Sonata

I'll always remember Oli died on a Monday.

Technically, the second day of the week.

It was on Mondays that people have to face a new seven days; a completely different fraction of 52 that made the year inch closer and closer to its end, to a whole new level of change. Most of the time, this 'change', which is really only zeroing the scale of 365, is welcomed into the majority's life.

But still, we always have our outliers.

There are some who would rather extend their calendar ahead by another 12 and keep thriving in the flow of things. These are the ones who can't handle the introduction of change, or are in something they have planned on keeping. Something that they have gained love from, or acceptance, or allied grievances.

This helps me get back on track from the current digression, which I apologize for. What I was meaning to say was that Oli being executed on a Monday could serve as symbolism for many things.
First and foremost, and actually stated previously, Monday is the day that forces people to face an inevitably minor, or depending on the individual, major transition.

It is the day after the weekend; the aftermath of a party, or a hangover.
It is when a period that has been enjoyed and taken for granted fades into the past, and when a mandatory; ordered; destined string of five 24 hours that demands for work has arrived.

This is when we crack down.
This is when fun time is over.

Secondly, and this theory is debatable yet not dismissive, is the common stigma that Monday is a day to be detested, for the reason recently explained. And my theory is that killing Oli on a day that everyone, including him, hated, would be a minuscule addition; the smallest spark of a pow against us hooligans. Like getting rid of one of our own on their turf.

But most importantly, I think they murdered Oli on a Monday to present an authoritative message they have been trying to maintain for the past six months:
We're putting an end to this, and after we do, get back to work.

They were giving us the chance to have one more time before they would take care of him for good.

I talk in the past tense when it comes to discussing his demise only to help myself. Conversing about him in a way that suggests that he is dead and gone is much easier than remembering him as he continues to live.

That hurts too much.

It's as though the book is finally sealed and shut; that the whole ordeal is over. Trust me when I say this though, I have rolled around in my head the idea of Oli possibly surviving what was surely coming to him many times. I've tried to make myself believe he could get out of anything; that the world is stunned stupid by his intelligence. That Oliver Sykes could take on an army, and while doing so, break free from the handcuffs and the shackles before they hung him on a rope.

Never underestimate the power of denial.

Right now, I'm standing in the building where we had so many memories, on a Monday.
That Monday.

The dingy night club that i had spent my nights at all too often. The place that served as a safe haven for others like myself; as a solace from the society that i had grown up in for my entire life that turned to complete shit. The only alternative. my home.
It had been turned into a mad house of the people I hated, and the people I loved.

But they didn't love me now.
They wouldn't even look at me.

Their eyes were solely focused for their savior, no matter how teary from despair or blinded by rage.
I was not their savior.
I was their enemy.

It took me a lot of time and becoming a regular of the club in order to win the majority's respect.
A lot of bonding and smiles and good times that made me a part of them.
Some still didn't accept me after three months.
They didn't even believe the one they're waiting for now when he told them that I was one of them. That I was philosophically and spiritually family, and that they should embrace me as one of their own.

They never did.

And now they are here once again, on very different circumstances, waiting for the man that saved them from killing themselves to die himself.
Right on the stage.

Oli said that he felt most alive when he was on that platform.
An ironic statement to be thinking back to that leaves me on a note of eerie queasiness.

My ass was in the corner, away from all those vengeful bastards. I haven't completely lost it by trying to fishtail my way into the crowd, and hopefully, into their hearts, just to get closer to Oli.

I wouldn't have wanted that anyway.

I'd rather have a distant view of his execution and keep my memories, because no matter how short lived, we did share things I planned on keeping.

Extend my calendar by another 12.

The place had an air of smoke, beer, and sweat to it that was damn near suffocating, yet I held my tongue. Next to me, towards the back by the vacant bar and the exit, were former friends who didn't have the vulturesque or desire to see a hero fall, yet had the will to be able to say they were there. They were dressed in blacks and grays in mourning -which didn't look much different from their casual wear- or homemade shirts that read "I believe in you" or "Oli Sykes <3" or sometimes his whole name, Oliver Scott Sykes. I even saw one that said "Oliver Sykes saved me". These people were the ones who cringed every time a noise that outlasted the chatter of everyone else's gasped and looked immediately towards the stage, expecting to see a limp body hanging from a string; always wrong.
I was one of those.

The pack at the very front were the extremists.
The borderline obsessive that would lick Oli's blood off their faces once they got splashed. The ones who would most likely scower through his remains and claim keepsakes, relics, and who knows what else if the authorities didn't dispose of him by then.
Probably some who would snip off a lock of his hair, or a finger, and put it in a brew that they swear will resurrect him.
The crazies.

