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chapter ten
" Boy, you're gonna
carry that weight,
Carry that weight
a long time. "
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NOW PLAYING: "CARRY THAT WEIGHT" by THE BEATLES (1969)

+ content warning: Racism, misogyny, sexism, brief sexual assault scene (not explicit), mention of rape (not explicit), mention of victim blaming, physical assault.

________

RORY WILL ALWAYS remember her first day writing for Sticks 'n' Stones.

She knows that The Six is in another part of Sound City, finishing up their own album recording, but she doesn't find comfort in knowing her friends are only a few closed doors away. They may as well be on another planet.

Rory had no idea what to wear for her first introduction to a world-famous rock duo. She doesn't have another dress like the one she'd worn to her contract signing, so she'd ultimately had no choice but to go casual. The increasingly warm weather had made anything with sleeves unbearable, so she'd opted for a cropped orange and yellow tank with a mock neck that covers her collarbones, a denim skirt, and a pair of green platform sandals. Her hair is sleek and falls to her mid-back in a straight curtain, still ironed from yesterday.

When Walter guides her into the recording studio, she instantly feels like she's made a mistake in her outfit choice. In comparison to them, she looks like a little kid.

"Aurora, meet Sticks 'n' Stones. That's Sticks to your left — real name Daryl Earlington — and Stones, aka Henry Slate, to the right. Gentleman, this is Aurora Marquez. She's going to help you finish writing the songs for the album."

"Hope you can keep up with us," Sticks says, chuckling dryly like his throat has already been damaged from smoking. He's probably in his mid-thirties with long, tousled blond hair that falls to his shoulders. His leather jacket is beat-up from years of wear. On both hands, his fingers are covered in rings— stacked upon each other as far as they could go, of all widths and sizes and kinds, from twisting silver bands to a humongous red gem on his left hand.

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.

She flips to a page containing a tentative track order of the existing songs. First, "The Veil Falls," which Walter explains involves some "really sick" guitar from Henry, unlike anything that's been heard in the rock industry so far. A piece that brings on a sense of impending doom, starting off slow at first, with just Sticks's vocals and a few keys, then a twist in the music brought on by the guitar, representing a complete change of character.

Then, a few tracks about navigating life through that fog. "My Brother," which is obviously about Henry's sibling being shipped off to war. "The Thick of It" in the middle, where the lyrics start to question if the misery will ever cease because things seem to keep getting worse. But there's nothing at the end, no answer about whether or not they did make it out of the veil. There are just a bunch of question marks and Fred's writing asking, "How do we wrap this up?"

Rory's mind is already racing with ideas. She looks up at the duo. "Do you mind if I write in this?"

"Don't look at me," Henry says. "I don't do any of that lyrics shit. I let Daryl and Fred do it and shred the guitar however they tell me to."

"Sure," Sticks answers. Rory is already flipping to a clean page. "Why, you got some ideas?"

"A few," she replies, taking a pen from her purse and starting to scrawl.

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EDDIE: Those sons of bitches were my musical idols. I mean, the way Henry Slate could play the guitar so fast it made you wince listening to it, feeling like his fingers must be bleeding from playing that quickly, that passionately? I couldn't believe our little Rory was writing for them.

I remember being in the studio the first day she was working with them and knowing that they were just down a few hallways. I wondered if I could find a way to sneak in there, maybe make up an excuse about needing to talk to Rory and then being introduced to them. But in the end, I stayed in our booth, listening to Billy tell us that we needed to play "Señora" again because he wasn't happy with how it sounded the first seven times.

I live with that, you know? Every day. I wonder what may have happened if I had just gone in there.

Maybe I could've stopped it.

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Rory is in the recording booth, slumped onto a sofa, her hand aching from writing so furiously for countless minutes. Fred's notebook is on one side of her lap while her songbook rests on the other. Part of her hadn't expected for ideas to come so quickly like free-flowing water — this type of music is, admittedly, different from what she is used to writing. But maybe she feels prepared because Eddie owns their previous records and had let her listen to them so she could analyze their musical and lyrical styles. The background allows her to connect with the sound they've already established.

"Ya finished with the album yet?"

She looks up to see Sticks in the doorway. When he notices her open and close her mouth, unsure of how to interpret his tone, he shakes his head and closes the door behind him again. "I'm just kiddin' with ya. It's hard work."

"I'm up for it," Rory says, forcing her voice to sound strong. "I am."

"Okay," Sticks says. He puts his hands up in surrender. "If you say it, I believe it." A heavily-ringed finger points to the songbook. "Mind if I see what you've been doing for the past five hours?"

Her eyes dart to the clock on the wall. "Has it been that long?"

Sticks nods. "Walter's in his office. Henry's... well, I'm not sure. He'll resurface when it's time to record somethin'. Let's see." He sits on the sofa next to her, accepting the red notebook when she passes it to him.

