Die in Tune

Harriet Reid: who are you going to be?

That thought appeared in my head as I stared into my notebook on my desk. I had already left Dr. Murphy’s office a couple of hours before. I didn’t speak to Harriet as I left the office, though I gave her a discreet wave. I had once again tried to make a conversation with Dr. Murphy, so that I could avoid the silence, always avoiding talking about myself. I shall never be egocentric in conversations and you should already know that by now.

Harriet Reid: who the hell are you going to be?

The question remained still unanswered.

She had told me she wanted to be part of the rebellion. But I couldn’t just make a character appear out of nowhere and then making her join the rebellion immediately. I wanted her to be fully described, have some sort of part in the story and then possibly join the rebellion. She could be a murderer.

Her character needed a name. There wasn’t much I knew about her, nor did I intend to know. All I knew was that she was mysterious, because I didn’t know much about her. Her personality was incognito.

Harriet the Incognita Killer: I liked the ring it had to it, but it seemed too long. I decided on this one: La Femme Incognita. Nice ring to it; short and sweet – that name had it all. And, as a classy touch, part of it was in French!

Now, the description part. I didn’t know exactly how I would describe her character. I had to prepare it all before it could be put on paper. It might sound idiotic, but I’m somewhat perfectionist in my writing. I like the ideas organized with the minimum number of mistakes which have to be crossed out. That’s how I like it. That’s how I work.

I looked at the part I had left the story on and decided I had to leave that flashback behind for the meantime. I didn’t want to reveal so much so early in the story. I picked my pencil up and carefully hit the sharp end of the pencil onto the already half written page of the notebook and my hand started slowly gliding along each line with ease.

Shall we return back to the present?

The past shall remain a mystery for now and maybe forever if I desire to keep it that way.
Shall we return to my apartment?

Shall we return to the morning of the second week of my third trimester at Aeono? Classes at Aeono began at precisely eight seventeen in the morning and finished at three thirty three in the afternoon. We had an hour long break at half past twelve to eat something before the classes continued.

I entered my classroom with two minutes to spare, and sat at my usual seat. We were going to have advanced anatomy as our first class. Slow and painful mutilation and throat slitting both required this class to succeed. I didn’t like that class much, I preferred practical lessons, and this class was usually theorical.

I got ready to take notes when the class began. The teacher was a very hard person to impress and it was very hard to get an amazing grade with him. He was very strict and expected too much from us. He also always asked us questions, so we couldn’t be distracted for even a fraction of a second.

So I was taking notes about the best place in the throat to strike a victim when this one was aware of your presence, when suddenly there’s a knock on the door. In came a confused girl. She had light brown locks and snow skin. And though her hair wasn’t black, the contrast between those two features was still astonishing. My teacher said “Everyone welcome Harriet, she shall attend these classes from now on.”

She sat at a random chair and immediately started paying attention. I wondered what a girl was doing attending our classes, when girls usually attended a different college from boys. Not that they were obliged, but most preferred it that way. I continued paying attention to the class as well. Notes filled my notebook.

We had another assignment. This time we had to test the things we had learned at our lesson that day. So I was once again on my way to Gripelle Street. I hoped that my previous victim was there. She had been a good sport the last time and I really enjoyed murdering her, so I wanted to have the pleasure to do so again. Unfortunately for me, she wasn’t there. There were so many attention seekers striking provocative poses. So many attention seekers asking to have their throats slit.

It was just a matter of picking one of them.

I observed them all, one by one, and decided on one that seemed remotely decent. I approximated her when I suddenly see a shadow lurking towards her. The shadow grabbed a hold of her shoulders and turned her frail body to face it. I couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl at that point.

The person did exactly what I had to do and in less than a minute the girl’s heartbeat was gone and her blood was on the floor. Then the shadow paused and looked at me. The light coming from behind me revealed her face: Harriet, la Femme Incognita, the unknown woman. Well unknown as in mysterious, but I think you get the point. She greeted me with a simple head motion. I returned it. Then she left.

And just like that she was gone and I had to find another victim.

Harriet was one hell of a smart kid to learn that fast.

I paused my writing because my mobile phone ringed. That wasn’t normal. I rarely got calls and I even wondered why I had a mobile phone. I didn’t really need one. I looked at the caller ID and swallowed hard. I didn’t want to talk to that person at that time. I pressed the button that let the person on the other side of the line think that I was busy.

I will try to not be egocentric as I tell you all of this. I’ll try. Not everything is about me. And you should already know that by now.

I looked at the watch. It was still early, but I decided to take a break from writing. I needed something else to distract myself with. I grabbed my jacket and put some tennis shoes on. I was going for a run.

A run away from words,I thought.

I needed to bring my iPod along with me too.

A run away from silence.

As my feet landed on the concrete floor beneath me in a repetitive process always advancing one step, always advancing faster, and the music blared in my ears, I didn’t about anything.

That is one common misconception about a guy like me: being a loner, an outcast in school, and not being into sports. I actually love running track and playing some sports. It was a good way to release stress and anger and rage and other emotions inside. It used to be my way to escape reality before I was introduced to the magical world of words. And yet, sometimes it was nice to return to your humble beginnings.