And, as if on que, a short haired girl used her eyes as bows to shot arrows in my direction, while standing around with one of the many small groups in the back; jumping at every sudden noise and calling to tell her friends that couldn't make it that the judges were torturing Oli backstage so mercilessly, she could hear him screaming.
I didn't give her the reason/satisfaction to see my reaction, so I just tipped my plastic beer cup up to my face and drank.

Stupid heifer, Oli would have called her.
He would of done that and given her the finger if he was standing at my side, and if it were a GUY, let's just say that he wouldn't be afterwards.
Thinking back on Oli's macho personality, it made me miss it even more and realize how truly vulnerable my emotions were without him. We were thrown a lot of shit when we first began going out, up until now when we would be infinitely split apart.
I remember how everyone's new hobby became archery and I sported a huge target as a t-shirt.
I remember Oli showing me off as his girlfriend and people laughing, at least until they got their teeth knocked out.
Or as a girl was crying when he called her a frigid bitch for acting towards me as though I didn't reach his standards, which he would then say I exceeded, and finish pointing out that NO ONE could compare to me.
He was always the one initiating fights if a guy so much as stared for a second too long out of hatred, or out of lust. I can't even place a number on all the times his friends have been called in to intervene or calm him down, or me for that matter.
It was like a full time job to keep the lion in his cage.

Becoming sourly nostalgic, I realized that the way that girl glared at me did hurt. That she had great aim as she pointed those arrows at me heart. It was because now I had to fight all of my own battles because Oli wasn't there to pursue them for me. The nasty looks, the hateful and/or flirtatious glances, and anything else that was possible were being flung at me without a shield; without Oli.

I took another long, hard drink.

I wouldn't let them win, I wouldn't let them win.
Lacking emotion is bliss.

Looking over at the double entrance doors with a certain uneasiness, I feared I would be glancing over at the absolute wrong time and be trapped watching them close it; signaling the start of the execution, even if for a mille-moment. But to my thankful blessing, the two guards dressed in uniform were standing as weakly as possible like this was the most boring event to be taking place in America.
On the contrary, the announcement of Oliver Scott Sykes' "Sentence to Death" was most talked about. Either people were utterly devastated, or no doubt, enthusiastic about hanging a kid trying to save the nation.

As it hasn't been explained yet, Oli had bigger plans that had not occurred to his followers; that had not even been thought of. Oli's sole purpose was not to save the misunderstood, repressed degenerates, but to restore our basic human rights:
To retrieve freedom of speech, expression, and the press.

Too much to explain all in one sentence -especially on the borderline of intoxication- I understand, but Oli didn't give a shit if people loved his music, came to his shows, or labeled him an "artistic messiah".
People loved his music because there was nothing else out there, and they forgot what it was like to hear something other than the tone of a human's voice.
People came to his shows because they were literally aching to get more than just an outside experience, and people labeled him an "artistic messiah" because no one else seemed to have the guts that it took to speak out against society in the way that they banned. He didn't give a shit about the single individual to the entire crowd of ear-hungry adolescents, what he was concerned about was the bigger picture.

He wanted all of the U.S. to be informed of his actions, so that maybe, something would spark within them and they would realize that they were being severely deprived, and not to mention, so screwed by the government. He wanted a dozen more products of himself to sprout across the states.

He told me all of this.

It sounds conceited, but that's the way Oli was. He thought he was such hot shit for "sticking it to the man" by screaming his lungs out on a stage to a wild, kinetic-driven mass of moshing teens his age when it was prohibited.
They've always been there to inflate his ego, but not to deflate. I guess I did the job minisculy, along with his band mates and brother, but even after, we knew that was just another big part of his personality.

He was one cocky motherfucker.

On the stage itself, with their chairs lined up against the wall, facing the crowd, were the corporate bastards who masterminded the entire event, and had the absence of a heart to go through with it. The ones who had no problem killing a kid in order to stay in complete, totalitarian control.
Assholes.

They sat conversing with one another with their light-weight daiquiris and laughter about a joke; most likely about Oli.The thought that I wasn't that far off made my blood boil, literally aching to decapitate every single one of them. That was my love they were preparing to slaughter, and already, that should've been enough suffering.
Don't talk shit about the dead.

The sea of hatred had parted, and through it walked Tom, the brother mentioned previous. He did not look much different from all the other instances I had seen him, which was sad considering he looked quite tragic. The only exception this time was that when he stood right under one of the few spotlights in the room, his eyes gleamed in a kind of bizarre blue; more intense due to tears. Tom's eyes always seemed to hold the key adjective to his personality: cold. I've come to discover that they did not hold distance, but fear.

