WARNING! WARNING!

This is a work of fiction, and none of it should be regarded as truth, in any part, of any person, living or dead, or any actions of any person. This is pure fantasy. Any person who thinks this is an indication of any disorder, mental or physical, of my own person, is a fool, and should promptly leave now before even starting the story. If you didn’t read this then you’re in a whole lot of trouble.

Again, this is a work of fiction. If I find anyone has reported me for posting this, I will sue you for defamation of character.

Performance

Prologue:

He’d lost everything, he was alone, it was over, and the gates of perdition were already opening, even from the second he left that store, even from the second he had been afflicted so direly. Mortally wounded from the beginning, before the weapons were together, before the end was near, the bleeding corpse in the halls, the one that skirted around people, who answered questions with silence, and movements of the head was biding his time, the gears in motion would foretell the bloody end. There was a laceration from flesh to soul, so deep that even blood could not run the channel. Sanguine could not provide it’s warmth in those last hours.

Jo Dylan Harris was only nineteen; he was only a freshman in college. His life a tale needn’t be told, his world one that needn’t be probed. All the facts meant nothing, they were pitiless, but they were not the reason, they were not the fact. There was so much to life, from the view at the window of his soul. There was the genius, the hope, the ability, the prodigy, all of that within him, longing to see the light of day. But the curtains had been drawn long ago, and inside him the pounding at the door would go entirely unnoticed. That was the way it had to be, that was what she had created, that was what she had inspired. He was just a naïve writer, an artist with the pen, nothing more then, nothing more now. She had consumed his soul, taking with her every bit of sanity, compassion, and reason, leaving madness, and the thirst for blood.

She’d entered his life a year before, and shortly after that they were more than simply friends. The love had propagated from so much pain and hurt, pain and hurt he felt were reciprocal, the destitution of loneliness, and bankruptcy of the heart. The chambers and vaults of the soul left barren, longing to be filled with golden romance. Deep within he felt she was his, that within his vaults she could stay. Jo was hurt many times before, many more than she was, and deeper than she or he knew the scars ran, depth unfathomable, healing impossible, heart shattered into fragments more minute than science has name for. The epoxy, the very salve for his scars, was the soothing compassion exuded from her. Lost was he, at a mere instant.

Ten months, a ten-month period that need not explication, or retelling. It was ten months. The collection of past hurts, the she-devils who’d harried his soul before amounted to nothing like ten months. Their love spanned farther than he’d ever known love to span. The perfection that was their love made him uneasy, too good to be true. Maybe naivety led to the end, but the means were the pain behind the fueling desire.

The warmth and fire in her heart had faded, in those early spring weeks. A volatile trend had been set in motion. The patterns were syncing up, Jo had seen this before, and deep inside he was not ready for it to end like this, not like this. No longer was he helpless to his destiny, no longer was he helpless to fate, he was in control, like no other person at that very moment, he was in control, and the control would spark the greatest fire that had ever been seen.

That night she was too cold, to cold to say she loved him, to cold to mean it. The words “break,” or “up” never occurred, but he would not wait for them. The words needn’t be spoken, needn’t be read, or written. They were there; they were there. And before she could think she had any power, before that haughty thing could end it, he knew he would end so much else. Fate was in his hands, life and death was in his hands, so he set upon the darkest path, the path of the devil that would extricate life and deposit all of it, the blood, the flesh, the vitriolic humour of the masses, and right into his hands.

She was still his, she still belonged to him, there was time, time to act, time to close the curtain and remain on stage with her in his arms. The method: madness. The reason: love. The path: destruction. Bathed in fire, blood, and bile his ending on the stage of life would be a blast like none other. Denouement would disappear, and the climax would end the entire opera, melancholic and dark.

The machinations of war upon the earth were so subtle as to not even be noticed. The beginning was preciously lucky, for it all could have ended that night. The music shop, on the corner, emptied at eight, left defenseless. The ancient clerk, an NRA nut through and through, saw not the brick, collapsing his forehead in sanguine spray. The small town was audience not to this action, and the store “closed” as usual. But the closing occupant had a much darker appeal in mind. To the stacks, to the walls he climbed. Pieces, instruments of symphony were removed and bagged, enough sheet music to play for hours, to put on the grandest concert in all of history, were bagged, With the metal blinds down, the music store was his grand war-room, and planning begun, before sunrise the band would take the stage, and by noon the players would begin.

