Die in Tune

The cafeteria, a place where everything can happen: people can gossip about who is dating who, or more common these days, who is fucking who; some don’t eat and do last minute homework, though this hypothesis isn’t the most popular one; some just talk to their friends and laugh at pointless jokes. I never understood the point of having to be in the cafeteria other than the obvious: eating. I always sat at the same table, the one closest to the door. I always sat alone and I liked it better that way.

I put some of the food that was on the tray on my fork, shoved the fork into my mouth and chewed the food before swallowing. It’s a simple process. I repeated it over and over until all the food on my tray was gone. It didn’t take long, since I wasn’t speaking to anyone.

I then pushed the tray away and grabbed my notebook where I had glued this paper. This paper contained the main ideas about the City of Muoia Nell’Aria, which I wrote during my classes. I read it just to remind myself of the incredibly fascinating world I had created.

First of all I imagined their inhabitants. They were pretty easy to picture, because they are exactly like us, but they have their destiny decided even before they are born. Their population is divided into four groups: screamers, murderers, the Supreme Court and the witnesses.

The screamers, as you can tell by their name, they scream. But not just that: they are the victims, they’re main aim in life is pleasing their murderer by screaming in tune. They can die various times in their life. Their life only ends once the Supreme Court decides they’ve lived their complete life span. It can either be due to their long life full of accomplishments or their short life filled with failure. Either way, they usually don’t live more than 80 years.

The murderers, as you can tell by their name, they murder the screamers. But they don’t kill randomly. They have years of education, since they are very young, about the art of killing and they have apprenticeships. They can become masters and get world-wide recognition. They can live between 80 to 120 years, no more, no less.

Then we have the Supreme Court, which is formed by the seventy-seven eldest citizens of the City of Muoia Nell’Aria. They are basically the kings, presidents, judges or whatever you want to call them of this world. They decide how many years each person lives. They can live up to 300 years, but stop aging once they reach the age of 120.

Last but not least, we have the witnesses. These are the average people. They live normally and work normally. They live separately from the murderers and screamers. Their biggest achievement in life is being able to witness the crimes, which for them is an honor, because they are in fact the less privileged among them all. They can’t be killed by murderers or kill screamers.

Other than these inhabitants, who live in peace (even with the murdering, which is considered a legal and a safe activity), we have the rebellion. The rebellion is feared by all the inhabitants of this world. They don’t agree with the whole system. They prefer the world where people are punished for killing. They kill ruthlessly and illegally to prove their point to the population of the City of Muoia Nell’Aria, and are some of the best murderers in existence. They are led by the most feared and legendary murderer: Revaun.

I stopped reading what I had written when I heard the bell ring. I had to go back to my classes, unfortunately. I gathered all my things and left the cafeteria. As I walked the hallways I could almost imagine how this would look like if it were the city I had imagined. I could almost imagine most of them as witnesses and those that I really despised as screamers and I would be their murderer. Their skillful murderer who could kill with just one move.

I could almost imagine it. I had to write it.

As I sat on my desk and opened my notebook, I thought about more ideas for City of Muoia Nell’Aria. I had to think about the place itself. Its size and its constructions and architecture. I started writing.

The buildings in the witness part of the city were all simple and futuristic. Everything was automatic and sharp. They all lived in apartments in huge skyscrapers. This part of the town was like a mini-town where only witnesses and the Supreme Court were allowed to enter.

The other part of the city, the normal one, was a mixture between the gothic architecture with a futuristic edge. They were huge and majestic, with an abundance of decoration and sculptures and paintings. It showed the history and the pride that the citizens of the City Muoia Nell’Aria had. Other than that, they had all the automatic machineries and the futuristic gadgets and they were a lot more hygienic than the cities in the medieval era.

When it came to clothing, witnesses were the alienated population. They wore trends as if they were a uniform. Everyone could be seen on the streets wearing similar outfits. When the trend was green, everyone had to wear that color to fit in. They also wore simple outfits, because they lived humble lives.

The Supreme Court dressed to impress. They wore very expensive, very extravagant outfits, full of jewels and made of silk or velvet usually. Everything was long, to represent their lifetime and their wisdom.

