Endgame Symphony

By MJ Grigsby

At one time, he enjoyed lifethen tragedy forced self-medication and recrimination on him.
When deep distress forces Devlin Goode beyond his ability to endure, he makes a desperate choice that initiates a chain of experiences. That choice was made with a curse for Heaven and Hell dripping from his lips. Then, when a profound memory sobers his mind, he is forced to reconsider his intentions. Losing consciousness, Devlin wakes up in, he believes, a correctional mental facility. He finds himself surrounded by dubious characters including presumed mental patients, staff, and two very mysterious and puzzling men named Sheperd and Forge. Those two appear to Devlin at odd times and with odd ramblings seemingly in an attempt to maneuver him to their own ends; ends that are a mystery to him. Although Devlin truly has no idea of what hes become involved with or where hes being led, he knows the stakes are monumental!
One inexplicable event after the next forces Devlin to question his own judgment, his senses, and eventually his very sanity! Could the things he is witnessing possibly be real? Consumed with his own suffering, Devlin remains unsure of what is real and who to trust, including himself. Each encounter he has with those around him chips away at his fragile resolve. After being racked in mind, body, and spirit, Devlin Goode is in time brought to an epiphany, possibly proving to be the ultimate answer to his very existence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 7, 2008
• ISBN: 9781469118802

MJ Grigsby

MJ Grigsby was born in Chicago Illinois and grew up exploring a deeply artistic character. At a young age, he displayed an inherent talent for drawing and then as a teenager, began to express himself through music; becoming a drummer and performer. That musical expression has lasted twenty years and continues to expand to this day. Now, with his first foray into the realm of fiction writing, the author hopes to intrigue and at the same time entertain a new audience while also helping to bring about a heightened awareness for African-American fantasy fiction.

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Copyright © 2008 by MJ Grigsby.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

PART I

THE DESCENDING

PART I

The Descending

PART II

THE LANGUISHING

PART II

The Languishing

PART III

THE ASCENDING

PART III

The Ascending

DEDICATED TO MY FAMILY AND FRIENDS

AND THE IDEA OF SELF-RELIANCE

PART I

THE DESCENDING

PART I

The Descending

SOLITUDE BROUGHT OUT the worst in me.

The noise of life has a way of dulling the realizations of circumstance. Everyday things distract, often, from the damning truths that cause a person pain. When those things are taken away, and you’re left with nothing but your own mocking thoughts, you can be suffocated with the weight of them.

That’s what was happening to me.

I was ceasing part by part, like an orchestra winding its way through a sorrowful song, a section at a time ending its line, until the last tragic note. I was smart enough to see what was happening, but too weak to be able to control it. That fact made it worse. Because I lacked the ability to control my fate, or myself my self-loathing was fueled. All I could do was succumb.

So, I withdrew into solitude. The whirlpool is vicious.

For too long, I sat on the edge of the bed, head in hands, my mind desolate. How long – how long had it been? Six months had past since I’d confined myself to my cold loft with the bottle and a little black cat for companions.

And there I sat…

Because of that solitude, I’d become two very separate people; one man feeling profound emotions unwillingly – and one who was standing apart, cataloging the experience without any idea of how to effect a change for the other. One surrendered to numbing apathy and one to utter detachment, although it could be argued that those were actually the same state. The only truly common factor the two shared was that neither was whole.

And there I sat…

Without purpose, I droned my way through each hour I was unfortunately awake just waiting for a dull and restless sleep to overtake me. That became my routine.

For the most part, I tuned out to escape my truth. Just like my spirit, my mind and body were lethargic and so I initially didn’t notice when the phone rang. I had no intention of answering it though, and I let the machine pick up. Over that small echoing speaker, I heard a grating voice say, This message is for Mr. Devlin Goode. This is in regards to a past due- That was all I needed to hear, and I turned it off with a fist. It was pointless to humor the thought of paying bills because I had no money at all. I hadn’t taken a gig or sold a single sketch or painting for months. All the past due notices and calls in the world wouldn’t change my account balance. So, my strategy of ignoring continued.

Aggravated, I stood and moved aimlessly out into the apartment to find a different place to sit thoughtlessly. After standing in the middle of the living room for a moment, fighting against my initial intention of avoidance, I broke down and went to sit at the piano. At some point that seemed very distant to me, I loved that piano. There were times when I played until I had only the strength to stand up and stumble away. There were also many times when I didn’t play at all, but instead, stood there staring at it, etching every curve of it into my mind and spirit. This time was different from those. This time I felt reluctant to hear a single note. It had lost all familiarity to me. But the thought that somehow I might recover some vague or lost part of me through the playing of that piano tried to make itself heard in the back of my mind. Eventually, I gave in and listened to that thought. With disinterest, I gave it its chance.

I touched the keys but didn’t hear music. My fingers moved over that piano strictly from habit, from repetition, but there was no melody, only struggle. The feeling was like total emptiness. If I had been outside of myself at that time, I would have seen a man that appeared hollow. Out of frustration, I slammed my hands down repeatedly, until I noticed the pain, and ended my depraved concerto.

