Die in Tune

The City Of Muoia Nell’Aria By Kaleb Sturm

Welcome to the City of Muoia Nell’Aria, a land full of magnificent landscapes that are constantly ruined by their inhabitants. If you are curious about the name of the city, “Muoia Nell’Aria” means “die in tune” in Italian. The population is gradually growing, therefore, I can’t give you any precise numbers, but I can say that it is divided into three groups (though some would consider the Rebellion a fourth group): the screamers, the murderers and the witnesses.

The screamers are people who take advantage of others and can’t live without the spotlight on them. They are called screamers, because they always want to be cause or be involved in any sort of drama and it’s as if they ‘scream’ for people to look at them, to actually pretend to care about them. When they fail to get people’s attentions, they get themselves into scandals. Corrupt and materialistic people can be included into this group, the scum or should I say, the villains of society.

To contrast the screamers, we have the murderers. These, unlike the ones afore mentioned, put a lot of effort into their work to achieve success. They are called murderers because they are the only ones who can put an end into the screamers’ need for overdramatic moments, in other words, “kill them”. They don’t need the attention or the fame, unlike the screamers. These are the people who control the situation of the city, decide war and peace and solve political issues and any sort of crisis.

Lastly, we have the witnesses, the “nobodies” of the society. They are the alienated population. They believe in everything they see and hear and live isolated from the rest of the world, therefore are usually ignorant about the things that happen in the city. They are called witnesses because they tend to just witness events happen before their very eyes and don’t do anything positive or negative to affect the situation in the city.

But not everyone’s happy with this. Some murderers, witnesses and even screamers decide to go against it all and not conform to any beliefs that are shoved into their heads. Together they form the rebellion. They might be the minority, but they are the only ones who can make a difference in the city.

When it comes to constructions and architecture, this city is quite futuristic, full of gadgets and automatic machines that help us on our daily tasks, but, simultaneously, preserves its history with glorious monuments and older constructions. Unfortunately, with the endless new infra-structures being built, the population of the city is committing horrendous crimes against Mother Nature, such as deforestation.

Welcome to the City of Muoia Nell’Aria, welcome to the metaphor of our world. I hope you have a nice stay and don’t forget to buy souvenirs before you leave.

I let my first draft of my article, the only handwritten one I had, fall on her grave. The messy calligraphy was swaying back and forth on its way to the ground, due to the peaceful breeze. The only audible sound was the one of the winds hitting against the trees. I was visiting the cemetery and reading her the only remains of the city, with some alterations I did to fit the idea I had for my article. I had decided to criticize our society through metaphors. Harriet loved metaphors, though her favorite figure of speech had always been euphemism.

It had been three weeks since her death, three long, hard weeks. Since then, I have been to her funeral and seen her mother cry and tried to be there for her. Her depression phase was longer and harder on her than on me. She needed her time, but I’ve tried to console her. She was looking for the person who killed her daughter. I was brought also to be questioned, but so far, the man still hasn’t been found. He’s probably in another state and changed his identity. I couldn’t even find an insult that could do him justice. Nor would I have control if I ever were in the same room as him. I had decided to ask her mom something that had been on my mind. “Mrs. Reid, why didn’t you call the cops?” I regretted it after though, because she had a breakdown insisting that it had been her fault. She revealed to me that she and the man who she owed money to had actually been in a relationship just a few months before and that she didn’t want to rat him off to the police, because she still loved him. I didn’t insist asking more questions, because she just sat in silence in a puddle of her own tears and guilt. At first, I didn't know how to react to the news she had revealed, but after the shock wore off, I hated her for having been so selfish. Yet, whenever I looked at her, the swollen and red eyes from crying, the noticeable weight loss and the dark circles under her eyes from the lack of sleep, my hatred transformed into pity.

I’ve returned to school and got pitiful stares and many apologies from familiar strangers, even from Shawn and Brian who had ignored me since the last time we met face-to-face. I went to my old town and paid a visit to Leonora. At first, I could tell from her eyes that she hated seeing me there and that all she wanted to do was slap me across the face. And she did. Then when we talked, she was cold to me, but I sure as hell deserved it, even after apologizing. It was something I needed to do, something I had needed to confront. We stayed at her door talking briefly though, until our encounter turned into an awkward silence.

Three weeks may seem short and fast for most, but these three weeks felt like years for me. Although everything seemed to be the same, the empty feeling still remained. I wasn’t grieving anymore, but filling a hole someone left you with is a hard thing to do, especially when reminders of that person are exposed to you everyday, whether it was the camera, or a subject, or an empty seat, or a small house that had once been a second home to you.

Solitude had once been something I valued. Why didn’t I accept it anymore?

“Or is it because the owner of the picture is too afraid that his good memories will be attached to the bad memories that came after it?”She had been spot on when she said that, but now it didn’t apply anymore. I needed to remember those good moments: the only assurance that they were real and not just a dream. I needed to see her picture to remember how her smile used to brighten up my days and I needed to write to remember how we met. All these needs: reminders of the past, motivation for the future.

Maybe I did lie in the beginning: this ended up being an egocentric monologue based on my life in the past months. Maybe I never really change my writing style and always wrote rants about my monotone life. Maybe I wasn’t as unreadable as I thought I was. Maybe I just couldn’t comprehend myself, so I thought others couldn’t either. Just maybe…

Life is full of uncertainties.

And now reading the ruins of my tale to her, just like she always wanted me to do in the end, I hoped she could hear it. I hoped that she would be looking at me with her attentive glare, interested and happy. She would probably say “Why did you take me off the story?” and do a frown like a little kid throwing a tantrum. I smiled at that thought, before looking at her name on the gravestone, paying a silent respectful nod, and walking away.

I still remember about how, once upon a time, I dreaded and longed for silence.

But now, no more words needed to be uttered. Not because I didn’t want to look like a crazy person talking to a rock with her name and her years of birth and death, but because there weren’t any words, simple or complex, that could substitute someone’s presence. Never were, never would be.

Silence: sometimes just our excuse for the lack of vocabulary.

I think nobody, not even myself, would ever know how the story I had written would end: who Derek really was, who won the war, who survived, what happened to everyone, what became of the once addicting city I couldn’t stop writing about… But, to be honest, I don’t really want to know. I’d rather leave it an open ending. Not a cliffhanger, but an ending that allows people to write the characters happy or tragic destinies. For once, the readers would be the writers. Maybe their ending would be better than the one that I was destined to write. Don’t we all decide our own destinies?

Life is a book: as one chapter of the book finishes, a new one begins… Nobody likes to stay stuck in a cliffhanger, unmoving and unchanging. The only challenge you have is to find inspiration to write the rest.