Murderers usually dressed dark colors. They wore clothes similar to the Supreme Court, but a lot more modest and not so extravagant. They needed to keep an air of mystery but at the same time they had to develop their identity, get some recognition for their work, and get attention. They wore a lot of hats and scarves, even if the weather was hot.
The screamers wore clothes that called attention. Bright colors and provocative garments. The more attention they drew the more chances they had to be murdered and be praised for their screaming or dying.

As I wrote this, I couldn’t help but think where my inspiration for the apparel came from. Maybe because I was writing it in the middle of my history class and was listening to the teacher talking about the gothic architecture. Or maybe because I was thinking too much about Jack the Ripper and strip clubs. Any of the previous options could be accurate.

Amazing how many incoherent thoughts can cross your mind just by being bored. Or inspired. I was in between.

I didn’t know what else I could talk about my amazing, fictional city. I thought about it and decided that I would save the rest of the descriptions for my math class the next day. I kept my notebook in between my textbooks and looked at my watch. If it wasn’t a few minutes advanced, the bell would ring in just two minutes. I watched every second tic, my eye not leaving the clock. It was the last class of the day, so I could go home and rest.

The bell rang.

Hallways were always full of students at this time of day. Always. I would try to pass through the crowded space to get to the door, the door that separated this claustrophobic hell from my breath of fresh air outside. I had to stop by my locker though, which wasn’t on my way to the door. Luckily the hallway, where my locker was located, wasn’t as crowded as the rest of the hallways.

People were already leaving…Finally!

I did it all impatiently: opened the locker, put some books in, took some books out and shut the locker - another simple procedure of my average school day routine. As I was walking away from my locker and towards the doors, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around and saw Shawn Dunn and his friend, Brian Pryce. Brian had this familiar Machiavellian grin, the one he had whenever he was up to no good. Shawn asked me in a mocking tone “Leaving so soon?”

I didn’t even care to answer. I didn’t need to waste my time with worthless people like them. A thought popped into my head: I am the murderer, you are the screamer. I turned away, with a smirk on my face, and started walking away from them again. I heard him mumble under his breath “Psycho…”

I turned to him and said “Fuck off!”

Suddenly, I felt someone pushing me hard on my back and my face colliding with the cold surface of a plain, grey locker. Brian’s warm breath was on my neck as he whispered “Don’t you ever tell us to fuck off, you fucker. Heard me?” I wasn’t weak. I actually did quite well at gym. But I didn’t care if they were pissed at me or not. I didn’t respond and he just let go of me. Giving up so easily? I thought.

If people asked me if I was a victim of bullying, I would deny it. Bullies were pathetic to me, I could beat them up if I wanted to, but I loathe violence and never resort to it. Ever. Most of them didn’t actually know I had an A in gym or used to be into martial arts when I was young.

I heard their footsteps fading into the silence and then I also made my way out of the school, but had to stop when I noticed that in my impatience, I had left my notebook in my locker. Shit! I went back, once again impatiently, and repeated the procedure described previously. My notebook was the most important possession that was in my locker, even though it wasn’t in the best condition: the top-right corner was creased and the original color of the cover, black, had faded into a grey tone; some pages were ripped off; the cover had so many things written on it, most of them crossed out afterwards… It was actually very cheap, but I liked it.

Once I had my treasure in the safety of my arms, I walked out of the now empty hallways of the school.

I lived in a big house. Sometimes I wondered why I was so pessimistic. Cross that, I’m not pessimist, I’m just a realist. But being alone is a huge house actually made me sad. I was always alone.

I would arrive home almost everyday, to find that my parents were in another city, in another state and sometimes in another country, probably for conferences. I would have my maid cook me some dinner and eat at the dinner table by myself. If you think coming from a rich family would be amazing, you are wrong. If you think living in a mansion would be the best thing ever, you are wrong.

And after all of their conferences and meetings, they would come home to their son to find him passed out on the couch after drinking too much. What do they do? Do they talk to him? Do they ask him if he’s okay? Do they ask if he’s been having issues? No, they pay a fortune to a lady to hear me for hours, feigning worried expressions, and then just ignore me like before. Oh, so they think a weekly trip to Dr. Murphy will cure me? As if!