Early Morning:

The sun did not rear its ugly head as the clock crept to the allotted time. Clouds dotted the sky, but not even a torrential pour, a tidal wave, a deluge from heaven above, could stop the music, for it was ready to be played, and it was immortal.

He’d returned late that evening, the back door, unguarded, unwatched. He’d skirted around cameras, ill-placed, ill-watched, and arrived at the door of destiny. Eight-o-one, the bunker, his bunker the staging ground for the massive assault upon the world.

Of course his mind raced. Should he? Why would he? Punishment? Lessons to be learned? Was this the right path? Steeling his resolve he made the intentions clear upon paper. The reason and the method for the madness, and electronically he delivered his ultimatum to her.

“You cannot stop me, you cannot forestall fate, but

while I live I cannot lose you. And so I will die

I will die while you are still mine. If I cannot take

you, if I cannot have you, then I will die while you

are still, willingly, mine. So watch, watch every

media outlet you can find, for my final tribute to

you is just hours away now. This is dedicated to us,

to you, to my destiny. I love you, and I will die

loving you.”

With a few clicks of his mouse, a couple of checks, paranoia, to make sure it would reach the designated target, Jo shut off his computer screen, his faithful friend, one final time.

Looking upon the bed he saw his rest there. Six clarinets, compact, and small, enough sheet music for them to drop a thousand notes or more, two bassoons, large and powerful with their depth of tone, and the notes he’d collected, enough to leave his audience breathless, forever. And the centerpiece, one violin, a personal instrument of his. The sharpness of the strings could send through the air a whistling and humming that would cut through the very soul of his audience.

6:00AM:

The time had come. With all of his players on stage, upon his person carrying all the sheet music for the quickest changing of piece, he covered his body in night. With pants that of formal evening, and a shirt of white covered in vestment of ebony, he searched for that which would top it all off, that simple veil, a cloak of hallows eve, with it upon his shoulders he set out.

The halls were emptied, and whisked to the seventh floor, the steps to the conservatory, rarely visited. Starting from the top down he would cut in half the system that meant nothing. The place that had become a prison to his heart.

Most of all he was doing what must be done for the world. To leave his mark, for now and forever, his mark, a moniker of life and death, consumed into one twisting an ebbing, chaotic flow. Hours would pass on the dark staircase where he sat. No one would glance up to see the emerald husks of his eyes begin to burn like rubies, possession of the fiery below now seizing hold of his soul. Pontificating the very end, he was solid and contrite. Now the concerto could commence, and first….a string piece.

9:00AM

Down the stairs, one by one, down to the stage, with thunderous applause from his feet as they hit the landing. Through the double doors, the empty hall, but full of life, emanating from within the doors. He would deliver the concerto to them, the occupants of Seven-O-Nine. Assuming demeanor of a conductor, baton in hand, ready to conduct, he entered the room, it closing behind with nary more than a click. Ten faces looked back, and “glee” filled each and every visage, as elation dominated Jo’s twisted, Cheshire lips.

With deftness, and ability seen in no concerto ever before, of even the greats, the sounds of music cut through the room, so gracefully, so melodically. Vivalid, Torelli, Bach, all would have been struck with awe at the beauty which Jo used to rhythmically slice through the room. When he took his bow, standing upon the stage, a crimson cheer came from the crowd, sweet sanguine silence, not one unpleased listener. And so Jo exited, towards the next room.

Seven-O-Five was a spectator hall, largest on the floor. To think that Jo Dylan Harris was already playing packed arenas! A crowd of fifty or more was waiting within to hear his lovely new creation. A bassoon solo, from beginning to end, with such vivacity and veracity in the notes that it would make even the steeliest heart cry in appreciation of its wonder. The door opened slowly, those inside unknown to his success in the last hall. He entered the stage to immediate cries of praise. So he could only oblige to begin immediately!

Blasts of air careened through the wide hall, sending people shocked, reeling to their seats, slumping in the pure gravity of the situation. Even the hall owner, entrenched in papers and others machinations of business, behind the crowd, came down to get a better look at Jo, raising his hands in ovation, and then blown to his seat as everyone else. Jo needed only two reams of sheet music to clear the house, his performance so great that not one occupant of the hall had risen to leave, and though he had to go, he left with their chants for an encore, eternal chants, ringing from whence he’d came, to where he was going.

