The Eyes of Saint Ives

By ZEKE

The Eyes of Saint Ives

In a theater filled to the brim with concert goers, Mike recollects on the events that ultimately brought him there. As orchestrated classical music being performed by a symphony sets the tone for his memories, we follow Mike on his gradual transformation into becoming the infamous Saint Ives. Plagued by his past and crippled by the atrocities that shroud him, Mike's psychological health is put into question as he runs amok in the city with his egotistic alter ego at the wheel. With Saint Ives at the helm, Mike gets dragged through a serious of daunting acts of vengence and cold-blooded murder. All he can do is sit by and watch the serial killer of Saint Ives wreak havoc upon his victims. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: ZEKE
• Release date: Aug 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536565270

Book preview

The Eyes

of

Saint Ives

A Story By Zeke

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

THE EYES OF SAINT IVES

First edition. August 4, 2016.

Copyright © 2016 ZEKE.

ISBN: 978-1536565270

Written by ZEKE.

Also by ZEKE

The Delivery Service

The Eyes of Saint Ives

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Also By ZEKE

-Overture-

-Sonata I-

-Accelerando-

-Rest-

-Glissando-

-Tremolo-

-Vibrato-

-Flat-

-Interlude-

-Lyric-

-Da Capo-

-Forte-

-Sonata II-

-Coda-

-Encore-

Also By ZEKE

-Overture-

(noun) an introduction to something more substantial

*- Requiem mass in D minor

*-Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

~Overture~

I am going to commit murder tonight, and it’s going to be a revolting mess. I’ve been patiently waiting a very long time for this opportunity. It’s a strenuous task to stay focused in this place, too much happening all around. My attention is distracted by the heavenly symphonies of old, harmonizing with a mixture of chaotic power and bliss as it rises to a marvelous peak. The cadence this particular orchestra of violins transmit is received as a sweeping breeze of awe traveling across and through the crowd. Waves of spectacular sounds fill my body and send chills that stand the hairs on my arm at end.

This is real. This is art. Welcome to Music 101. This is the raw emotion of life, death and everything in between - calculated down to strategically placed notes and pitches and harmonies. It’s the organic creation of beauty in a nutshell.

Now the crescendo; leading to the inevitable climax soaring beyond the notes and into the soul of the listener. I can feel pain and tragedy within each key and note. Each pitch was meticulously chosen for the purpose of conveying emotion by process of elimination. The composer was a genius. This is one of Mozart’s final masterpieces. He was an original rock star. I bet the women threw themselves at him, even with that funky little getup he sported. Over two hundred years ago he died, and here I am listening to his work being performed live in 2006. It’s an amazing thing to leave a piece of yourself behind that can transcend through the ever-changing tides of time.

To be immortalized is what we all seek. To die and leave something behind that can potentially live on forever is an amazing accomplishment to reach and such a special gift to share. For most of us, the best chance we have is through our offspring. We continue spitting out children to pass our DNA on into future generations, evolution blessed us with that gift of immortality as survival tactic. For some of us though, our entire life’s goal is to leave something solid and sustainable behind, so our impact might personally live on forever. It’s not enough for us to only leave a light shade of ourselves behind, you have to leave behind your heart, soul and blood for it to have any kind of longevity. You have to somehow channel your soul and clone that piece of it, copy and paste...something. Document it somehow and leave it to be shared with anyone willing to learn about us.

In today’s world, you have to be a movie star to be immortalized. You can live in syndication forever, like Lucy Ball, or be in one of Hollywood’s most celebrated movies, like Bogart in Casablanca.

Musicians still have their days in the sun. We are still listening to Mozart, Bach and Beethoven. Even more contemporary music from three generations ago will, I believe, stand the test of time. Bob Dylan will most likely continue to be the most covered artist throughout the next one hundred and fifty years, it really wouldn’t surprise me at all. Dylan was a prophet in the history of music. That cold black cloud is coming down. What would we have done without him? He represented truth, something hard to come by. Being blessed with someone else like him would be like catching lightening in a bottle.

In 1970, at the young age of 27, Hendrix died. Forty years ago this happened, and people still proclaim him as the best to ever hold an electric string guitar. I believe John Lennon’s music will forever be apart of our culture where he’ll sleep safely in the hearts of those with love, and Elvis will always be impersonated from now and until the day humans go extinct. Perhaps a day may come when people will question who Elvis was and why people impersonated him, and if they do, the answer will be simple; it’s because he was the King. He knew karate, was a part of the Memphis Mafia, famous movie star and officially sworn into the CIA by Richard Nixon. How the fuck do you compete with that?

