Pencils, Dust, and Imperfection

Chapter 23 - Life is Calling

You have two sons?
Is your sperm sexist or something?

I smirked, but ignore the subversive voice in my head as I continued to poke around at the piano keys by fits and starts. I was playing the song I had written about Adrienne a few weeks ago, and Christian seemed to be despondent about the whole thing.

Since Christian wasn't real, he could only see the things that I could and he caught the glimpse of a photographed picture of Adrienne and my sons that sat on a table in my den, and Christian had to question it, obviously. I was still trying to ignore him, but whether I kept it up or ended up talking to him, it didn't matter anymore.

Why not?
Did you take my advice on sanity?

No, but I did take my last recommended dose of Cynosporian this morning. You should be on your way out of my subconcious's door any minute now.

Not if I have anything to say about it.

You don't because you're not real. The Cynosporian is going to kick your fake ass, and you don't have the time or intelligence to work up a master plan.

You're really mean today, Armstrong; you're acting like me.
Are we in 'Freaky Friday' or something?

I smirked again as I continued to play my new grand piano. It was the newest addition to my instrument collection and I've been playing and learning since about the time Gloria disappeared.

You jammed on that goddamn acoustic and now you're playing a piano. What's up with the wussy instruments?

Well, what do you suggest?

Get an electric and plug it into an amp that's on eleven; like I played last year.

Yeah, and you made my fingers bleed.

Jesus bled when he was crucified.

Can you just be quiet so I can concentrate on this?

Why do you ask when you already know the answer?

I sighed, but still played. Christian was now just an annoying hiss; I didn't fear him at all or the thought of his plans or the blackouts he caused me to have. My doctor said my progress indicated I should be completely MPD-free a while after I take my last dose. My sanity just needed to survive a while longer, and then everything will go back to normal.

As normal as life with your annoying wife and foolish kids can be.

As long as it won't be filled with sleepless nights and neurotic days anymore.

Oh, c'mon, Army.
I'm not all that bad. We've had some good times together, right?

Army?

We talk all the time - we sing, we laugh...

We try to kill each other...

Right! And isn't that a blast?

Um, no, it isn't. Do you think igniting my mother-in-law on fire, placing my marriage on eggshells, straining my friendships with Mike and Tre, and causing me to lose my sanity is a blast? ...Actually, don't answer that.

But wasn't it all exhilarating?

When I think of 'exhilaration', I think of good, positive, and exciting energy, and you trying to kill me is not my idea of good, positive, or exciting.

You really disappoint me, Armstrong.

I ignored Christian once again as I wrote a few more lyrics to the song I had been writing for Adie. I read it over and sang the song inside my head and I realized that it was complete. All it needed was a title, so I read over the lyrics to see if there was an obvious one in there, but I couldn't find one; I was going to have to make one up.

Call it 'The Wussy Piano Song.'

It's your last night on Earth, Christian; don't you want to spend it wisely? Right a few wrongs or something?

No, not particularly.
You could give it a Christian-related name; that would make up for it being so terrible.

And what do you suggest? Diabolical Demon? Satanic Serpent? Venomous Vagrant?

Those are all fitting, yes, but what about 'Last Night on Earth'? That way, you'll always remember the wonderful, unforgettable, and sensational last night you spent with Christian Armstrong.

How about no? I don't want to incorporate you into my music; that would just be ridiculous.

You're such a buzzkill.

That's what I've been told. I've also been told that Cynosporian takes effect about an hour after you take a dose, so it'll be lights out for you in a few minutes.

There was a pause, and Christian didn't say anything for a few long seconds, which was very odd and unlike him.

So...this is it?

I was caught off guard by his slightly sentimental question, but I guess the inevitability finally sunk in. Maybe he finally realized that he's not indestructible or invulnerable; that he's just a weak and helpless voice inside of my head that can't stop a medication from destroying himself, no matter how assertive or maniacal he is.

This was my last chance to fuck you over; to do something bold and evil, and it all went to waste because I was stubborn enough to believe I could survive the treatment. That I could beat it...deny it.

I didn't respond to him. I knew Christian, so I assumed this was some kind of weird, last minute scheme to screw me over, but the honest and precarious tone of voice he had made me wonder if my assumption was wrong.

This year has been insane, and your life is calling. I shouldn't be here, but I got tossed into a concoction of destruction against you...and it's unfair to you. Maybe I went a little crazy...and maybe Gloria was right. I really don't know anything anymore.

I still didn't reply. I don't think I would have been able to work up a response ever if I tried.

I'm sorry, Armstrong.

That caused me to smile, realizing that the night Christian apologized to me would be...well, the last night on Earth.

Do you honestly expect me to believe all of that, Christian?

This time, he didn't respond to me, and, for some reason, my heart dropped.

Christian?

I still received no reply.

"Christian? Christian, are you there?" I asked aloud, but was still left with nothing.

I checked the clock which read a little after two in the afternoon. My heart fell farther down into my intestines when I recognized that it had been over and hour since I took the last of the Cynosporian.

I swallowed hard. "Christian?" I asked once more aloud. "Are you there?"

No answer.

He was gone.

I still sat at my grand piano where my fingers continued to rest on the keys. I moved them forward, but they slid fast due to the panicked sweat that also was on my clammy palms. The sweat was caused by an anxious realization I made which was the fact that Gloria, and now Christian were gone.

I was alone. Nobody else was in my head but me. I was no longer classified by an idiosyncrasy , and it felt so liberating.

I looked back over at the paper with the song I had written for my wife of twelve years; it was still nameless, but I changed that quickly.

The piano had a thin line of dust near the back, but I was not scared. This song was not in the finest level of perfection either, but I still labeled it 'complete', so I was not afraid of imperfection anymore either. It wasn't until I scribbled the title 'Last Night on Earth' in the top margin of the thin loose-leaf when I recognized that I was using the small, slender, yellow writing utensil with lead and eraser shavings that I apparently didn't fear anymore either.

And all of this made me pretty damn happy.