The Piano in the Forest

    It was ten years ago to this day that they discovered the piano in the forest, but the distance of time has done little to shelter me from the haunting presence of memory, memory that to this day inspires in me a paralytic fear. The authorities were at a loss for explanation when they found that majestic instrument unattended in the woods, coated in crystal droplets that were the only remnants of a violent storm. I alone know the truth of how it came to be there, how it came to be found ownerless in a forest clearing, but this knowledge has devastated me. My mind is now a picture of fragility reminiscent of an infant dream, and my grip on sanity is equally delicate. This is why I commit these words to written form: so that there may be an account of those terrible events before my tenuous grasp on reality relaxes entirely.

    It was raining when I met Vladimir, the torrential cascade bearing resemblance to celestial tears. Fortunately, we were sheltered in the ornate ballroom that tops the Shangri-La, participating in a charity function at the pinnacle of the city. The ballroom was a place of monochromatic elegance, walls painted in a simple white and ceilings punctuated by gold chandeliers. My presence there was due exclusively to the ceaseless cajoling of friends in the thespian community. I was searching for these friends desperately, as everywhere I turned, I was confronted with an alarming portrait of beautiful vapidity. This pretty vacancy occupied the eyes of every professional socialite in attendance and infested every hollow smile. The event was allegedly intended to raise funds for the support of inner city schooling, which as an academic by trade I could easily sympathize with. However, nobody I encountered appeared remotely interested in that initiative, instead discussing their social trajectory, what to wear at subsequent events and who to shun. I escaped the smothering crowd in a state of mild disgust. I was prepared to leave when I noticed an enigmatic figure lounging under the Dorian arches adjacent to the entrance. There was an indescribable magnetism to him, and I felt an inexplicable compulsion to go towards him. I was a moth to the flame.
“Looks like I’m not the only one underwhelmed with the festivities.” I said, offering my hand in the universal symbol of introduction. He smirked slightly, brushing languid strands of dark hair from his eyes. His eyes were frozen lakes of crystal November, the coldest blue I had ever seen.
“You could certainly say that.” he murmured with a momentary smile.
“You see these people?” he asked, gesturing abstractly in obvious disdain. I responded in the affirmative.
“These people are the epitome of cowardice.” he continued bitterly.The implicit inquisition in my eyes prompted him to continue.
“We are congregated here far above the problems we claim to alleviate, elevated in our ivory tower not by arrogance, but by fear.” His pause was one of pregnant silence, allowing his words their deserved resonance.
“The marginalized threaten the masses assembled here. They represent a disparity that inspires both revulsion and guilt in the ruling class, but they are more frightening for the potential they have for revolution.”
“Revolution?” I asked in a voice heavy with skepticism.
“That seems relatively unlikely...I mean what do you think that would prove?”
“It would prove what I learned long ago.”  he whispered sadly “That rebellion is the noblest form of futility.”
With that I was hooked. Hours faded gently into the past as we spoke. We were both glad to have found refuge in each other’s company from the insipid vultures that surrounded us. As a stream of socialites began to exit through the marble doorway, we exchanged contact information. He handed me a business card stamped with his name, a card which in crimson font informed me that he had a recurring engagement as a musician.
“Friday.” he said simply. “The Vicious Cabaret.” 

    The Vicious Cabaret was preceded by a significant notoriety, renowned for its alleged fraternity with the criminal element. Hushed whispers depicted the illicit activities said to take place in the subterranean confines of the club. It’s renown had grown to the point that the lack of criminal investigation was a publicly recognized travesty most frequently attributed to institutional corruption. However, as I walked uneasily towards that famed den of stolen virtue, I realized that its inconspicuousness was its saving grace. The exterior was decidedly pedestrian: a jet black facade and a central door emblazoned with a scarlet V. Next to this door stood a gorgeous woman, who I noticed possessed the same magnetic qualities as Vladimir. She wore a red blouse that accentuated her significant curves and there was an enticing impropriety in her smile. She appeared to be in her early twenties, but the jade cobwebs in her eyes told stories of a far greater existence. These cobwebs were expelled by flame as I approached.
“Welcome to the Vicious Cabaret.” she said simply. She offered a scarlet pill, which carried an indescribable menace in its oblong frame.
“To facilitate the experience.” she explained in continued simplicity. My confusion must have been evident. She sighed in playful exasperation.
“This elevates sensory perception,” she explained “which allows you to reach a transcendental state.”
“So closer to God?” I asked, with what in retrospect was unforgivable naivete.
“Something like that.” she replied, lips curled in the dark amusement of a sphinx. I accepted the pill hesitantly, wary of the situation, but also consumed by a dark excitement.  As I opened the door, she drew me close, and whispered in my ear in glorious indecency “Enjoy the ride.”
I paused for a moment, paralyzed by carnal awe. I saw her blow me a mock kiss as the door closed behind me.

