Mornings Have Gone

The songs contained in this story are, in order- "Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word", "Tonight", "Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me", and "I Need You To Turn To" from the Elton John Live in Australia CD.

"What have I got to do to make you love me, what have I got to do to make you care..."

LaCroix sat in his chair, facing the wall away from the sound equipment. The music played, echoing into the night of Toronto. He rarely indulged these feelings of his, but tonight he had felt the need to do something. To say something. He had found a CD full of music which seemed so appropriate. He had set it in, programmed the tracks player to play only a few of the songs, and then turned off the phone lines.

He watched the walls, and thought about what might have been. He wondered what he would say, if the one he was trying to speak to, as listening tonight.

"Tonight... do we have to fight again? Tonight... I just want to go to sleep..."

He let his thoughts die away, and listened to the songs. He had tried so hard. He knew that, he knew he had tried, done everything he could think of. He had tried to do what he thought was expected of him, but apparently it had all been wrong. He had always done it quickly, to the best of his ability, and yet each time he tried he had been spurned. Every time he had asked for love he had felt only harsh rejection. He had never been able to discover what was wrong. Was it him? Was there something about him, that made him unlovable, unworthy? Was the person he loved simply not someone who could see his love?

He leaned forward and let his head fall into his hands. He didn't want to cry, he had spent so many nights alone, doing just that. He wanted answers. He wanted to understand why he had been told to go away, why he had been told he was hated, rejected, unwanted...

"Don't let the sun, go down on me... I'd allow just a fragment of your life to wander free, but losing everything is like the sun going down on me"

It made him angry. That was something he allowed himself to show, to express. The many times he'd hunted, with more than hunger in his heart. The times he had riped apart his victim, after feeding, hoping that with the gaping wounds he created, his own pain would be released. He would fly, or run, with all his strength, hoping that in the exercise he would escape the emptiness. All the times he had crouched in the darkness, looking out, waiting... hoping that no one would find him, hoping that someone would...

"Don't discard me, just because you think I mean you harm. But these cuts I have, oh, they need love to help them heal"

The songs continued, as LaCroix drifted in and out of memories. Sometimes he could watch them unfold, without feeling the slightest bit of pain. Instead he would see them, catching details he'd not noticed before. Wondering if *that* detail was why his love had been spurned once more, or wondering if that other was why he was obviously unworthy. It was difficult to see, most of the time, why those things had happened. The yelling, the fights... mostly he simply could not understand. What had he done? He wanted to cry out the question, but he knew it would never be answered. He'd asked before, and he'd only received stony silence.

After enough years, he'd begun to prefer the silence. Within it he could create his own illusions of love. He could pretend that the silent gazes were proud, and affectionate, and that the person watching him simply could not find words to describe his love. Instead of the reality, which he tried so hard to escape. He knew he couldn't get away from it. But oh, sometimes he needed to try...

"You're not a ship to carry my life. You are nailed to my love in many lonely nights. I've strayed from the cottages and found myself here, for I need your love, your love protects my fears."

He had tried to give himself what no one else had given him, and he knew that for the most part he'd failed. He knew it, this night, as he heard the songs playing, as the silent grey wall showed him his memories, his fears, his losses. He would never know why, he would never know the truth. He could only wait, and hope that someday he would outrun the wind.

"Pater... pater... pater..."


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