Sweet Melody | Warren Rojas

[ track 10 ] carry that weight

Rory, unsure how she's supposed to take that sentence because she can't read his unsmiling blue eyes, manages a small grin. The air smells like they had been smoking before her arrival. She tries not to let her discomfort show.

"Oh, come on. Where's the spice?" Sticks asks, rotating from side to side in his chair where he lounges with his legs splayed out. "I thought you Mexicans were supposed to be feisty."

Rory wishes she could say that this is the first time someone has automatically assumed that she was Mexican, but it's not the case. Nor is it the first time that someone has expected her to be "feisty" solely because of where she comes from.

Walter winces uncomfortably. He tries to steer them back on track, saying, "Why don't you debrief her on the direction you're heading in for the album and where you left off with Fred?"

"Well, she knows this ain't no 'La Cucaracha', right? Can she even understand us?" Sticks leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees, staring at her while over-enunciating his words. "HE — LLO. MY. NAME. IS. DARYL."

"I speak English," Rory manages to inform him, her spine straight as a rod.

"Did you hear that, Henry? 'I speeeek eeengleeesh.'"

Stones looks stoned — maybe that's why he'd chosen to have that alias out of the two options — and only appears to have taken in half of the conversation thus far. In comparison to his companion's light hair and eyes, his are dark, the black strands messily covering his head. He's also dressed in black clothing, though without the multitude of accessories. He does give Rory a wave, though, and doesn't look like he's trying to insult her by doing so.

These two guys are about to release an album that's expected to launch them to the top of the charts. They have already gained a mass of fans, people wearing their t-shirts and with their posters hanging in their bedrooms. Eddie is one of those fans. So far, Rory is... unimpressed. Underwhelmed.

"Here." Stones — Henry — reaches near the mixing console, where a red notebook lies. He passes it to her. "This is what Fred left us with 'till he snapped his spine. The asshole."

"Henry," Walter admonishes him, appalled.

"I told him he needed to lay off the midnight whiskeys because he was gonna fall down the stairs and he said, 'Hen, I'm not gonna fall and break my back.' Then he fell and broke his back."

The words "THE BLACK VEIL" are scrawled across the cover in black marker. Rory glances up. "Is this the name of the album?"

"Yeah." Sticks plays with one of his many rings as he talks, back in that slouched position. "It's like, ya know, death and darkness falling. A veil over everyone, over all of us. We can try to pretend it's not happening. Like the damn war ain't pickin' off our brothers and fathers and uncles. But it is."

Henry nods like he's hearing this for the first time, but it's probably just the drugs in his system. "Far out."

Walter leans in closer to mumble in Rory's ear, "Henry's brother was drafted five months ago."

"Oh," Rory says, her stomach sinking. She looks at the man. "I'm sorry."

Henry doesn't seem to hear her.

She returns back to the notebook. Upon opening it, she cracks open a piece of Fred Weisz's soul. She sees his handwriting — surprisingly neat, sharp, and angular — scrawled across the pages, some words crossed out, some underlined, some circled, the margins filled with notes in different colors of ink. Some parts were clearly written by Sticks instead. Her eyes scan the lyrics, which seem to match the theme that Sticks was describing.