Die in Tune

Another day at school, another tree is killed, because of all the paper students use daily. I sometimes wonder why people don’t just use computers since they are what everyone else uses in the modern society and we economize in paper. Then again, scratch that. Petroleum is also a limited resource. Let’s change subject.

I recently noticed that I’m one of the few students in my class that can get good grades even though I don’t actually pay attention to most of my classes. I do study, because I don’t think my parents should waste money on my education for no reason. I don’t do it to please them though. They probably wouldn’t even notice the difference.

The bell rang.

And I didn’t even have time to describe how the class was actually quite interesting. It was Philosophy. We were talking about values: the best and the worst. While most people said love, peace and happiness as their most important values in life, I said something like: creativity, words and silence, slightly hesitating at this last one. I knew I’d get strange glances from most of my classmates. I even heard Shawn and Brian snickering, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t there to please anyone using clichés and euphemisms. That’s the thing I loved about Philosophy: we could speak our opinions, because it was a subjective class.

It was once again the end of another day and another week of school. I had began writing about my amazing city almost a week before and I had already a lot of description, but not many adventures of Kaleb the Slitter. I had put a break on it, because inspiration was lacking. It wasn’t easy though, because I had to find other ways to distract myself.

I had an appointment with Dr. Murphy, the second one of the week. I could meet her whenever I wanted, and whenever I had nothing better to do, which was usually the case.

I was walking down the crowded hallways to my locker. The two beside my own had been empty the entire school year until now. I opened my locker where you could find my books, notebooks and some collages of bands and images I thought were interesting glued onto the locker. I put my books in and took my notebook out.

As I was closing my locker I saw a slightly short and slim girl with light brown hair and green eyes next to me on the supposedly empty locker. She was wearing a green flannel shirt and a pair of jeans. I didn’t recognize her, but, then again, I don’t recognize half the school. She looked at me after noticing my gaze upon her, turned around and continued doing what she was doing. And then she ran off. I started going on my way as well.

I arrived at Dr. Murphy’s office almost an hour before my meeting. Just another meeting to add to the list of endless meetings. I sat down on the couch of the waiting room and looked at the various magazines that were available for my reading pleasure. As I was reading an article about the Asian snow leopard, I heard the door swing open. In walked a slightly confused girl, the same girl I had seen at my school some time before. She was still wearing the same outfit, but added a baggy grey hoodie on top. She had her hands in her pockets and headphones in her ears. And her long light brown hair was up into a messy bun.

She sat down next to me and stared impatiently at the door of the room where Dr. Murphy was attending another one of her usual clients. She didn’t even look at me. I didn’t mind, I wouldn’t have talked to her anyway. I never begin conversations. Ever.

My attention returned to the National Geographic magazine in my hands and continued reading the article. The pictures were amazing! I actually could imagine the leopard lurking in the shadows during the day and hunting for prey very discreetly and with precision. Just like the murderers, I thought to myself. I decided to put the magazine back in the stack and got my notebook and a pencil from school backpack. I needed to write something about the City of Muoia Nell’Aria. It was the same feeling as the one you got when you were abstaining from a drug. You longed for it and couldn’t stop thinking about it.

I still had about thirty minutes. I took a deep breath and let the pencil guide my hand in the blank sheet of paper.

Let us return a few months in time, back to my first year at Aeono. Night life in the city was crazy in every meaning of that word. In all the negative and positive ways you may think of.

Most of the time people didn’t even remember what happened during the night thanks to all the substances in their bodies. They ranged from alcohol to little pills that made you hallucinate. I never took the pills, but I did drink. I drank quite a lot actually.

So I was at my favorite bar. It was at the corner Omcie Street, probably the best street if you wanted to go to a decent bar or club. The name wasn’t that good though: Psychobarth. I kind of got the meaning (psychopath and bar combined), but I didn’t like the name much, maybe because I thought Psychobarf, whenever I heard the name. It had decent music, a decent list of cocktails and beverages and of course the most beautiful femme fatales of the entire city (in my opinion at least).

I was wearing my usual attire: black pants, dark colored shirt and to top it all of a sleek and elegant jacket. Once I entered the bar, I could already recognize familiar faces and already feel the attention I was getting.

I stopped and noticed that I was making my character quite a ladies man. Someone with charm and charisma. Someone who dressed to impress and loved the attention. Someone very different from myself. Or was I that different?


I didn’t even need to utter a word to the bartender. He knew what I wanted and how I wanted it. I always had the same drink. Always stood in the same spot as I analyzed the space and the faces that were present in that space: the newcomers and the veterans.