As I sat there, I questioned myself; was I truly unhappy, or was I stuck in a morass of self-pity? Did even being able to ask that question mean that it answered itself? No! It was just the opposite. The uncertainty was a symptom of a real problem not some self-created drama.

‘SHUT UP YOU FUCK! YOU DON’T KNOW SHIT!’ That was what I heard me say to myself.

Maybe I was lost… Maybe I was outside of reality. But perception is reality, and my perception was the only one on the table.

I was alone, for the most part.

I had friends; I had close friends. But things were different.

How many people could say that they had friends for almost their entire life? Very few could. But I could. Although I never lost those few, the relationships had changed. How could they juggle their lives and problems, with my burden thrown in, without allowing one or the other to drop and shatter? How could I ask them to? How would they respond? Would they say that they really didn’t have a use for me or my troubles? I’d never know because I’d never ask. No, things were different. They could never go back again. Circumstance had left me on my own.

So, I stalked my apartment like a wraith. All my efforts were put into escapism and admonition. I went from room to room without purpose, but I did not sit down at the piano again.

Instead, I grabbed a new bottle of vodka and stumbled into the bedroom to subdue my thoughts. There was never really any illusion that the drinking would make anything any better, far from it. Despite that truth, I felt that the blur of intoxication was preferable to complete clarity.

Fitfully, I slept.

For me, sleep and booze never equaled rest, quite the opposite. There were moments when I’d come around, admonish myself for it, then, fade out of consciousness again. Still, I found no peace. The dreams saw to that. My dreams were as lucid as they were disturbing. When I woke up abruptly, I was on my back in an awkward position with Serenity in her usual spot, curled up between my legs. She almost seemed to feel for me.

It was dark; the clock read 1:18 A.M. Upset about being awake, I let out an obscenity.

The world around me was silent and sleeping as I was just coming to. I’d been trapped in that cycle for a while. My normal pattern had become disrupted and I suffered for it. Although I felt that it was un-natural, and actually hated the altered routine I’d fallen into, I was powerless to change it.

I’d stay up for a day or two at a time until I couldn’t see straight, then I’d pass out and sleep for fifteen to twenty hours. When I did drag my ass out of bed, it was the middle of the night. The world around me was on a completely opposite schedule, which just heightened my sense of isolation. Then that same sense of isolation found reasons to convince me that it was preferable anyway. There was always a reason not to leave the loft or communicate with the world on the other side of the door. The only thing I could have conveyed was anger anyway. I told myself that it didn’t matter because I’d become leery of people anyway. I told myself that without being sure I believed it.

So, I took a drink and rolled over, back to oblivion.

The clock read 4:05 P.M… .

The sound of the TV had woken me from a troubled sleep. I had to get up quickly, being a slave to my bladder, and disturbed Serenity. When I finished, I went to the window. It looked like the day in late October that it was. The wind was blowing a heavy mournful rhythm against the glass. The dark sky and rain empathically matched my sentiment. In the past I had found solace on days like that, but not then.

The decision had been made.

For all this time, I suppressed this one thought and turned away from its honesty. I treated it like a woman treats the scariest part of a movie. I now realize that I was peeking at it with squinted eyes the whole time. But it had become too demanding to be ignored. Maybe I had lost the will to continue ignoring it, or maybe I’d actually found the will to acknowledge it. Either way, it had finally burrowed its way into my mind.

The decision had been made, and I went about my plans with a quiet resolve. I felt that distinct feeling again, of not being a single man going through it. Instead, I was a spectator again. Calmly, I imagined what should have been very disturbing to me. When I closed my eyes, I saw the most evil things being done by… me! I was intentionally hurting the few people I cared about. They were being murdered, purposefully, by me. There was no reason for what I was thinking but it did verify one thing; my grasp of reality had weakened.

We began to argue with myself.

Our heart told us how unfair it would have been, but our head said it was only meant to save them pain in the end. I didn’t want anyone to feel pain because of me, so taking any hurt away before hand seemed logical, but not enough. How could I know what I would be stealing from them? There was no way! Let it go… Don’t think you can decide for others and leave them powerless. That was the whole point of your own misery! Let it go. Which was rational and which was irrational? It wasn’t a case of that line becoming blurred; it had become non-existent. It did seem to make sense but…

I didn’t know who I was anymore!

What was I thinking? My original plan came back to me, and there was no contention about it. There was no thought at all – no why or if – only how. That came easily. If we all thought about it, we’ve all at least begun a plan of action in the dark privacy of our thoughts. I was no different. The extent to which we allow ourselves to travel is the only thing that separates us. I saw one way and set myself on that path.

So, I went about my plans because the decision had been made.

I turned the bottle I’d been drinking end-up to numb my body further and lower my resistance. Determined, I swallowed until my throat involuntarily closed in protest. After recovering, I repeated.

Standing up as best I could, I went out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. There was a full bag of cat food on the shelf – I pulled it down, opened it wide with a sharp knife, and dumped the whole bag into Serenity’s bowl. Of course, I’d become a little