    In front of me was a seven step staircase leading to the club below. I walked towards it perplexed: I had expected something of a more pronounced scope. I put the pill in my mouth and winced as it burnt my tongue. It tasted of honey and soot, of lilacs and acid. The burning sensation spread throughout my body, which was replaced by an inferno in the shape of a man. My synapses erupted in simultaneous agony and ecstasy as flames washed over my body. The small staircase had been replaced by one that twisted and turned for miles and throbbed with an obscene heartbeat. I ran through the suddenly labyrinthine corridor, stumbling as the steps lunged at me violently. After a century, I reached the bottom, panting and disoriented. I looked around and was struck by the sheer enormity of my cavernous surroundings. I was a speck of dust and the room was a subterranean universe, stalactites dotting the barely visible ceiling, flames illuminating the stratospheric heights thereof. A symphony of echoes washed over me from a tide of angry voices. I soon found myself gasping for air, drowning in a sea of cacophony. When I saw the source of these voices, I was frightened to see that they came from a surreal congregation of demonic figures. Creatures with spiraling eyes were engaged in barbaric combat while while scaled women of darkly exotic beauty kissed each other to the obscene titillation of surrounding crowds. Everywhere i looked were animal characteristics, horns and spikes protruding from every face, claws hiding in every handshake. Terror gripped me with an iron clamp I was unable to relinquish myself from, and panic gnawed at my cerebral cortex like a hungry rat. Suddenly, as if in response to the sincerity of my fear, all illumination in the room faded, save for one light. I followed the trajectory of the beam and saw that it led to a majestic piano. It was at this piece of instrumental grandeur that my friend Vladimir was seated.
“It is better to be the lowest servant of Heaven than to rule in Hell.” he declared mournfully, much to the derision of the audience. And with that, he began.

    The music was wordlessly gorgeous, a funereal rhapsody in exotic scales. I looked around to see that every grotesque creature surrounding me was wholly transfixed by the haunting melody that enveloped them like a mother’s arms. The music grew in dynamic, emotion swelling to that of majestic devastation.  Strange harmonies emerged in a melancholy dance, spiraling in glorious descent. Vladimir’s frame contorted, arching as he struck the keys in furious desperation. His bodily spasms increased until they culminated in sudden protrusions from his shoulder blades. The music grew exultant, a heartbreakingly triumphant display as Vladimir’s wings unfolded from the back of his shredded suit. However, as he continued to convulse, he began to lunge blindly at notes, striking atonal blows against the engrossing tapestry. The dissonance continued in a brutal crescendo, all rhythm lost in the throes of cacophony. The crowd began to jeer, coarse insults emanating from fanged mouths and forked tongues. The “music” was now a swirling chaos, a symphony of anguish, random tones nailed together in patchwork rage. Suddenly Vladimir stood and the crowd ceased to speak.  He grabbed a bottle of vodka from the bar, downed it in a single gulp and smashed the bottle across the face of one of his more vocal detractors. In the pregnant silence that followed, he screamed in palpable grief. His words were foreign, but when I found him weeping outside in a sepulchral alley surrounded by a circle of bloody feathers, he told me what he had said.
“God, why have you forsaken me.”

    I helped him stumble back to his small apartment three blocks away, acting as a crutch to his staggering soldier. While he walked, he spoke of his past, of the secrets he had withheld from me in our brief friendship. He told me that he was a fallen angel, cursed to remain in the mortal realm until he could repent adequately through his music.  I attributed his conviction in his outlandish statements to his intoxicated state. I attributed my belief to the same. As we approached his apartment door, he turned to me, the frozen lakes in his eyes thawed and vulnerable in the moonlight. In the helpless voice of a wounded animal, he asked me if I”d like to come in. When I hesitated, he kissed me, his lips tasting of roses and summer. Later that night, even as euphoria began to loosen its hold on me, I could have sworn that I saw a halo above his smiling face.