Maybe fear because every event he tagged along to was illegal to some degree, or maybe he had a feeling this day would come, or maybe, living in the shadow of the most wanted man in the country, where death threats were thrown at him left and right, scared him a little.
Maybe his brother's dynamic personality itself intimidated him.

And yet, maybe some puzzles were never meant to be solved.
Only Oli had ever known, and would be the one who ever would.

Tom had been standing in front of me for a couple minutes by now, barely making eye contact, and rubbing his right forearm in that awkward, stuck kind of way.
It made me appreciate him even more.
This past week, all of Oli's friends -well, the one's who would also be considered mine- had approached me, wearing monotonous expressions of deep misery, and gave me their apologies. I'll accept it as a nice gesture, but at the same time, incredibly exhausting and repetitive.

I guess they thought that their sympathy was somehow original; that no one else had come up to me yet, and really helpful in pushing me up the ladder to recovering.

Instead of up a ladder to hang myself from a pair of pantie hose.

Tom had surely experienced the same thing, and therefore, knew that saying nothing at all was better than what anyone else could do.
It was real, and that was enough.

But sooner or later, one of us would have to say something, so I figured I should.

"Hey Tom."
He looked up at me and tried to smile.

"Hi Eve."

"So, um, you know this isn't my fault, right?"

I wish I could take that question back immediately. It was such selfishness that had escaped from my mouth; completely unintentional and barbaric to my manners, but almost destined for my thoughts to hear.
Maybe it was because I knew Tom was a nice guy and wouldn't give me an answer I didn't want to hear, in turn relieving my shallow worries of people's judgments, making me feel better, until I was confronted with a new conflict.

It was a sick cycle, really, but it was what it was.

I knew this entire situation wasn't my fault, and if you wanted to pin something to me, then it was the "mistake" that I fell for Oli, or even better, vice versa.
Oliver Sykes fell for the governor's daughter.
The Governor who made this execution a realistic happening.
He knew what he was getting into.

I blinked only in time to see the last movements of Tom's lips; signaling the end of his response.

"What?"

"I said I know yeh didn't cause any of this. Oli was goin' get nicked someday." He repeated.

"Still, I'm sorry." I countered guiltily.

"Don't be. Yeh can't dream these days without punishment."

This would only come from the mouth of an observer, I thought. Only someone who didn't take reckless chances, but saw plenty of others go through with it and suffer the consequences.

Only from the brother of a radical dreamer.

He was staring at a spot above my shoulder; to the back road of his past. If a deep comment like that had me going, then his mind was REELING.

Tom, the sixth wheel of a bunch of daredevils acting out.
Tom, the little brother that was threatened day in and day out for Oli's risky actions.
Tom, the shy, helpless young adult who was about to lose the only person he trusted; the guidance that shone a light upon him for it to burn out just as fast.

At that moment, I wanted to give him a nice gesture of "I'm sorry".
My original sympathy.

"Spoken like a true skeptic." I said.
He shrugged, absent of any heart, and straightened up a bit.

"It IS true."

"Maybe so, but at least he tried. What if killing him will cause a national riot?"
Tom kept our gazes locked for the first time; held in place by his blue hypnosis.

"Yeh can't beat the government Eve. You of all people should know that."

I found no improvement in arguing with him, so instead, I gave the best apology I could muster in a smile and held my arms out to my sides; gesturing for an embrace. He seemed to be suspicious at first, almost as though he was seeing things, but nonetheless, he obliged carefully and overlapped his hands on the small of my back. They clung tightly in a way only two people in mourning could share.
We were a bundle of liquid soul held together by four arms.

It was then that I realized that I had never hugged Tom before.

His body, his head on my left shoulder as opposed to on the right where Oli would lay his...it was foreign to me. Not in a negative way, but in a way that was a nice discovery every once in a while. Although, I could feel the awkward gamma ray radiating off of his chest, and I let go just as fast.

His face held mixed signals of remorse, and the oxymoron of relief.
Like he was one step up the ladder or recovering.

I felt a faint blush invade my cheeks and I stared down at the ground in aid.

"Do they ofen' give yeh rotten looks like tha'?"

I turned around behind me, where Tom was staring, and once again saw the same short haired girl giving me the stink eye that could very possibly be her only, permanent expression.
I groaned and looked back at Tom; nodding.

"She gave me that look about twenty minutes ago."