I used to do it all: karate, soccer, basketball and track. I still run and play soccer and basketball once in a while. I wasn’t a jock, but I liked being involved in sports. Before we moved, I used to be in the soccer team and I managed to get my black belt in karate.

Before we moved…

I love you, don’t you love me?

When would it give up and stop stalking me? It wouldn’t leave me alone! Maybe I should hire a lawyer that can help me get a mental restraining order against that memory. That was a good idea.

I love you don’t you love me?

Stop! I screamed in my mind.

With this, I stopped and stood on the sidewalk of my suburban neighborhood where I was running. I needed to catch my breath. I had been running for half an hour. I sat on the ground once my heartbeat had returned to its normal rate. I wiped the sweat off my forehead and wiped it on my shirt.

Not many cars passed on the street, so it was a fairly quiet area. I grabbed my iPod and checked the time. It was almost dinner time. I decided to get up and run back to my house. Repeating the same simple procedure of putting one foot in front of the other, at a progressively faster pace. I guess that’s a pretty accurate description of running.

I would describe you my once again amazingly delicious meal, but then again, I’d have to describe it to you every night, wouldn’t I? So let us skip the gastronomic thoughts and move on to fictional ones.

It’s amazing how a thin sheet originated from the result of the amalgamation of fibers composed of cellulose, held together by hydrogen bonding, can become the origin of something magical, something extraordinary: a different world.

Where was I in my story?

Oh yes, I just witnessed Harriet appearing out of nowhere, snatching my victim, when she was almost at my grasp, and killing her with such precision, style and talent that anyone could envy. Of course, my character didn’t want to admit that. He had too much pride in himself to admit such thing. Yet a few questions filled my mind: Why was I making Harriet a new student in town? But more importantly, why the hell was I making her amazing at killing? I don’t even know anymore.

My spirit is the pen’s captive. My pen shall guide me through my story.I thought. It was funny how at a certain point in someone’s story, it wasn’t the writer who was guiding the pen anymore, but the pen who was guiding the writer.

I connected my iPod to some speakers and put it on shuffle. I was about to grab my notebook when I suddenly a cabaret song blares through the speakers. I loved the song. Yes, it was my guilty pleasure. I grabbed one of my umbrellas and used it as a microphone and started singing, pretending I was on a stage and there was a crowd watching my every move, hearing my every note. I closed my eyes and ignored everything else but the song.

I felt myself going up the bed and singing exaggeratedly. I heard the door open and opened my eyes. I turned around and saw Anita walk in with her broom also singing the song and using the broom as her microphone. I climbed off my bed and joined her. When the song was over, we started laughing and Anita left my room. It was one of those random moments I had when my parents weren’t around.

And then it was time to write.


I picked a person at random. The technique was simple. Aim straight for the place where a man’s Adam’s apple is (in the women’s case, imagine where it would be) and aim for its center. It was harder on ladies, but a natural born throat slitter, like me, could see the target in the throat even with the naked eye.

It didn’t take long. I accomplished it in less than a minute as well, but the fact that Harriet had arrived there before me annoyed me a bit. I arrived in my apartment and took a long shower and change my clothes, which were drenched with screamer’s blood.

I wasn’t feeling like going out to the bar. I was trying to think on what I would do for the summer. I was almost done with my second year. One more year and I’d graduate. That summer I was planning to have an apprenticeship with a master. I wanted to learn so much. I didn’t want to limit myself to just throat slitting.

I wanted to become like a master, someone who knew all the arts.

As I was having these thoughts, I decided to do something I haven’t done since I went to Aeono: talk to my parents. I wanted to let them know how I was doing and I wanted to talk to my dad about my decision for the future. I couldn’t do the decision on my own. When we went to Aeono, we left parents, brothers and other relatives behind. Some people never reunited with their families throughout their lives, but I could never be like that.

My parents lived a bit far, in the centre of the city, unlike me (I lived in the east side of the city). I called for a coach taxi (yes, that’s what we call our public transportation around here) and gave the driver the directions.

We stopped at this small, humble home. I paid the driver then faced the house. The roof was dark green and the walls were beige, covered in ivy. It wasn’t small, just simple. The lights were on. I took a deep breath before advancing a few steps onto the front step and knocking on the door.

Anxious and nervous: that’s how I felt during the whole time I waited at the door. Slightly surprised: that’s how I felt when the door opened and the people who opened the door weren’t my parents. Incredibly surprised: that’s how I felt when the elderly people who answered the door told me my parents moved. Sad: that’s how I felt when they told me they didn’t know where my parents lived now. And acceptance: that’s what I had to feel when I left the house where I had grown never to return and never to see my family again.

That was the hardest thing to do.

That part was fictional obviously. But in a way, it could be a metaphor for how I grew up part of my life without my parents. Maybe just to be a coincidence, or for some other reason, I heard the door downstairs open and the sound of luggage being carried in. Only when the smell of the perfume reached my room, I recognized the person. Mom, I thought.

I left my room and went downstairs to greet my mom.

When I was going to sleep, that night, I stared at the ceiling and imagined how my character would see the same ceiling. I looked out my window and imagined how my character would see the same sky. Those questions are what urged me to keep writing, to discover my character, and most importantly to discover myself.