So here it is: the next part in my own interpretation of Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique.
And just because I know some people haven't done their homework, I'm providing another link to the composer notes as created by Berlioz himself: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Symphonie_Fantastique
Once again, I do ask that you read these because they will aid in your understanding of my own work. Do it punks... it's in your best interest!
And if this is all new to you and you haven't read the first two parts, please scroll down and do so before reading the third part, otherwise you'll be pretty fucking clueless. I mean more clueless than usual.
Parts IV and V will be posted soon... ideally before the end of the week. But don't rush me! I'm only human!
III.
The house isn’t completely dark when I arrive. I can see a few windows illuminated thanks to the aid of automatic timers. I take the bag from the backseat of my car and head up to the front door, using the key I’ve had since I was a child to enter.
The house feels cold, which is not surprising considering my parents have already been gone for a few days. I immediately head to the thermostat and turn it up.
The familiarity of a simpler time hits me as I place my bag down in the living room. It’s only been a few months since the last time I was here—some family gathering or another—but it feels as though it’s been years.
And the refreshment of fond childhood memories washes over me like a warm shower after a hard day, so much so that I let out an audible sigh.
An overwhelming sense of contentment rests itself heavily on my shoulders, like two strong, comforting hands intent on assuring me that this was the right decision. Accompanying those hands is a feeling of serene exhaustion, the kind you feel when you know you can just put your tired body to rest and not even worry about setting an alarm clock. This feeling almost forces me to one of the couches in the living room, a couch I’ve come to know very well through my earlier years in this house.
Sitting in this room, in this silence, takes me back a number of years, almost like I’m sucked into a wormhole. I remember late evenings on Christmas, when the rest of my family had gone to bed and I would sit in the warm glow of the fireplace, simultaneously admiring its tender ferocity and scribbling random thoughts into a journal. I can remember seemingly infinite moments when perfect solitude and perfect peace met right in this very room. The memories seem to warm my brain, almost like an ember has been inserted into the folds.
I reach over to the stereo and turn it on, hoping to find something tranquil to complement the mood. I barely have to peruse the radio before finding an appropriate classical music station. I sink back into the deep, comfortable cushions and allow the music to envelop me, each note like a distinctive patch on a soft, heavy quilt. I listen as cellos duel in a symphony of serenity, an overture of harmony. Before long I’m pinned to the couch and my eyes are closed.
Within a few more seconds, I’m asleep.
***
The room I’m in is bare with the exception of a bed placed in the center. The walls are white, the ceiling is white and even the floor is white. But the bed is in steep contrast. The bed and its linens are blue, a rather specific and familiar shade of blue. I can feel traces of contentment clinging to me, but it’s almost like they’re being slowly scorched off, like someone is taking a thin flame to the lint on an old sock.
And suddenly she’s standing there. I didn’t see her enter. It’s as if she just appeared. She’s staring directly at me, her eyes exploding with as much contrast as the bed. She’s wearing nothing but a loosely tied robe that matches both her eyes and the bed’s linens. Without contemplation, I begin to walk towards her. I only make it a few steps before I run directly into something—a large glass window perhaps, but flawlessly clean. It’s completely invisible, at least to my eyes. I run my hands along it, trying to find a break or a seam, but there’s nothing to indicate there’s any way around it.
She’s still looking at me, smiling only slightly. And then he enters—another unfamiliar face in her long line of acquaintances. She pulls him close to her and kisses him passionately. He returns the kiss.
Their passion is both deliberate and natural. Nothing is forced, but the energy seems inflated, like they know they have an audience and they’re trying to make a lasting impression. She leads him to the bed and drops her robe on the floor. His hands run the course of her body, starting at her neck then quickly moving down to cup her breasts and finally settling between her thighs. She sprawls herself out on the bed and begins to the claw at his shirt, pulling it frantically over his head.
I close my eyes and turn around, ensuring my back is to the scene before opening them again. Much to my surprise, the two moaning, entangled bodies have relocated back into my field of vision. I turn around again, only to find the act is inescapable. It surrounds me, bombarding my senses with every aspect of physical love, mercilessly taunting me with everything I couldn’t even dream about doing to a girl that had once been some inspirational beacon. I watch something I wanted with all my heart but never had. I watch this symbol of my dreams give itself to a stranger. Rage and jealousy build inside me in a way I never thought possible.