Catching the elevator to the lower levels of the playing hall, he knew there was more music to be made. His heated bassoon needed a rest, and so the spare came to his hands. And he awaited the small alert of his resting stall, for when the doors opened, he could begin anew.

9:15AM:

Floor six, a level packed with listeners to delight in Jo’s expertise with the musical mind. He turned first to the entrance, and three persons there watched him street perform, just for them. Already inside Six-O-Nine he could hear the crowd chanting his name, screams for his masterpiece was too great, and he yielded. Another bassoon piece, the encore his public had been waiting for, was about to begin. So throw the door Jo exploded, not waiting a moment to start his show.

The crowd gave a standing ovation like no other, moving as one mass, like a river of people, to his arrival. Everyone was so desperate to hear his piece that they charged the stage. And were blow away. Hands rising up to hold him were pushed back in revelation of his mastery of composition. This hall’s owner even charged the stage with the crazed guests, and came personally to shake Jo’s hand as the piece was reaching its finale. The honor was too great, and the owner was brought to his knees. Jo felt the accomplishment surge through him, exuded from every pore of his being, from every inch of skin.

Despite the silence that he’d maintained before, he could not help but screaming out a dedication before leaving the delighted and packed audience hall.

“This is for her, for the one who inspired my destiny!”

A new man was born, a new personage lifted into being. Jo had become the master conductor. A group of ten, then fifty, then seventy, he’d delighted audience so large. So he decided to go back to his roots and perform for smaller venues. Into a lounge he stormed, and the loungers looked upon him with reserved reverence. They moved to him, crowding around in a circle, to hear his piece. And he gave them all his bassoon had left in it finishing off with a violin solo, as the bassoon had not a sheet of music left written for it. The lounge of five older connoisseurs of the arts was left stunned.

9:30AM:

By now, upon the grounds of the University, groups of people were gathered. The portrait windows of the sixth floor showed this to Jo, seeing that his largest audience ever was already assembled.

They could not wait, not in groups of ten, or twenty, or thirty, or more, they wanted a mass concert, a collection of a hundred. So he would oblige them. Upon the sixth story balcony he rose. Points and shouts echoed through the crowd as he raised his clarinet duo to the ready. Conductor extraordinaire began his brilliant fusion of chamber and Jazz. The furious pouts of his pieces rung to the crowd who scattered for better seats, looking to see that face which was providing such excellent entertainment. The sorrowful jazz caused those in the crowd to bellow in rapt and abject sobbing, as many were left with nothing but their bodies upon the grassy knoll.

Jo thought he’d not have time to relinquish his other woodwinds as the current clarinets, hot from play, were rendered emptied, but the other two he held obliged, immediately. And he began anew. The viewers targeted for their tastes, each delivered a stunning blow to the brain wrapping around their senses so synesthetically that they were reduced to masses of person, on their knees or backs. But before Jo could clean the house, he noticed who was arriving, fashionably late, to his performance. With their blaring lights and uniforms of power and authority, the critics were there to ruin his career. He would not let them. Emptying his sheet music for the third and fourth clarinet, he left the stage.

“I will great the critics in person, and win over their hearts!” he cheered to the crowd, silent now, enthralled.

He bound the steps, faster than any elevator. For the critics must not be kept waiting, no, they were the ones he had to please, the hardest to please. There were thirty of them, by the look, and just luckily for his clarinets, six and five, he’d packed enough sheet music to play for them. From the fifth, to fourth, to third, to second floor, he could still hear the critics. With their voices like roars, they bellowed for his return. And just that was what he would give them, a musical like the mouths of the abyss opening, and a chorus of voices beyond all reason.

9:45AM:

The double doors, the rotunda above, and hell below, Jo made for the double doors, pulling hands to each, clarinets held with abandon with which he would perform a peculiar piece for the woodwind, a dirge, the finale composition of the master orchestral and symphonic Jo. He’d composed a clarinet dirge that would echo through the annals of time as the greatest and most emotional piece ever written, either contemporarily or classically. Even the deafened Beethoven could merely have felt these docid and been brought to tears.