He slightly puckered his lips to the left in a thoughtful way, before saying,
"Lemme 'ave a chat with her."

And before I even gave a reply, he was already brushing past me. I hoped that Tom's grief was the only factor to this sudden sense of invincibility he had collected. I didn't want him to get into any deep trouble that he would regret.

Slightly worried, I began to bite the nail off of my right pinky while I watched him shift his shoulders through a circle of people in order to get to that one girl.
It's not like she was the only one who hated me in here, and I didn't understand his need to stand up to her for me.
Maybe it was to alleviate some of the stress that has been building inside of him.
Maybe barking someone's head off was the type of therapy he needed, and not empty apologies or silence in the company of the only other person who knew exactly what he was going through.
Maybe he just needed a reason to lash out.

My vision sharpened as Tom finally reached her.
He tapped her shoulder, politely from what I could see, and waited as she slowly turned around and faced him. Her stink eye had been clouded over by cordial alertness, and that thin line of a mouth had spread to form a loose smirk.

She was already trashed.

His movements were small and unsure in the beginning, like he realized that he had made a mistake in approaching her. But her absence of anything threatening made it seem as though she welcomed his presence.

I couldn't even strain my ears to hear their conversation since the club atmosphere had finally started to sink in due to the absorption of alcohol. Even though it was only 7% of the whole, it would be the 7% that would make my assumptions about the situation certain.

I suddenly noticed Tom point in my direction, and the face of the girl inevitably turn sour. My drink covered my face from humiliation as I took long, large gulps.

His hand gestures became more apparent as her's were totally dominating.
Her eyes were narrowed and his were full of innocence.
His stance was distant while she kept getting closer and closer.

It was apparent that he had never done something like this before from the way his body was screaming 'Help!' and her's was roaring for confrontation.

What a way to sober up.

I figured it was time to get over there before he got himself some injuries, but when I looked over, he was already coming back. His face was contorted in a mix of sorrow and frustration, along with a brutal blow to his self esteem by the way his shoulders were slouching even more than before.

The girl seemed to have gone back to the company of her group, only a little more frigid and irritable. I thought Tom was at least going to tell me what had happened, especially since he made contact with her in the first place in my defense. But, instead, he kept his eyes downcast and his hands tightly secured in his jean pockets. That burst of invincibility had been popped like a balloon and Tom couldn't back up his shit.

"So, w-what did she say?"
I asked nervously; afraid that the event might have been too traumatizing for him to speak of.

He shook his head towards the tile.
"Nothing."

I hated that answer.

"Come on Tom, tell me what happened."

He scuffed his trainers against the floor and let out an exasperated sigh. After a few moments, I thought I would have to repeat the question, but he finally responded:

"She was talking rubbish."

"About who? me?"

He shook his head more vigorously this time and looked back up to at least my neck.

"No, about Oli."

I can't say I was surprised, but to badmouth someone behind his soon-to-be lifeless back to his brother is a level that should never be attained. I was worried at how Tom would take the entire evening with all the disdain and ruthless comments made about Oli.

Call me ridiculous.
Call me naive.

There was this strange feeling that inhabited me unconsciously that made me feel as though I had to hold a shield over Tom's head to protect him from the beastly atmosphere of the club. It had been that way ever since the beginning, when his brother and I would come here every weekend. He'd be sitting behind the clothed table that was covered with cds, drinking his virgin daiquiri at the age of 22, with that same uncomfortable, tight lipped face.

I was only a year older, as was Oli, but I had always told him to be careful and not to get pissed, even though I knew he never would.
His answer was always a small, flashing smile and a nod.
Then I'd leave him alone for the rest of the night.

I should take my own advice sometimes, for I remember times when he looked absolutely scared when we would laugh our asses off in public and talk about the show.
The band would pretend like they were once again playing their instruments and I would be on the ground in hysterics as the alcohol was in the midst of its potential effect.
He would hiss at us to stop, but it came out more as a whimper; warning us to shut up before the local police would throw all our asses in jail.
I didn't realize how lucky we were that that never happened.

After that short wave of nostalgia was over, I saw Tom looking me in the eye again.
Finally.

"What did she say about him?"

"She went off on me about how he was a tight-arse who deserved to be dead; that she would rather them burn him on a stake for being Satan than let him off easy with a snapped neck, and that he would 'kill innocent people just to save himself'. I knew she was off her chump. Oli never topped anybody."

I acknowledged this outcome with a shake of my head in disapproval.

"Is that all?"

"No,"
And he smiled.

"She gave me a real ear bashing for embarrassing her in front of her friends."