Anything that has ever been broadcast lives on forever as sound waves traveling the distance of space. As for back here on Earth, these people will always be iconic figures, who have somehow put a stamp on their time and place in this crazy world that we have all come to know.

Writers get their chance as well. Shakespeare wrote plays and stories that we have been listening to four centuries and counting. Two thousand-four hundred years ago, give or take, Socrates wrote his philosophies, and, to this day, we are still reading his words of wisdom. The power of words can sustain the harsh and brutal weathers of time. They may be outdated and become worn, but if words hold true and still apply, we’ll continue to quote them and tag situations with wisdom passed on from the original free thinker whom worded it so perfectly simple.

Artists, like Leonardo da Vinci’s work, will be immortalized until the day we destroy this world or ourselves, whichever comes first. We will always recognize the portrait of Mona Lisa or The Scream by Edvard Munch. These pieces will remain a part of our culture and history, and we will remember them for as long as we are here.

Rulers and politicians will have their place in history, along with serial killers, mass murderers and psychotic lunatics. Notorious names, like Hitler and Napoleon will never be forgotten. We often forget how much we impact the world around us. Important people will always be discussed, but where does that leave the rest of us? Where are we, the little people, in the pages of history? We were probably somewhere making sweet love and crowding up the planet with babies, while others were either making real contributions to this planet or forwarding the deconstruction of it. We are the engine moving the enormous mechanism along our path to the unknown destination, but where is our page in the ever turning stories of Life?

Saint Ives will be in there somewhere. Lost in the mix of those pages, you’ll find him. The eyes of Saint Ives is watching, waiting patiently to be unleashed upon the world.

For a moment, I forgot my position. This choir is pristine, truly mesmerizing. I was taken back with the music. The acoustics in this theater are state of the art. Sounds are bouncing off of the walls all around me and everything is clear, crisp and sharp. As an amateur musician; I am, by no means, as close to understanding the genius of a composer such as Mozart or Bach. These people were the Einstein’s of music, and they registered the inner workings and theories of musical progression creating beautiful compositions worthy of our respect and attention. It’s music that can actually take you places in your subconscious. All you have to do is close your eyes. Submit yourself to the incendiary sounds clashing in concord, and you will go to that place, that special oasis in your mind where you can be free and at peace.

As for me, verse-chorus-verse-chorus-bridge-chorus is as far as it goes. Everyone must appreciate this classical kind of talent, because it dwarfs the competition. These were the heavy hitters, the Mac Daddies of musical theory; they were the true masters of the art.

This is my first time hearing a beautiful orchestra of professional musicians colliding together to make such wonderful sounds of bliss. I find myself astonished and touched by the music being portrayed through these excellently talented and diligently-trained individuals. They are precise with every note. The music moves and sways me, like being rocked to sleep while floating on the ocean. Every emotion is captured with passion, as if every bar possesses a special sentiment to them. I have never heard anything as hauntingly beautiful and magnificent as this. No home audio device could ever capture what I am feeling right now. It catches me up in the moment, and in the moment is when I realize I cannot be swept away by this. This is not what I am here for.

The piece ends and the crowd goes wild with an epic roar echoing from here to three stories high. Applause and howling tongues fill the theater and make it rumble. I let loose of a sigh of apprehension. I take a deep breathe and rise to my feet. I bid my bravo along with the massive crowd of reverberating applause. It’s like the sound of thunder quaking the theater complex. Everyone is on their feet. Everyone is cheering their praises as loud as possible.

All around me are millionaires and big business owners, along with congressmen and billionaires. All of them drooling to sink their teeth into each other. Depending on what demographic you are apart of, these people are the scum of the earth. Blood draining vampires, sucking at the neck of the economy. I am surrounded by three thousand dollar suits and tuxedos, thirty thousand dollar watches and two thousand dollar shoes. I am swallowed in by high-dollar dresses, diamond necklaces and earrings being worn by super models and high-class prostitutes. Valentino Garavani and Versace stretch as far as the eye can see. Who are you wearing? is the most frequently asked question of the evening. There are enough people with money in this building to feed, cure and heal the whole world ten times over. Instead it’ll be spent on expensive clothes and five thousand dollar plates of food with servings that could only fill the appetite of a common field mouse.

Sure I’m sporting a two thousand dollar suit, but I stole it off of a rich guy named Marcus. I could never afford to be so lavish, and now that I have a taste of the fake lives they live, I’d rather be down in the gutter with the other ninety-something percent.

