The Main Character
Chapter 1

It was a sunny day. Unpleasantly so, even. A bead of sweat rolled down Rémy’s sunken chest and along the side of his visible rib-cage as he sat outside the door of his home in Sector 7. He wiped the sweat away from his chest tattoo and swallowed the anti-depressants he’d been holding in his ruddy hands for the past half hour, contemplating if they would actually help or just interfere with his drinking. He squinted upwards at the slender figure that appeared in front of the sun.

“Hey, MC. How’ve you been? I wasn’t expecting to see you this early. If I’d known we were going as a couple I would have gotten you flowers,” he struggled to convey his genuine delight through his sardonic language. He half smiled looking up at her from under a furrowed brow as he half covered his head and half combed back his curly blond hair with an unsure hand.

“Rémy,” MC sighed, evaluating how long it was going to take to get him suitable for the show that night. “The show is in three hours. You know that. Why are you drunk right now?”

“You look annoyed, but you love me MC, admit it”, Rémy grinned, ignoring the question. His face gathered like a dusty curtain around his grey-green eyes and chalky red mouth as it formed the saddest grin any person could feasibly muster. “You’re absolutely hopeless kid, but I have to tell you. It’ll never work between us. Also, I’m not really drunk, I’m just tired. Truly.” His hand was over his heart even though he was lying.

He stumbled up from his seat outside his door, grabbing onto MC’s arm as he did. Even though, at this point, Rémy was only slightly heavier than her, she struggled to support his weight as he fumbled with his door handle. MC knew he was lying about being drunk. But she also knew that he would not admit to drinking since he knew that she knew that alcohol reacted badly with his medication. He had been having a hard time as of late and did not care much if the pills were working or not. It did not make much difference to him. He was depressed and unproductive and then depressed about being unproductive. There was no point in discussing his lie now, it would not change the state he was in. MC decided to let him live in his lie.

“Maybe you’d feel better if you kept yourself…and your place in better shape. Rémy, when was the last time you cleaned up? It really is in a state.” Rémy had already made his way to the bathroom to hop in the shower and therefore did not respond right away. MC picked up a shirt that was lying on the floor. It released a galaxy of dust that danced in the little light that dared enter through the mostly shut curtains. She tried not to inhale. She could tell from the mess that he had been particularly down lately. ‘It’s odd how people show their emotions through their environment however consciously or subconsciously’, she thought to herself. ‘His place used to be so bare. Strictly utilitarian. Now it was littered with scraps of paper, discarded clothes, and half full food containers. It was a mess. He was a mess.’

Rémy peeked around the corner from the bathroom and called back to her in a half-laughing way, “Uh… I haven’t had anyone over in a bit. You’re my one and only.” He almost growled with self-loathing as the half-lie escaped him. His mind leapt back to the night more than a year ago, after which he had not had any success romantically or sexually. Rémy winced at the thought and tried to wash everything away in the shower. He really never had people over, and to be fair, he had not actually invited MC in. He enjoyed his solitude. Even when he and MC hung out, it was never at his apartment…except for that one night, of course. And he was not particularly in the mood to entertain as of late. He was not in the mood for anything really. It was probably a good thing that MC had stopped by or he would not have even attempted making it to the show. He could not tell her that though, she would scold him. He was older than her by two years and hated it when she ‘mommed’ him. To be fair though, when a 35-year-old needs to be helped with horrifyingly easy tasks like making oatmeal in the microwave without having it explode everywhere, there are very few ways to give advice that are not condescending and ‘mom-ish’.

MC rolled her eyes at Rémy in response to his comment. Then, casting a skeptical eye on his dilapidated couch, she sat down on a nearby chair that seemed to be in a better state, but still. Hardly anything in this apartment was in good condition. The kitchen appliances were okay, but that was from under use rather than care. It was clear Rémy had stopped caring. It had not been an all-at-once kind of thing. It had taken time and lasted almost ten years now. He had had promise the whole time, but ultimately, nothing had come of it.