The wood was difficult to move, unlike his prior listeners, and with all of his might, Jo used his body’s driving strength to push past these blockades throwing open the portal and looking upon his audience. The critic’s special box was filled their pens at the ready to note each and every one of Jo’s movements. But Jo moved back behind the doors, momentarily, leaving the critics in confusion. He could not make such a mundane entrance. And so with another moment of thought, he ran through the final dirge in his head, just one more go over, to make sure everything was perfect. Mentally he noted the positions of the critics, to know how to play, and which direction to concentrate the sound.

He felt suspended, motionless, everything blurred. The butterflies had grown numerous in his gullet. For the first time he felt the rapture of nervousness, this piece needed to go off without a hitch it needed perfection. So he dropped his cape, opting for the natural state of just his elegant attire, face, and palms dripping with anxious sweat. Heart racing, heart pulsating without a care in the world, he needed one more moment.

Jo remembered her; this was for her. To end his career as hers he would need to be with her in mind, at the very end, at the finale. The dedication to that beauty, with smooth skin, and hair like silken ebony strands, that which had inspired all of his life from the point they’d met, and from the vows they had made. He would vindicate those vows now; he would put everything to rest and end this performance in her honor. She would know he was with her at the end, that they held hands upon that stage as the lights died and the curtain fell.

10:00AM:

Jo picked to his feet and broke through the light invading from the doors. He did not even blink, starting the symphony immediately. Trumpets of sadness spouted from his clarinets. The dirge in full swing before anyone had even noticed what had happened. But the critics were not swayed. Though two of their ranks had taken a liking to the music, the others scribbled at their pads, sending daggers of hate back at Jo. He felt hit by them, but could not stop now. So close, so close to perfection.

He continued, moving into the choral section, adding for the first time his vocals to the dirge.

“And though the curtain closes, and life goes astray, fear not sheep, for the shepherd loves thee!” he bellowed, bringing two more critics to his side, but suffering many more injurious comments by his detractors.

“The light dims, and life leaves, but the memory….always….REMAINS!” Jo directed his musical prowess at their seating, and with a massive explosion of praise, took most of the critics with his stylings.

The flames of his dirge luminously scorched the surrounding area, the last critics scrambling to fire out more insults to his ability. The wounds coursed him; warmth was leaving. Jo could not go on much longer. He’d given his all to this performance. He’d given his all to her. Even when she’d not given the same to him, he had given it. All of his life, his time, and his will. The irony that the same would happen in his performance gave him the power to continue on.

Standing against the curtain wall, covered in the essence of his music, drenched in the notes and pieces, he raised the clarinets one last time and tried to resume. But the clarinets would not play. They refused to play, though all but two critics remained, the damning instrument of his demise. If they survived with their ardor, to pass on negative reviews, it would be his end. So Jo did the only thing he could, improvisation. He drew the violin, much to the surprise of his audience and called to the world the final chorus.

“And in the end, when dust and ash commiserate, in this horrid world, let it be known that you, in death, are without sin, and approach glory, and passion on high!”

Jo rushed to his critics off stage, to serenade them personally. The hail of their detriment buried into him, but he was resolved, they would be won over, they would see all the poetry make sense. He but smiled, the hatred still colliding with him as it did, leaving streaks of blackness and pain behind Jo as he dashed.

The violin’s sweet tones won that heart of the first critic, taking him with a sigh into melodic impassioned musing on Jo’s virtues. The second critic soon follows, and Jo was able to pierce him through, and take him to his seat with his last bit of music. The violin sweetly chimed one last time before the very music he played caused each and every string to break, turning the violin to shambles before his eyes, ending his performance in earnest.

Turning to the crowd, Jo bowed, saying nothing. Not long, was he, for this musical world in which he had been placed. His eyes trained to the sky as more sirens filled the air. Letting go of the shattered violin, hearing it hit the ground with a sickening cacophony of clangs, Jo peered up into the endless firmament. There was the sound of paparazzi cars arriving, and Jo was encircled by his adoring populace. They readied microphones and leveled their notepads at him. But he could still only look at the sky. There was another warning, but nothing; he still bore into that heaven above with both his eyes.

As the paparazzi consumed him, he could only continue that skyward glance.

“I can feel the rain…” he said with gentle reservation, his only surviving quote, to this day.

But the sun was shining, and the gray had long been cast from the sky.