony by J.Daisaku Mukai -------------------------------------------------------- She awoke with a terrible headache. Her eyes opened to a ceiling bearing a single large florescent light. It seemed familiar, the light, though three times brighter than she remembered. The stinging brightness burned through her eyes into her head, forcing her to immediately shut and covered her eyes to block it out. Rolling onto her side, she realized that she had been sleeping on the brown couch of the well-known recording studio. With her face buried in the seat, she was aware of music playing from somewhere and realized where she was. The sounds coming off the keyboard seemed to come from another world. It eased her, though only slightly, for the pain throbbing at her head was immense. The music was peaceful; she knew only a world of constant toil. It was soft, soothing, calm, such a contrast to the world she dwelt in now. The bittersweet melody brought back harsh memories of better days gone by. Better days, when she had a mother and a father. Mother and father---The sting brought tears. Blinking them out, she tried to concentrate on the emulated piano across the room. She squeaked out, "Tristan?" The music stopped. "Yes?" "Tristan, it's beautiful." She paused. "What is it?" "What's beautiful?" he answered quietly. "The music--what were you playing?" She rolled over on the couch to face him. "Oh. It's just a song I've been working on." "I like it. Tristan, maybe you should go public with some of this stuff, huh?" He just whispered his thanks for the complements and reached for the grubby coffee pot next to the console. Tristan always seemed far off, in his own quiet world. It appeared he had turned cold to this world and everything in it ages ago, and only made contact every now and then for short conversations and the occasional acknowledgment of others. He poured himself a small cup and laid it down next to the keyboard. Sighing deeply, he took a look around the room. Tristan knew the walls well. The small recording studio where he worked was where most of his time was spent. He was either at the boards or watching out for the young girl, presently waking up from a night's sleep on the couch. The familiarity of the walls didn't prevent him from staring at them for hours, however. They provided some source of grounding. He traced the brown cracks in the gray cement walls every day. Whenever there was a slow-down in work, or he needed inspiration, he could always lose himself in those walls. His eyes fell on the couch once again. "Coffee?" he inquired in his usually quiet manner. "Mm?" She groaned a little. "Yeah, a little couldn't hurt. Thanks, Tristan." The soft smell of the coffee seemed to take her out of her present state even more. The synth was now replaying the notes Tristan had keyed in. He was hooking up a guitar, an acoustic, into the system. The slender, seemingly fragile, arms of the young man moved with a seeming uncaringness as he plugged everything into its place. Though the arms looked weak and frail, she knew how strong they really were--they had carried her home on several occasions. Sometimes she was too drunk, or high, or too tired to walk herself home, and Tristan was always there for her. Even when her home was no longer a haven, he would take her to the recording studio--his home. Ever since Tristan had lost his job and his parents, the owner of the recording studio, one of Tristan's uncles, had let him sleep there on the brown couch. Now Tristan worked for him, but used his money to buy food and equipment rather than spend it on lodgings. It didn't bother his uncle, as it provided at least a small sense of security--someone at the studio during the late nights. Her mind began to wander on to other things, then suddenly fell on the aching pain in her sides and head. She didn't remember much about the previous night. She didn't want to. The only small bit she could remember was that it had almost made her give up on her life. It was just one night of many that had turned out this way, but this one seemed even more painful. "Tristan?" "Yes?" "Why do you think..." She paused. "Why do you think we're here? I keep thinking---I've always thought of life as a story. Stories are supposed to have a purpose or goal, whether it turns out sad or happy. I always thought it had a point, a plot. Until..." Another pause. "...until now." "What makes you think of that now?" He was strumming on the guitar--even his notes were soft and quiet. "I don't know...Tristan...I just..." Her words hung as she cut herself off. Tristan sighed deeply and began speaking in his soft monotone voice. "I've always seen life as a song. There is a definite beginning and end to a song. There are many changes from the beginning to the end. Sometimes the song touches people. Sometimes it changes people. Sometimes it is left unnoticed. Sometimes the end of the song comes abruptly---the