MC looked around his living room searching for a sign of his current work. He never talked much about his music, but she figured he had to have something in the works to be able to keep his place. She could not see anything though; just a half-eaten pizza, still in the box, and few empty bottles of beer next to his piano. She nudged one of the bottles with her foot before closing her eyes to the musty heat of the room. She exhaled. Her mind cleared completely before steering her toward a memory-like daydream.

She felt as though she was in a place she knew, but it was impossible to tell where. Everything was white. And foggy. And silent. She walked forward until a row of shapes appeared, glistening darkly in the non-light. She thought at first, they were sculptures, but they were not. They all smelled the same.

MC drew closer. The familiar smell drew her in. It smelled like flowers. She could not understand why these sculptures smelled or where she recognized the smell from. They were not sculptures, they were not even shapes really. They were drawings. Moving drawings. On backgrounds of ivory, caramel, and olive skin. Drawings she had seen before on real skin. There was the small harmonica that had once adorned the shoulder of an old friend from art school. The large block of text that used to decorate her younger sister’s back. The familiar and slightly faded jackelope that belonged to an old lover was there too, but more beautiful and pristine than it had been last time she saw it. It drew her closer and scrunched its nose as if to greet her as she approached. They were all long gone now but, out of the corner of her eye she saw one down at the end. The last one, in a constant struggle. The sea monster dragging a ship to its doom, that one -

She started awake as the noise from the shower stopped. She had not even realized Rémy had been singing until he stopped. For a second she thought the smell from her dream had escaped into reality. MC leaned forward in her chair to look in his direction, not actually expecting to see him, but found herself caught. She got stuck looking at the design inked across Rémy’s chest. He looked taken aback for a moment at the expression on her small, round face. Her hazel eyes seemed especially green in the light.

“Why the look?” He asked, more trying to figure it out for himself than actually expecting an answer. She did not answer. So, he tried to fill the silence as he rubbed a cream on his chest. It had a strong smell but was definitely not the one MC had thought she melt. “It hasn’t been that long since you’ve seen me without a shirt, has it? No but seriously, what do you think? It’s the same design, I just got it touched up the other day. I couldn’t think of a new one to get and I missed the smell of the ink and the ointment. Weird, right? How smells stick with you like that? They just open a jar of memories like those jars that say peanuts but are actually filled with those collapsible snakes. You know? I may be a little drunk.” He broke eye contact with MC to stop blushing at how uncomfortable he was being.

Composing herself, MC shook the dream off. “Ha,” she half-yelled. She chastised herself for not controlling her volume properly. It was something she struggled with when she was caught off guard or flustered. She had not seen him shirtless in a while. She had not seen his tattoo in a while. She had not dreamed about him in forever. Strange. “Come on,” she said, too fast and too quiet. “We’ve got to get going if we want to set up.”

They walked back out into the sunlight. It somehow seemed to be cooler outside than it was in Rémy’s apartment. It almost felt familiar. As they moved, MC noticed that Rémy was not incredibly stable on his feet. She took out her jackalope lighter and lit a cigarette simultaneously offering him one as they walked. He accepted and she lit his as well. MC rubbed the side of her face a few times with her cigarette hand as if to scrub the dream out of her mind.

“I heard you singing in the shower. Are you working on something new?”

“Not really,” he said after a long drag on his cigarette.

“Well I liked it. Are you going to play it tonight?”

“Ugh,...what does it matter what I play?” He sighed the way people do when they are already bored by the rant they are about to give but cannot muster the resolve to not start said rant in the first place. He pulled another drag to prepare himself. She did the same. Then he started.

“Nobody is listening anyway, not really. Were you even listening or was it just nice background music for your thoughts?” Now that he was started, he scrunched up his nose the way a terrier’s does when it’s deciding whether to bark or just be generally obnoxious for no reason. “Honestly. I could play the same song all night long, over and over and over, and at the end I’d still get some anorexic 60-something socialite coming up to me saying how much she enjoyed it and ask if she could she get a picture with me. I’m seriously considering just setting up a cardboard cut-out and boom box next time. I’d put the same song on repeat. Like, what am I even doing at an art opening? Those people don’t even care who I am…I mean who I was. They really don’t care who I am. I’d bet you the keys to my place that not one single person will even ask how I am doing. What I’m doing, maybe. What new stuff I’m going to put out and when, more likely. But no actual concern for me. Why?” The question came out almost without Rémy’s permission. Hearing it escape turned him a little red. After a small sobering pause, he almost whimpered in continuation, “Really, I’m asking now, Why?” Rémy could tell he was making MC uncomfortable. He was uncomfortable. In attempt to cover up the shake in his voice he feigned more anger than he felt as he finished. He was not angry, he was disillusioned.

