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A Season in Hell (standard:drama, 815 words)
Author: CyranoAdded: Mar 16 2008Views/Reads: 1729/0Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Incomplete: A man wakes after a dream...
 



Prologue 

The words, softly spoken, but honest, are the very words she doesn't
want to hear. She leaps at me from the edge of the sofa, arms flailing, 
fists clenched, raining blows down on my head and shoulders... “I hate 
you... I hate you...no, there's no way...” she screams. 

The blows strike at my heart, like hailstones from a thunderous sky,
bruising the very core of my being until sheer exhaustion takes her 
over and, unable to throw one more punch, she falls against me, head 
and fists on my chest... “Please don't leave...I didn't mean it...I'll 
kill myself.” 

Instinctively I find myself holding onto her. Blood trickles from a
small cut at the corner of my eye, now quickly swelling, and from my 
bottom lip. A waft of heated perfume fills my nostrils. 

“ I didn't mean for him to leave ...” she sobs, “not the way he did, or
so soon, honest. I just wanted to be alone with you. Is that so awful? 
Is it?” She's hysterical, pushing herself hard into my chest, now 
clutching at my arms to hold her tighter. 

Agonized, the glacier inside me melts, I whisper comforting sounds while
trying to quiet her; stroking her sweat-matted hair... but what she'd 
done was unforgivable and the fanfare of new love, and the once 
super-human promise such feelings held, had been replaced by a 
tyrannical honesty. 

Gently I allow the limpness of her body to collapse backward onto the
settee. “Please don't leave me,” she begs, “I'll be better.  What can I 
do...tell me? I'll do anything.” Tears stream down her face mingling 
with the snot running from her nose. It's a sadness that is cuffed away 
on the sleeve of a cashmere-covered wrist. “You love me, I know you do. 
Can we talk?  We can talk, right? Just don't tell me you're leaving.”  
Desperately spoken, that plea trembles on her lips. 

Chapter 1 

The Dream 

I peer into the dark wondering where I am till the pictures on the wall
take shape...then the upholstered chair, the lamp and the rug. Jesus, I 
don't need dreams like this. I'm fighting, clenched fists, yelling 
something at the top of my voice, crying blasphemies, and finally blows 
are striking down at my heart. Wild uncontrolled blows, one for every 
cry of 'no!'  I massage my eyes, and feel uneasy about lying here. I 
breathe heavily; listening to the sound of my heart hammering, as if 
breaking my ribs to get out.  Raising my head from the pillow I gaze 
out the window, seeing nothing but a crisp, velvet darkness hanging 
over the tranquil, wintry, and moonless ocean. The dream's aggression 
was disturbing, frightening enough so that I cannot simply lie here 
waiting for the freedom of morning's arrival. 

Throwing back the covers and swinging my legs out the bed, I grope, arms
outstretched, toward the bathroom, and the pull light cord. The 
injection of light hurts my eyes and squinting in the mirror I can see 
my beard needs trimming. But hell, who's going to see me anyway?  Mine 
is a life made beautiful by my uncanny ability to disappear, and, in 
doing so, magically balance the black with the white, oh yes, music 
made crystal by the fragility of impassioned blows ...a life kept whole 
by the dynamic information of the power-assisted keys...which have long 
become my personal identity. I'm not a recluse, you understand, no, 
just someone who enjoys the freedom that being alone offers.  My 
friends indulge me; forgive me up to a point, then occasionally, 
disillusioned, some will drift away. Let me just strike up the 
percolator. Damn, where have I put the filters? 

The thing is...well, look, let me explain, I'm someone who has perfected
what some might call simultaneous existences.  I say this based on my 
need to disappear from time to time.  I dream of human voices, yet the 
piano, my first love, gives me the greatest pleasure and the greatest 
sense of purpose to life; my secret life, that is. The life I have when 
I'm here. This is perfect coffee, black, strong and a lot of it. These 
early mornings in December, these are the mornings that enchant me, 
inspire me, clear the termites from my head. The thing about composing, 
and there are many things, is the fascination of working first with the 
three fundamentals of music. The melody, I call it my lone voice. 
Harmony, where I invite other voices to join in, and of course rhythm, 
the last voice.  I'm just looking for something to eat. The fridge is 
empty. The bread's stale but it'll make some toast, right? I have a 
little cream cheese left...if music be the food of love...but I'm not 
being fair, I'm getting ahead of myself. One of my lives started around 
fifteen years of age, in my bedroom, the day after I killed my brother. 



   


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