writer never finishes it. Sometimes the ending leaves you unsatisfied---it should have been different. Sometimes..." His voice trailed off as he turned his attention back to the guitar as it let out an odd twang. He continued to fiddle with the string until he finally let out an aggravated sigh and powered down the synth suddenly. He sat hunched over the guitar, rubbing his face in his hands. "Tristan?" "Yeah?" "What's wrong?" "I just can't get this right." There was a moment of uncomfortable silence and then a small peep came. "Tristan, it'll be okay. I'm sure you'll get it. You can always make things come out right in the end." It was all the comfort she could offer. He just sat in silence until he whispered into the guitar, "I can't get this. I just can't get it out right." She got off the couch and stood next to him for a moment before putting her arms around him. "I'm sure you'll get it, Tristan." She said as she removed her arms. "You always make things perfect in the end." He was silent. "Look, Tristan, I better get off to work," she said noticing the time. "You feel okay?" "No. My head and stomach still hurt. But I can't miss this, or Mr.McAvery is gonna fire me." "Okay. I'll see you around. If you need anything, I'll be here." "Sure thing." She said as she headed for the door. "Oh, and Tristan?" "Yeah?" "You never finished. Remember? About life...?" Her voice hung as she stood in the doorway. "Oh, yeah. Well..." He started and then sighed. "I've always thought that the importance of the song is not how long it is, or how elegant it is, but how it effects others---how it makes them feel." He stated, summing his analogy up with one phrase. "And that's life?" "Yeah. It doesn't matter how long or hard you play, but what you do for others that matters." There was silence. "Tristan?" "Yeah?" "Thanks for everything." The importance of the song is not how long it is, or how elegant it is, but how it effects others. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -------------------------------------------------------- End Notes There are a few things you may notice immediately about this piece (besides the bad grammar, bad spelling, and other such flaws). The first being that I did not name the girl. This is both by design and for practical reasons. I wrote this and tried to see how far I could get without mentioning her name, and I finished it. The original reason was that I couldn't think of a name early on and just decided to leave it out until a good name came. Both reasons make little sense, just take your pick. The second thing you may notice is that the girl is always affirming Tristan's attentiveness with, "Tristan?" Which is always answered by Tristan with either, "Yes?" or "Yeah?" You may make your own conclusions about this, but I will say that it is to affirm that Tristan is still there, mentally, physically, and emotionally. Another thing of note is that my religion, both by birth and by choice is Orthodox Christianity. The goal of every true Christian, I believe, is to become Christ-like. Achieving this is simply putting others before self. Tristan's outlook on life is modeled after this. That others' happiness is the key to your own, and ultimately the goal and salvation, of your life is both Tristan's and my view (though sometimes it is easier said than followed). There is space between the final line and the end notes for the purpose of emphasizing it and for no purpose beyond this. This originally started out as a Gunnm (Battle Angel Alita, here in America) fan fic, but as there are no real references to Scrap Iron City and the like, I suppose I'll leave it as an original work. I may or may not add to this writing later on, that is yet to be seem. For now, it is still considered to be in the early stages of writing as it is yet to be revised and looked at by my many peers. Special thanks to Charles Gavin (we know you hate that, sorry ) Drake for his input; Daniel "Cordylus the Odd Sungazer" Snyder, who's helpful criticisms have taught me much about writing; Sophia Kowalczyk (:)* forever!), for just plain being there and for providing a subtle influence on this piece; Stabbing Westward, too, must be thanked as well, for their CD "Darkest Days" influenced large amounts of this piece. In fact, the original idea for this writing came from one of their songs. ALSO, The Primitive Radio Gods had a large influence on this song as well. Oh, yes, and thanks to Mr.Tristan McAvery (who plays Gendou in the ADV dub of Neon Genesis Evangelion). Without you, Tristan's name would have been "Trent." -------------------------------------------------------- Copyright 1998, J.Daisaku Mukai, this may not be distributed without the permission of the author. The complete version will allow free distribution, until then, please wait. No modifications are allowed to this document, unless they relate to formatting or are authorized by the author. Thank you.