He's quiet for several long, long moments. Rory's hands twist in her lap, wondering if he hates what he's reading, wondering if he's about to kick down the door of Walter's office and demand to know why Teddy Price had recommended a little girl to finish an album like this. But he doesn't.

"'Bottle It Up,' huh?"

"Um... yeah," Rory says, clearing her throat and straightening her spine. "Fred wrote that he wanted something to emphasize how the vocalist is feeling. Most of the other tracks are about things that are happening to him or around him, but we need to know how he's coping with those events. And, looking at Henry..." Maybe she's going to overstep here, but... "he's really, really sad, isn't he? About his brother?"

Sticks looks surprised, but nods. He reads through some of her lyrics aloud. "'Ash in my throat / Eyes bloodshot / No amount of mescaline can make me forget / why I still smell the rot.' That's..."

"Bad?" Rory finishes, flushing. "Sorry. I can keep brainstorming—"

"No, I was going to say it's... dark. Coming from you, I mean."

"Well, I feel like part of why Henry might dope himself up so much is because he doesn't want to face reality. And I think a lot of people feel that way." Rory, herself, had chosen to take an acid tablet when the thought of her family's disappointment was plaguing her one night, leaving her unable to sleep. "I think people will resonate with it."

Sticks nods. When he looks at her, there's none of the humor or malice that he had first shown upon their introduction. "I think you're right."

Rory gives him a small, closed-lipped smile in thanks and takes the book back to continue writing. But before she can pull it all the way into her lap, Sticks takes her wrist. She glances at him in surprise. His rings are cold against her skin.

He stares at her and moves a section of hair behind her shoulder. "You're a real pretty girl."

Rory knows that the polite thing to do is thank him, but every part of her is frozen, including her vocal cords. She becomes acutely aware of the closed door. The fact that the room is soundproof.

Instead, she forces down a swallow when his hand falls from her shoulder, to her collarbone, and then he's touching her chest in a way that makes her stomach curl in on itself in disgust, her skin itching like hundreds of insects are crawling across it, every part of her begging to push him away.

Her voice finally comes back to her. She shakes her head, trying to pull back, but he holds her firmly in his grip even as she rasps, "I — No — Please don't —"

"Shh," Sticks shushes her. "It's fine, doll. It's okay."

Rory is stiff as a board when he starts skimming his lips across her cheek, her jaw. Her hands are on his shoulders, still trying to push him away, but he's stronger than her. Bigger. Older. He's broad-shouldered and tall, able to maneuver her however he wants her to. She wishes she could knock him flat on his ass and flee the room. Run to the safety of her friends. But they've never felt as far away as they are now, like she could run down the hallway and it would just keep stretching out longer and longer before her, an endless hell, and she could keep running until her body gave out without ever reaching them.

So she does the only thing she can do as a scared young woman who doesn't know how the much more powerful man will react when she denies him what he wants: she picks a spot in her mind and retreats far, far into it. She's completely motionless through it all.

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RORY: People have said that I was naïve. That I should've known what I was getting myself into because "Boys will be boys" and "Men have their urges". But what is naïve about wanting to be respected as a songwriter, not coveted for my body or my ethnicity or my size? What is naïve about expecting to be given the same respect as everyone else? And why don't they ever blame the men?

I was barely twenty. I was tiny, with a health condition, and new to the professional world. Those men didn't see me as budding talent who would make it big someday. They saw me as something they could take advantage of and control.

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When Rory comes home that night, having taken a taxi because The Six had finished their last day of recording early, she finds the entire band and Camila sitting in the living room. They cheer as she walks in.

"There she is!" Graham exclaims, a proud smile lighting up his face. "Our professional songwriter."

"What are they like?" Eddie questions eagerly. "Are they cool? Did you get to see Henry Slate's guitar? I heard there's blood on it. Is there blood on it?"

Graham places a pillow over Eddie's face to shut him up.

"How did it go?" Karen asks.

One word. Just one word. She can manage that, can't she? The entire way home, she'd been lingering on the thin line between having control and losing it. Her fingers are barely grasping onto the edge of composure. She can feel them slipping, sending her closer to her breaking point, but she doesn't have the strength to pull herself back up again.

She's still — too still, she knows, all of her bones locked in place and refusing to yield, muscles coiled tight, her face dangerously blank. She had been as lifeless as a dead fish when Sticks had her, more or less flopping about, but now everything is so tense she aches.

Rory should be smiling along with them. She should be cheering, laughing, ecstatic that her dream has finally come true and she is writing for a band whose music might be remembered for generations. Instead, all she can sense is emptiness.

She can manage a single word without breaking, right?

"Good," Rory says.