My watch is a Casio barely worth thirty bucks, but it still keeps the same time. I would be booted out of here if they knew the truth. They would look down at me like a bottom feeder. If you’re not a millionaire; you’re trash to these people. They would probably treat me like a leper if they knew I lived in a shitty, one-room apartment with one window on the bad side of town. They’d probably spit on me and throw rotten fruit at me in fear of rubbing my bottom dwelling, ill mannered lower class off on them. ‘Death to the poor person! Our lack of compassion condemns you to keep a distance of at least a hundred and fifty feet from the elite and beautiful people. Tar and feather this man with haste!’

The next piece begins.

*-Suite for Solo Cello No. 5 in C minor.

*-Johann Sebastian Bach

––––––––

This piece grips me from the beginning. Stay focused. The cello is deep and dark with a hint of madness. This piece is Bach. The mathematical composition of his music is unprecedented. With mathematics, Bach somehow formulated eternal magic when he created music with kaleidoscopic symmetry. It’s baffling and awe-inspiring, and most of all, hauntingly beautiful. I see him like some mad scientist in my head, composing such music.

I am somewhat of a musician myself. Nothing has ever really became of it, but it never stopped me from loving to play. When I was a young boy, I was instantly attracted to the piano. My parents bought my first keyboard when I was a child and paid for weekly lessons. I took to it quickly and practiced every night for years. There is something exceptionally beautiful about the exquisite sounds of a piano. The rhythm in the scales can be captivating. Sometimes I would sit at that keyboard for hours; I wouldn’t even play anything, just press keys down and listen to the differences in each note’s pitch.

I digress...

I scan the crowd to keep an eye on my man. There he is. Trophy wife standing elegantly at his side. She looks amazing as she shimmers like the sun sparkling and reflecting off of the water. She is far too beautiful to indeed be in love with him. She is Mrs. Marisa Weston Lawson. Age thirty-one. Just recently wed to Wayne Lawson. Age sixty. Billionaire tycoon entrepreneur. Yes, you, Mr. Lawson. You are the reason behind my presence here listening to the sounds of angels rejoicing, and weeping, and singing; it all has me second guessing myself. There is something in the vibrations of the music, and it is steadily radiating my way. It comes in bursts and waves, multiple crests of movement passing through me and then escaping from the pores of my skin.

Regret? No, I do not regret the actions I have taken. It all felt right. It was the most important thing I had ever done in my life. As if suddenly, all the pieces finally fit after years and years of running from the truth. I am no longer struggling for identity or self-worth. I couldn’t give a damn about having money. I don’t even give a damn about what happens to me when this all ends. If I die, go on knowing that I didn’t mind that outcome. I don’t even care what happens to my body. Rip it to pieces and feed it to the wolves; toss it in the ditch for all I care. It won’t be me anymore, just the vessel I was occupying. I go somewhere else. I go to a different place.

In my mind, everything was justified, but that still doesn’t make it right. I know for damn sure the courts wouldn’t think the same way. They call me vigilante. They call me murderer. Some call me serial killer. Some call me hero, but what they call me in the newspaper and on the streets is...Saint Ives.

Let’s step back for a moment; back when the light switch suddenly flipped, the initial point when I blew those prudent fuses. The very first time it happened was right out there on Saint Ives Avenue. It was when I decided to no longer idly stand by and let all of these heathens and degenerates have their way with me...with us. It has all excelled into something much bigger now, but when it all began, it was only about the moment, nothing more.

The moment was enlightenment...or insanity. Honestly, I couldn’t tell you with any certainty which was the more dominant force proliferating; perhaps more insanity and less enlightenment. Whatever the case, it happened, and it came over me with an explosion of burning fire, consuming my soul with an instinct so primal and natural that it frightened me momentarily. By then, the deed was already done, no point in worrying about spilled milk.

I was stabbed twice that day. The would be rapist wasn’t too keen on my interrupting his unwelcome member on the young girl in the dank alleyway. By the time I arrived, he was already forcing himself on her. Her underwear was ripped and hanging from her left ankle. She was sopping wet from the rain and shivering with her body pressed against a red brick wall.

I saw it all begin from the window of my apartment, five stories up. When I witnessed him punch and drag her down the alley, a rush of adrenaline kicked in and shot up my spine like a lightning bolt. When the sharp shock finally made its way to the top of my neck, I ceased to have control over myself. Before I knew it, I was already standing behind the