I actually had to go to Dr. Murphy in a couple of minutes. I don’t even know why I still bother. It was a waste of my time and also of Dr. Murphy’s. She probably would prefer to stay at home with her boyfriend or husband, or maybe she was single and preferred the company of her remote control and the exaggerated soap operas on TV. I didn’t know for sure.

Dr. Murphy wasn’t very old, but not very young either. If I had to guess, I’d say she was in her late twenties or her early thirties. She had her strawberry blonde hair pushed back into a neat bun. Black-rimmed spectacles covered her green eyes. She always wore business suits, probably to look more professional at her job. She had a short and thin frame, but wore high heels to seem taller. She was confident and empathetic, I could tell by her posture and her facial expression.

I arrived at her office a couple of minutes late. She greeted me with a warm smile. I greeted her to be polite. I wasn’t rude. She tried to start a conversation, but as always I just sat in silence in the comfortable dark green couch of her office. I had actually told her the first time I met her that I would be very uncooperative, wouldn’t talk and would basically be a jerk. She wouldn’t give up though. She was very patient. As I looked at her, I wondered how she was when she was my age. Was she as confident or as elegant as she is now? Did she ever think she would end up listening to people talking about their lives for a living? Those are the questions I’d like to ask, but I don’t want to talk. I never talk to her. I was a rebel.

She would sigh once in a while as the time passed. I was feeling tired, so I lay down on the couch and shut my eyes. Dr. Murphy didn’t mind, she actually was used to me doing that. I had forgotten my notebook at home, so I couldn’t write.

The silence took over the room.

I love you, don’t you love me?

I hated silence. I decided I didn’t want to be a rebel anymore. I was going to talk, anything to avoid the silence. Should I tell her about the City of Muoia Nell’Aria? Should I tell her how I wish I lived in that city? I decided not to talk about my fictional city and instead ask those questions I had been pondering on, because they were the only thing that interested me. Anything to avoid the silence.

“Were you as confident in high school as you are now?” She was startled by my question. I didn’t sit up, just stayed lying down on the couch, but I looked at her. She thought a bit before answering.

“Not really. I wasn’t confident at all, to be honest. I was the weird kid, who was misunderstood most of the time. But in time, my confidence in myself grew…”

I turned my head back to the ceiling, then I asked “Did you always want to be a psychiatrist? I mean it isn’t exactly the best job in the world: you spend your entire day locked in an office listening to sad tales of people…”

“Actually, I think that reading into someone’s mind is quite fascinating! I have always wanted to be a psychiatrist…” She was smiling, she was being sincere. I did have to agree with her about reading people’s minds. It was fascinating indeed. But I could never be a psychiatrist like her. Ever. She suddenly asked me “So why the sudden talk?”

“I don’t want to make you feel like you’re wasting your time,” I lied. She bought it though. I actually did feel bad for her having to spend her time watching me do nothing or write in silence.

Silence: how I longed for it, how I dreaded it.

“I don’t think you’re wasting my time. Did you know that I actually appreciate your silence, your mystery? It’s a delightful contrast to the other people who talk and cry all the time they’re in here. And some secrets are even revealed in silence…” I sat up a bit confused. She couldn’t probably know anything about me, other than the reason I was there… I looked at her notebook where she wrote her notes about me.

I could imagine those notes so clearly in my mind:

He still has a difficulty in opening up to people.
He started talking.
He is curious.
He doesn’t have much confidence in himself.

She noticed me staring attentively at her notebook as she wrote. “What is on your mind?” She asked. She looked at me waiting for an answer.

“I bet you think I’m just another basket case who will never achieve success in life…” She stared at me in shock and shook her head.

“Why would I think that?” I shrugged. She added “I think you can be successful in life, you just have to find out what’s bothering you or what your biggest obstacle is. Once you deal with it or overcome it, you have already succeeded in something.”

I thought about it and asked “What if you can’t deal with your problem?”

She just replied “You can always deal with it, if you try…” I didn’t agree with her on that.

I love you, don’t you love me?