She swallows. The others appear happy for her, but she looks at Camila, who's looking at Karen, and she knows that they can see through her bullshit.

Camila stands. Karen follows. Together, they guide Rory into the front house.

They don't even say anything. Camila holds her by the shoulders, looking into her eyes, her head tilted to the side, waiting. Waiting.

And slowly, Rory crumbles.

It starts with her bottom lip wobbling like it always does when she's about to cry. Then her eyes, which have been heavy and aching with the weight of oncoming tears, flood all at once and spill salt water onto her cheeks. She's crying, and Camila pulls her into her chest, and then she's sobbing, full-on weeping with heaving gasps and choked cries that threaten to snap her in half with their intensity.

Karen circles her arms around her as well, cocooning Rory in both her and Camila's silent, strong love and support.

"He — He —" Rory tries to say, but she can't get the words out. Partially because she's crying too hard to get more than one syllable past her lips before she has to interrupt them to release another sob. Partially because she doesn't want to admit what had happened. What he had done to her.

Camila soothes her, stroking her hair, letting her drench the front of her shirt in tears and snot and spit. This kind of breaking is not pretty. It's not mascara tears and running eyeliner that still manage to be picturesque despite the pain behind them. It's Rory's body not feeling like her own anymore, her feeling worthless, so stupid to have obtained her dream career and immediately have it ruined for her in such a violating way.

This kind of breaking is not pretty. It is soul-shattering. It is devastating.

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EDDIE: I feel like we should've known. That something was wrong. But... that's Rory for you. She could have two black eyes and tell you she's fine with her dazzling smile, and you'd believe her.

WARREN: I can see why that Sticks 'n' Stones album won so many awards. Have you heard "Bloodshed"? Who am I kidding, everyone has. I still can't believe she wrote that.

GRAHAM: "I scratch and claw at my skin / Till there's fragments of me under my fingernails / and I still can't tell where your touch ends / and I begin."

She was practically screaming it to the world. And we were too deaf to listen.

WARREN: She put all of that rage and pain into the album. Some critics have said it was her best work. But ... she broke herself to do it.

[He looks away. Blinks. There are tears in his eyes.]

I... I can't talk about it anymore. I'm sorry.

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It's Camila's idea to use the tape recorder.

Best-case scenario: Sticks is intimidated by his wrongdoings being on record and backs down. Worst-case scenario: He still makes his moves anyway. But at least Rory would have solid, hard proof.

"Do you mind if I use this tape recorder for our songwriting session?" she asks him the next day, trying to fight off the way her voice threatens to shake. "Sometimes I use it to remember how I want a certain melody to go or something."

Sticks shrugs, clearly high on whatever he could get his hands on that day. "Doesn't matter to me."

"Okay." Rory sets it on the table next to the sofa and presses the record button, stating the exact date and time. "Sticks 'n' Stones writing session for The Black Veil. Present: Aurora Marquez and..."

She looks over at him. Waits to see if he'll contribute. If he can say his own name, prove it's actually him she's with...

"Daryl Earlington," he says. "Sticks."

A small victory. "Great. Let's get started."

It doesn't stop him. Maybe he's so lost in the drugs that he forgets the device is there, or maybe he doesn't even care, believing that Rory wouldn't dare to do anything with those tapes except use them for their intended purposes of songwriting. Because what can women really do? Even with proof, being a whistleblower is risky. Especially for someone like Rory: a newcomer to the industry. Not white. Young. Up against a rockstar.

Rory works robotically during the two-and-a-half weeks it takes to finish The Black Veil. She finds that if she doesn't fight it too much when Sticks takes advantage of her, he's more receptive to her ideas. She's able to change some of Fred's lyrics and concepts. She writes "Bloodshed," a song that makes Henry say, "Now that's a rock song," when he hears her plan for his instrumentals. "The Other Side" represents the veil lifting. It's the end of the tragedy. It's a breath of fresh air... or is it?

Rory had figured out how the story will be wrapped up. The veil lifts. But you can't tell what's on the other side of it. It may be daylight and paradise... or it may be something much, much worse.

And then it all finishes with "Show's Over." A slow, yet instrumentally powerful piece where Henry's guitar gradually gets weaker and weaker, eventually fading out near the end. It represents how drained the narrator is from everything they've been through. The last thing you hear after Sticks's final line is his gasp. It may be a sound of delight at seeing the sun again, but it may be one of dread upon realizing that the journey is far from over. Or it could be his final breath before giving up.

On that final day of recording, Rory is exhausted. She has been bouncing between the grocery store and the studio, rarely seeing her friends, who are about to leave for tour in two days. Their SevenEightNine album is already well-received by critics and fans since its release a few days ago. Rory hasn't even had time to listen to it all the way through yet. She hasn't heard her version of "Heartstopper" on a real record, hasn't had the pleasure of realizing her lyrics are out in the world for the first time, and people like them.