This day was no exception.

Most of them were familiar, though I could spot some new faces. Those were the ones that, for some reason, always caught my attention.

One of them, in particular, had a beauty that surpassed all the ones of all the other newcomers. She had a very small, frail frame; brown, straight, shoulder-length hair, parted to the left, with a red hair clip keeping her hair away from her little heart-shaped face.

I didn’t resist and walked up to her.

I felt someone looking at me. I glanced to my side and saw the girl, who had been sitting there quietly since he entered, watching me write. She was trying to read and figure out what I was writing about. I could tell that by the way her brows furrowed as she concentrated on my illegible calligraphy. She didn’t seem to notice that I had stopped writing and was looking at her. Only five minutes had passed. Not much, but I hadn’t written much either.

Rereading what I had just written, I felt the need to cross it all out. The question I had thought of before popped up again: was I that different from the fictional me?

Surely not now, but was I before?

The girl had finally noticed that I stopped writing. She asked me trying to not sound interested “What are you writing about?” Her voice was kind of rough, as if she was constipated. Or maybe she was just making it on purpose, who knew. Once again it hadn’t been me beginning the conversation.

“Oh, this? It’s nothing…” I answered nonchalantly. She didn’t look convinced. Well, technically it was stupid saying that it was nothing, because that was such an obvious answer if you wanted to avoid telling the truth and if I wrote something, it couldn’t obviously be nothing. Sometimes I wished I would think better about my answers before I actually spoke.

“Can I read your…nothing?” She asked timidly and hesitantly. No one had ever asked me if they could read my stories. Not even Dr. Murphy. Nobody. So it came across as a shock to me. She waited patiently for my answer. I didn’t let anyone read my stories, much less a stranger. But I didn’t know how to say “No”. I opened my mouth to say my verdict.

“Uh, yes, I guess. If you can understand my calligraphy…” I flipped the pages to the first page and handed it to her. I wasn’t quite sure about what I was doing, all I knew was that I was about to witness something I had never witnessed before: a reader’s reaction.

She read the big bold letters on top of the first page and than asked silently “Muoia Nell’Aria?” not taking his eyes off the page. When I didn’t answer, she turned to me and waited for me to answer her question. I didn’t know that I was supposed to answer.

“It means ‘die in tune’ in Italian…” I was waiting for a reaction. She smiled pleased with my explanation.

“Nice! I know some words in Italian, but I didn’t know that …” She was kind of embarrassed as she said that. She had gone back to reading, her eyes traveling through each indecipherable line. It was interesting to see somebody very focused on one of my stories.

She suddenly stopped and laughed. I wondered what was so amusing. She pointed at the text and said “Screamers, murderers, supreme court and witnesses?” I nodded and she said “Now that’s genius! At first glance, what would you consider me?” That was an interesting question. I didn’t actually know much about her, so I had to base myself on the exterior.

“Murderer,” I said without any hesitation. The noticeable hint of mystery classified her as a murderer. She smiled and turned her attention back to the notebook in front of her.

“Wait, I’d rather be in the rebellion. They look pretty awesome!” Then a thought just hit me. I hadn’t spoken much about the rebellion. It actually had a very important role in my fictional world, my story. She turned to me and asked “Could I be a character in your story?” I didn’t want to, but I was bound to need characters as the story progressed. But I couldn’t make her a character without knowing her name.

“Okay, what’s your name?” She looked at me thinking if he should say her name. She reminded me of myself, overanalyzing simple decisions. I added “I can’t make you a character without knowing your name…” That seemed to convince her.

“Harriet. What is yours?” I thought my name would be an irrelevant piece of information actually, as I always thought. Everything is just a word, I thought to myself. But it only seemed fair to tell him, because she told me hers.

“Kaleb.”

The door opens and Dr. Murphy and her client walked out. The client was a lady in her mid-forties, with mascara running through her cheeks. She had been crying. Her lines in her forehead indicated stress and her posture indicated some sadness or melancholy. She thanked Dr. Murphy before leaving the small office. Dr. Murphy then turned to me and said “Kaleb, I can see you now. I’ll see you in about an hour, Miss Reid.”

So her name was Harriet Reid. I wondered what she was doing at the office at that time, if her appointment was still an hour away. I guess some people really don’t have anything better to do.

She passed me back my notebook and said “I’ll read it another day.” I nodded and put it inside my backpack, before walking into the room. Dr. Murphy closed the door behind her, then sat at her chair and let me sit on the couch.

And once again, as most of the times I spent at that little room, I remained silent. And once again silence betrayed me.

I love you, don’t you love me?