“When did this all become so amazingly and astoundingly empty?”

They walked in silence after that. MC had a lot of thoughts about Rémy’s rant, but nothing helpful. As nihilistic or apathetic as he often pretended to be, she could tell he still cared that he wasn’t ‘outputting’ as he called it. He seemed bitter, and angrier; perhaps as much at himself as anyone, but he was still Rémy. He had talent. It was possible that all the drinking and the drugs had effected that part of him, shut it down, but she doubted it. That was just an excuse he made for himself. Their mutual friend Karen believed it though. She suspected that if he could stop drinking and started taking his medication more regularly that he might be able to write as prolifically and perform as passionately as he used to. But MC knew that would never happen.

Rémy was never going to magically change back and it was not because of harsh critics, silent audiences, or self-medicating. He was a genius. He knew that and so did everyone else. And that was the problem. He had hated himself for his brief success. Both for the conciseness and the severity of it. He could hear every single imperfection in his own music and to him the music became defined by them. In his mind the music was simply bad and therefore anyone who liked it was an idiot and furthermore, why would or should he make music for idiots? He thought that if he did it would make him no better than them. The fools. So, he stopped. But he still hated himself for releasing what he had in the first place. He felt that he should have realized earlier what he was doing, but since he had not, he hid his embarrassment behind a haze of intoxication. He drank and overdid it on his meds. The thought of making the same mistake paralyzed his ability and he hadn’t attempted more than one song a year since. Both Rémy and MC knew he was not going to release anymore music, but MC liked the idea that he was still writing…even if it was not true.

Rémy stumbled and fell against a lamp post. He clung onto it as he mumbled.

“Sorry… MC, something...I don’t feel well…maybe I should skip out on tonight after all.” Rémy’s voice had dropped an octave below his jesting tone. He pushed on the post with his skinny forearms to try and get himself right but MC had paid no attention.

“What, so you can go back home and drink while I’m stuck dealing with the art critics alone? No. Come on.” She was yelling over her shoulder. Once she noticed he had stopped she added, “Please.”

Rémy groaned but continued.

“If it turns out to be as bad as you’re making it out to be we can go to Simon’s after and get some cocktails. I know I’ll need one. I’m going to have a G&T.”

“Oh really?” he asked sardonically. “You’re just full of surprises. Living life on the edge and all that…” His voice trailed off as he half-jogged up next to her, lighting another cigarette as they walked.

The show hall was enormous. Clean and completely empty except for the art; it was almost peaceful. MC headed over to the space where her newest work was while Rémy half-stumbled off towards the stage. As she watched him go and wondered how he could possibly make it through a show. Then she wondered what he was even going to play. ’Why had he agreed to play? He’d never been one to be swayed by money. Maybe he decided to play because he needed to get out of the house?’ She was confused but had no time to ponder these thoughts, she had to get to her pieces.

When MC got to the first of her two gallery spaces she took a moment to herself. This was her favorite part. She flipped the switches on the wall. Immediately, the room lit up in the strange patterns of light that characterized her work. Hers was a unique form of art: utilizing artificial light and shadow that interacted with the audience. Every one of her pieces was formed from light from candles, neon tubes, strobes, projectors, spot-lights, or regular incandescent bulbs. By viewing the pieces in the space, the audience created shadows on each other and on the space and thus became part of the art. The idea was that everyone would have equal impact on the end result just by existing. Such pieces required a sizable space to be fully appreciated, so, although MC had two of the possible five rooms to herself at this show she only had two pieces.