She has put every ounce of herself into The Black Veil and wonders if it was even enough. She has sacrificed and lost parts of herself that she will never get back.

So when Sticks tries to pin her down that day when Henry is off on a smoke break and Walter is out of the room, Rory decides to fight. She puts everything she has into pushing him back, teeth gnashing, feet kicking, screaming. Desperate, fearful tears stream down her cheeks until her eyes sting. He covers her mouth as he slams her against the wall, his palm so big it blocks her nose too, until spots dance at her vision and she almost passes out, her skull throbbing. But then he retracts his hand and she continues to fight like a bat out of hell.

And he hits her.

"Shut up," he snarls just before he does it, and then after that, there's absolute silence. He didn't seem to realize what his fist was rearing back to do until it was already done. Rory can feel her eye beginning to swell, the skin of her cheekbone stinging where his rings had sliced her skin open. She stares at him through lowered brows, her eyes blazing, forcing him to look at the wounds. The physical evidence.

"Shit," Sticks says. He backs up. Runs a hand through his disheveled blond hair.

Then he fucking leaves.

Rory stays there for what feels like a long time, her hand placed over the stinging, throbbing injury, backed against the wall, trying to process what the hell had just happened. Was this... better? At least he hadn't managed to unbutton her shorts this time. Is it weird that she almost feels relieved? That he'd hit her, panicked, and run away instead?

She uses the phone on the secretary's desk to call the house and ask to be picked up early. Twenty minutes later, Rory sits outside of Sound City with her knees pulled to her chest. Then, familiar screeching tires greet her ears, and that station wagon she loves so much pulls to a creaky stop in front of her. Warren and Eddie hop out of it. Their faces are lit up with excited, supportive smiles, ready to congratulate her about meeting the seemingly impossible deadline she'd been tasked with, but then they see her face.

Eddie goes deathly still.

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WARREN: There were gashes on her face, right on her cheekbone, and bruises around her eye.

EDDIE: I knew it as soon as I saw it. Those rings Sticks wore... they were his staple. And one of the marks was in the shape of that gaudy one with the huge ruby that he wore on his ring finger.

∴━━━ ✿ ━━━∴

"Where is he?" he demands. His voice is calm and quiet, yet filled with seething rage just behind the surface, lurking like a snake coiled back just before it strikes. The normally warm brown of his eyes has hardened to cold steel. His jaw is clenched with the intensity of his anger.

Rory's voice is wobbly. "No, Eddie—"

"Where is he?"

"He's already gone, okay? He's gone. It's done."

While Eddie swivels his head around and storms around the van like he's going to find Sticks hiding behind one of the cars in the lot, his shoulders stiff and hands tightened into fists at his sides as if he's already looking for a punch to throw, Warren is staring at her like his heart has been ripped in two. He looks crestfallen. And for some reason, seeing that expression on his face when he's normally so sunny is too much for her. She tears her eyes away from him and sniffles.

And then Warren is right next to her, sitting beside her on the asphalt. He pulls her into his lap and hugs her like he could push all of her pieces back together with just his touch. Her head is tucked under his chin, his hands soft and gentle. He's telling her that she's safe, that they're never going to let it happen to her again.

"I've got you," Warren says.

Rory finally relaxes for the first time in weeks, burying her face into his neck as she slumps into him. Because that... is enough.

∴━━━ ✿ ━━━∴

EDDIE: We brought her home and after we put ice on her eye, I went to my room and started gathering up all of my Sticks 'n' Stones memorabilia. Tore down posters, ripped my shirts off their hangers, smashed their records over my knee. Then I went out to the yard and set it all on fire.

I didn't even want to look at that shit anymore. It made me sick. To this day, I can't listen to a song from that album without feeling like I gotta empty my stomach.

________

a/n:

fuck sticks. all my homies hate sticks.

this chapter was incredibly difficult for me to write. i felt sick to my stomach the whole time. actual text i sent while writing this:

i want you guys to understand that this situation will not be brushed over or dismissed. it is a horrible thing that happened to rory (repeatedly) and it's going to stick with her. for now, the boys do not know about the rapes, they only know about the time sticks hit her. this will change as the story goes on (as was hinted in the interview portions where the guys clearly know more than they did in real-time).

for the sticks 'n' stones album concept, i was heavily inspired by out of the blue (1977) by electric light orchestra and the black parade (2006) by my chemical romance in terms of storytelling and themes. they are two wildly different albums but i love them both!

also, check out these absolutely LOVELY gifs by HannahDottier! victoria, thank you SO much again for creating these, and sorry for taking so long with putting them in the graphic gallery!

<<<33333333

lastly, here is rory's outfit inspo for the beginning of the chapter:

— kristyn

( word count: 4.8k )