    I woke the next morning to see Vladimir beside me, eyes dancing with excitement, oblivious to the December chill that had infiltrated the room. He told me that he had found out how to return to Heaven. I groggily asked him if he still believed what he’d told me about his status as a fallen angel. I was frightened by his affirmative response. He held me and told me that everything he had said was true. And he told me that that Sunday, we would go to the forest and he would perform his masterpiece. The palatial estate of the Oaks would dilate and welcome him back into the divine realm, and God himself would forgive Vladimir his trespasses. I accepted this with the unwitting madness that accompanies the recently woken, and I agreed to meet him in the clearing at noon the next day.

    When I arrived, the most beautiful piano I had ever seen, ebony lacquer and spotless ivory keys, was sitting in the middle of the clearing. Vladimir had given me explicit instructions on how to get there, how to avoid the brambles and how to sneak through the impossibly dense clutches of birches and elms. He was seated at the bench, slender figures rested upon the keys in amorous anticipation. He gave me a scarlet pill, which I ingested with great trepidation, knowing how much havoc one of its brethren had inflicted upon my mind. As it dissolved in my mouth, I found myself surprisingly engulfed in a sea of tranquility, ready for Vladimir’s performance. He began, gently caressing the keys at his ivory fingertips, coaxing out melodies that were alternately mournful and jubilant. Flying through modes and scales, he hunched over, striking notes with relaxed ease, wincing slightly as his wings once more perforated the dark fabric of his suit. The air grew warmer and flowers began to bloom around us, and the sun beat down in cheerful optimism. Then the unthinkable happened. God emerged from the sun, his face contorted in rage. Vladimir trembled, but continued to construct his rhapsody, weaving a sonata of gold from a fabric of sound. With a deafening bellow God ceased Vladimir’s recital, and with a swift display of vengeance, he banished Vladimir from existence, leaving nothing but torn silk in his stead. Then he whispered in my ear, his voice a tempest of unabashed fury.

    The authorities found me, trembling and curled at the foot of the piano. I’ve been told I was weeping uncontrollably, though I couldn’t tell them why. I can tell you though. You, who have watched me on my rapid journey towards madness, you who have observed the descent I have experienced which has taken me to a precipice on the edge of sanity. My mind has been devastated by the following knowledge. God is real. And he is not happy with us.

. . .

HvB

I was feeling immortal, transfixed at the wheel of my 1941 Dystopia. The hood gleamed in the Autumn light with celestial menace. The sky was on fire with polychromatic hues of fuschia and sapphire. As I sped down the ashphalt road, I could hear sirens echo in the recesses of the city, sound ricocheting through the sepulchral veins of urban sprawl. Even now the harsh glare of bright lights, alternating between red and blue, perforated the faint glow of the October sunset. I pushed down on the gas pedal further, trembling with the profane exhilaration that accompanied my line of work.

Allow me to clarify: I'm not evil. I'm merely an oppurtunist with a healthy subscription to capitalist philosophy. It's this economic compulsion that lends context to the situation I find myself in, bolting past the city limits in a chrome black Dystopia with fifty thousand dollars in the trunk and a dead hero in the sleeping metropolis. Even now the tumultuous drone of the sirens is fading in the distance as I abandon my pursuers in a cloud of dust. A well placed match thrown accurately out of the open window creates a barricade of flame that ensures my comfortable escape.

The sun has long since descended when I arrive at my sanctuary, a palatial abode situated at the peak of a jagged mountain. As I stumble wearily into my quarters, I divest myself of the leather trenchcoat, the red goggles, the black mask. I observe my scars in the mirror, the bruises over my broken ribs, the crooked gash where The Angel had sliced at me desperately. I could still see an aura of light on my hands from where I had broken The Angel's halo with my bare hands, and I savoured the expression of vulnerable shock that I could still picture on his typically impervious face.

I walk onto the balcony, striding over the subtle stonemasonry with the hint of a smirk upon my face. In the tentative embrace of the moonlight. The city glares at me in defensive slumber, and I meet its gaze with obstinate reciprocity. The moonlight envelops me as my wounds slowly heal. I look to the night sky in silent thanks, look at the city in a final declaration of smug dominion, and look at my glowing hands with grim satisfaction. I am Herr Von Blitzkrieg, and I kill superheroes.