We gazed at each other for a moment in time until we both softly chuckled about the ridiculous counter-statement. I don't know why she was hanging out in the back of the club; she should of been front and center with all the other nut jobs.

The door that led to the backstage creaked open just the slightest.
The creak that was close to silent, yet the one noise that everyone had been waiting to hear.
The family was stunned quiet while the higher powers sighed in relief from the long wait.
Nothing happened at first, meaning no one was entering into the room, and all the anxious hearts in the room were pumping pure, liquid adrenaline.

A few deep breaths later, and Oli enters.

Everything is on pause, or better, powered off in response to his appearance. Even from the very back of the room, and I know I couldn't possibly be seeing the same man. His hair is the only part of him i can recognize, since it's always been such a hot mess.

Everything else is a stranger.

He's clothed in an orange jumpsuit, complete with handcuffs and shackles, and while he's trudging forward, the chains clink together in a song much more melancholy than anything he could have ever written. His stride is not much that anymore, but instead, a miserable slump that radiates shame from his neon body.

Something else I couldn't identify was his lack of weight.
He was skinny to begin with when they took him, but watching as he sluggishly reaches the platform to his fate, his tattoos seem shrunken, along with his arms. The jumper is hanging loosely from him, and the face that I had grown to fall in love with was just skin stretched tightly across cheek bones and sockets where his eyes used to be.

His guard pushed him forward harshly when he would stop walking.
He could barely make his way up the few steps to get to the stage due to the chain around his ankles, and that alone broke me even more.

Tom's hand again found it's way around the small of my back, and slowly trailed to my shoulder for support.

The crowd was absolutely vicious on both ends of the spectrum; from completely breaking down into a sob to a couple cheers from the opposing radicals.
Oli just kept his head towards the ground and pressed on.
his stature was just so stricken down, it was uncharacteristic.

Even in the face of worst, there was always a spark of sorts left blazing inside of him and igniting in others.
Just the sight of such a forfeit made this feel more intensely realistic.

I leaned into Tom and closed my eyes.

"Eh, love, stay with me."

Another loud chorus of 'boo!'s roared to the four walls that reverberated back to my ears.

"Stay with me."

The loud swishes of objects moving through the air abruptly burst from impact; no doubt Oli.
Immediately after, deep bellows from officers ordered them to stop before they too hang from the rafters.

"Don't cry."

Oli wouldn't even speak to save his own honor.
And neither would Tom.

"Just keep your eyes shut."

My breathing became more rapid as the seconds elongated.
The outrage/celebration continued to stomp my heart into a pulp filled blood juice.

"Hold on."

Crying, other than my own, could be heard for miles, and make a man on the opposite side of the world do the same.

"Sshh..."

Clinks of chains shattered as Oli stepped up to the platform on top of the platform; the actual contraption that would kill him.

"Don't look Eve."

They wrapped the rope around his neck as he looked ahead at the people who came to witness his defeat.
I wondered if he was looking for me.
Praying for me.
Begging for me.

"Eve, please close your eyes."

Tom lifted his hand to block my vision, but I pushed it away.
I had to.

Oli's guard turned towards the council, and they nodded.
Oli extended his neck to stare out beyond everybody.
In my direction.

"Stay with me."

They pushed him over towards the right to assure that he was standing in the center of the trap door.

And then, they pulled the lever.

The floor shot towards the ground, and Oli was pulled straight down.
His fall was cut short by the rope, and he squirmed idly in the air; choking on his own throat.
The crowd went wild.

The horrid sounds of his gasps and heaving made it clear that something had gone wrong; that the rope had not intended to kill instantly. His body flailed violently as the convulsions were no longer voluntary. They had kept the handcuffs and shackles on, which were now digging deeply into his skin; cutting his pores to shreds.

No one really knew what was happening, but an execution shouldn't have taken this long.

Even as I kept my eyes away from his direction while the preparation was in its process, I couldn't tear them away now.

I wasn't crying, and I wasn't even in shock.
My mind was sedated.
I was in so much pain that I couldn't feel it anymore and it was as though it didn't even exist.

I hoped that Oli was as lucky as I was.

Tom's grip around my shoulders had tightened to their limit as he watched his brother struggle helplessly for another breath of air.
He wouldn't let up on what he was feeling.
His face was empty.

Oli slowly began to slow down his movements, and soon, he had become limp.

There were a few claps.
There sprouted a few whistles.
There remained a dozen sobs.

But there was only one fact left:

Oli had finally given up, and right in the middle of the stage...
hung America's hero.