The first room had the piece she had just turned on. It showed a black and white projection of a muscular man’s lower body walking up a twisting ‘down’ escalator that was projected on every wall and led to the ceiling. Across the space, the man’s upper body was trying without result to dig his way below the floor. The viewer’s shadows would delay the opposite half of the man’s body than the one it passed over. Currently MC was casting a shadow on the face of the digging torso so the legs started stumbling on their route toward to ceiling. Additionally, there were flames licking down from above as if the ceiling was completely engulfed in flames. To MC, it was the sound effect reel that sold this effect. She loved to deep rumble the flames made coupled with scratching and squeaking made by the digging and mechanics of the escalator. The title, emblazoned above the doorway in soot, was “Existence is Hell: in solitude we even escape ourselves”.

The next room had the piece that MC was most proud of. As she walked in, nothing was visible. The ambient lights in the gallery were turned on but the switch controlling her display was still off. She reversed them. The effect was both deafening and immediate. The switch turned on a series of Van de Graaf generators around the room, causing bolts of electricity to spring, seemingly at random, from various surfaces in the walls and ceiling. Though the bolts appeared at first glance to be completely scattered, they were not. There was a conical pattern that trapped the viewers gaze in the center of the room where the largest generator sat. MC had achieved this effect through manipulations of the strength of the currents and sizes of the generators. This piece was called “Gravity”. The viewers were welcome to enter and throw off the pattern, but no one ever did.

After a few seconds, MC realized that she did not actually have much to set up. So, she absent-mindedly fiddled with the sound board in “Existence is Hell”. She had lied when she told Rémy she needed to get there early to set up to make sure they were on time. Now that she was out of things to do she became antsy. MC took a cursory look around before slouching against the wall and pulling out a cigarette from the battered pack in her back pocket. Curious, she tried lighting it on one of the sparks from “Gravity”. It worked. After a couple drags she saw the first patron wander in. He and his wife were eyeing up “Existence is Hell” in the next room. She stayed put, aware that if she was caught smoking indoors she’d likely be scolded. Still, she waited until a few more people filtered into the exhibit space before entering it herself. She leaned laconically in the doorway, people-watching. She did catch what people were saying about her work but was mostly curious to see how they interacted with it. Ultimately, MC was happy with her art and did not need the approval of these people to tell her how to feel about what she had made. She was a well-established artist at this point in her career. She had been making art for nearly 13 years. Even so, her mouth did slightly curve into a smirk when she heard the first gasps coming from the direction of “Gravity”.

The voices grew louder. Suspiciously louder. Some people even started shouting agitatedly. MC quickly realized that the shouts were not coming from her exhibit...she followed the voices out into the main lobby where she could see a cluster of potential buyers crowding around the stage.

“Shit”, she muttered. It was Rémy’s room.

MC pushed her way through the crowd that had built up. When she reached the stage, she saw the pool of blood. It was a lot of blood. There were two people at the center of the pool and, judging by the sheer breadth of the pool, at least one of them had to be dead. As she got closer still she could see Rémy and a young red-headed girl. Rémy’s violin bow was lodged in his eye socket. The girl appeared to be a medical professional of some kind. She had obviously tried to help. Tried to stop the bleeding. Instead, she had only succeeded in getting blood on her clothes, hands, and face. She sat still: defeated. There was no indication of how this could have happened.

Eventually, the girl left Rémy’s side and the crowd parted so he could be taken away, but MC had gone by then. At first, when she realized what she was looking at, and what it meant, she was unable to look away from her certainly dead friend. “He hasn’t played to a room this full in years”, she numbly thought. It was when she unglued her eyes from his eerily still body that she saw the faces of the people in the crowd. They did not look like people. They were onlookers desperate to see the spectacle of her friend’s demise. “I guess they still don’t really care,” she thought angrily.

MC felt like screaming and raging at the ridiculousness of her whole universe. Instead, however, she left. She did not turn around once. The stage was behind her, she wanted everything behind her. She walked out of the venue and down the street against the current of others. The crowd parted for her like skin that had been freshly sliced open.

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