My hands form tight fists and I begin to pound the invisible barrier that separates me from a dream turned nightmare. But my furious cries and violent fist falls don’t deter the amorous couple. On the contrary, they seem to find a rhythm within my escalating pounding. I can feel the pain start in my hands and climb my arms. Another hit and I hear a finger snap. My right pinky contorts at an impossible angle and the ache is excruciating, but it doesn’t stop me. Another hit and I feel an impressively large gash form on my left hand. My blood smears the invisible wall, appearing to hang in the air like the vapor trail of some crimson ghost. I continue to pound the barrier. Tears streak down my face and my enraged screams splatter the air with saliva. The blood flows in a torrent down my left arm now, creating a dark red sleeve, and the repeated abuse of my right pinky has left the small digit utterly deformed.
Finally, as the rage subsides into self-pity, I collapse against the barrier, exhaustion turning to acceptance. This is my cage. This is my torment.
The action continues on the bed. My eyes are so watery, I can’t even see the spectacle, but I can certainly hear it. As those sounds fill my ears, the fingers of desperation seem to borough into my skull. I lean my head back and slam it against the wall with as much force and strength as I can manage. The initial blow makes me dizzy, but not enough to confuse my intentions. Before reason can set in, I slam my head against the wall with all the jealousy, anger, madness and lovesickness to guide it true. As my forehead meets the invisible barrier, I feel the rest of my body go limp—nothing more than a pile of flesh and bones surrounded by the repercussions of a dream colliding with a nightmare.
***
I wake up on the floor of my parents’ living room. The soothing music that had lulled me into sleep has been replaced by something overly frantic—desperate sounds from desperate instruments ascending to cacophony. From my knees, I reach up to the stereo and turn it off.
Still on the floor, I breathe heavily and try to grip reality, as if it’s a tangible thing that I can get a hold of, like it’s a noticeably protruding rock on a steeply angled cliffside, and I’m a climber on the verge of peril.
I greedily steal deep breaths of oxygen as I wipe the thick sweat from my brow. My shirt is drenched and I’m concerned about the stability of my legs, wondering if they’re up to the task of standing. I place my hand on the coffee table to offer them a little assistance and I manage to get to my feet. My legs, although wobbly, offer the support I need.
I slowly walk to the kitchen, turn on the faucet and stick my mouth underneath. The water is cold and immediately refreshing. I deliberately resituate my face so it’s doused, washing away the remnants of salty perspiration that had accumulated during my unconscious torment.
Finally, I remove my face from the flow of water and stare out the window that is positioned over the sink. The backyard is dark, barely offering enough visibility to see the line of trees that signify the beginning of the forest. It’s quiet back there—not a creature stirring, not even a breeze to push around the dying leaves or the soon-to-be-naked branches.
I take another deep breath. With my shirt drenched, the decision to change seems obvious, so I climb the stairs to my old bedroom in the hopes of finding some forgotten sweatshirt. The walls of my room are covered with pictures of family and friends, effectively illustrating a timeline of days passed. Photos of my sister and her baby daughter hang amidst college parties and memorable getaways. Warm, friendly and inebriated faces stare back at me with confident eyes that offer nothing but the past. And the past is comforting right now. The past is real. I know these memories. I know these moments existed. If there’s any doubt in my mind, the pictures confirm a time of my life that made a certain amount of sense—a time when reality was what it was and there were no questions to complicate that assuredness.
It seems almost funny to think I took that certainty for granted.
Suddenly—and seemingly unprovoked—one of the pictures falls to the floor. I walk over to it and pick it up. I’m looking at a familiar photograph; one I’ve gazed at countless times. It’s a picture from Aruba—a vacation with close friends—but something is different now. I watch as the faces blur before my very eyes, as if the picture was purposely out of focus when taken. Without warning, the faces change, and although they are still largely indistinguishable, the eyes come into focus with unexpected brilliance. Not eyes one would expect to see in a picture mind you, but eyes that assert life, eyes that shift and shimmer like they are here in this room with me. And of course, I know these eyes. I have seen much of them lately. And as the face begins to materialize beneath those eyes, I throw the picture to the floor and walk quickly out of the room.
This is not sanity. This is not love. This is merciless haunting. This is how dreams die—or perhaps refuse to die.
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