Children of the Program (32 page)

chapter 48

Letters to the lords

“A New York Times reporter's body was found and pulled from the East River.  Now, back to the standoff unfolding in New Mexico.”  The television rattled and hummed.  Patrons gathered in the lobby to catch a glimpse of the breaking news.

              Michelle and I watched the reports unfold from the Old Town Pub in New York City.  Visceral feelings bubbled to a head, as Dez's stalemate cast a long shadow over the entire city's rhythm.  Barflies imbibed the drama and were mindful to keep their glasses full — fearful of losing their coveted view.  As time slowed, we noticed a crowd forming on the streets; like big-eyed children, people wrestled to peak through the smudged glass and catch a glimpse.  They were drawn, like mosquitoes to an ultraviolet light. 

              “If anyone realized our connection to the unfolding headlines, we'd be mobbed,” I whispered to Michelle.  Hearing the devastating news of Grayson's death meant unearthing his archived interviews and story, before returning to dock in Baltimore's industrial harbor.  It also meant rolling the dice and risking a run-in with the Cadence, one last time.  The day’s events brought Michelle and me closer.  Stewing in my suds, I couldn't imagine a life without her.  Knowing the cult's ideology would mutate and continue to spread conspiracy theories and hate into the world, meant we needed each other.  As the sun tucked behind the earth, we stumbled onto the glossy streets of surrealism. 

              “Where does he live, again?” asked Michelle.

              “It doesn't matter, darling!  Let's just walk.” 

              We walked for a couple hours, contemplating the odds.  We had a lifetime, or more, to come to terms with Dez's final moments.  Elated, I shouted, “'I have to write a song about it!”  Like a chorus, my words echoed through the alleys.  Aside from gathering Grayson's extensive notes and for once, there wasn't a next step.  Our lives, consumed by adrenaline and anxiety, simply stopped.  Luckily, the rest of humanity was moving quickly enough to keep the earth turning. 

“I wonder if life has finally caught up to us and will spin us into its cocoon of purposeless years?” I asked.

              “Only if we're lucky, Neco.”

              “It's strange.  The future looks bland, but maybe that's OK.”             

              Unknown to Michelle, we had circled Grayson's residence a dozen times.  With a tired heart, I stopped her on the complex steps and kissed her —
deeply
.  My racing heart pulsed on the tip of my quivering lips.  My eyes were lost in the moment, as my soul dissolved into the emotional black hole I'd tried to swallow at the bar.  The moon made silhouettes of us. 

Turning the door handle with caution, we slipped into Grayson's modest apartment complex and let flickering wall lamps guide our steps.  Grayson's presence oozed from the hipster paintings on his otherwise barren walls. 

              “He said it was under the floorboards,” I motioned, scouring the ground for an entry point. Moving a tiny shag rug, resting in front of the sink, Michelle found a hook.  Lifting a heavy wood panel, I removed the large covering.  It was roughly 2.25' x 3.75'.  The aura in the room made it feel like we were opening the Ark of the Covenant.  A tiny wind rushed from beneath the floor as I nervously reached into the void.  Inside was a rectangular flash drive containing the contents of our lives.

              “Is that really the Children of the Program story?” asked Michelle.

              Cupping my mouth, I stumbled over the
trivial nature of a
response.  My protective hands squeezed the tiny devise.  It was as if Grayson had hand delivered our legacy – his aura seemed to pass through the room.  Before the cool moonlight, I raised it to The Council, fell to my knees and cried.  Michelle was there to catch me.

              “We should probably get going, sweetheart,” I said.

              Like ships in the night, we lifted our anchors and sailed home — actually, we hopped a train.  The entire ride felt like a metaphor.  Dipping through dark tunnels, time raced by.  It felt like we were passing through a wormhole and into a parallel reality. 

+++

              “Son, I'm glad you're home!”  My father and I hugged, acknowledging our lost time.  The burden of my ventures had been wiped clean by the bonds of unconditional love.  He scurried to whip up a plate of scrambled eggs, nervously fearing I'd make another swift exit.  I smiled, comforted a choir of baby birds nesting below the deck.

              “I'm not planning on going anywhere, Dad.  We're done,” I assured.

              “You're both welcome to stay as long as you'd like.  You were in such a rush, last time, you never opened your large delivery from Scotland.  Curiosity almost killed this old cat.  It's up in the attic, if you two want to go on one last adventure — together.  At least I know where you're going and why,” he laughed, pointing the way.

              Lowering the trap, a hazy cloud of dust shimmered in the light cracks peeking through the roof joints and rusty nail pops.  Ascending, like Goonies, spider webs and rickety floors ushered us toward a large square object.  It felt like Christmas morning.  Though she was gone, Ash wouldn't be content if she was forgotten.  Gliding my hand across the smooth seams, I reached for a razor blade and separated the taped stitching.  Michelle, offering a tiny flashlight and allowed her curiosity to smother away her jealousy.

              “What do you think it is?” asked Michelle.

              “It's about the size of a painting,” I said.

              “It's hard to believe she's gone, Neco.  I'm sorry.”

              Opening the flap, I pulled a large framed picture from a tall wooden box.  It was the 'Art of Darkness' canvas she'd painted and had auctioned to the public.  The painting was worth millions of dollars.  It was her life insurance policy, and I was the beneficiary.  The frame was silver, rustic and designed with my tastes in mind.  A tiny note on the glass casing begged my address.

              “Should you receive this, I hope you'll know that I love you and have passed on.  I want you to sell this piece and use the money to continue your music and writing.  Your gift to the earth is your soul.  You are a light — a beautiful spectrum of colors illuminating the darkness through blissful and uninhibited self-expression.  I hope someday our hearts will collide, and breed a new universe.  A place where inspired hearts and carefree minds no longer fear the dark.  Forever yours, Ash,” it read.

              I wept. 

              Carefully, I slipped the beautiful painting back into the box and brought it down from the attic. 

              “What do you have there?”

              “It's a painting of me.”

              “Of you?” asked my father.  Gazing, his mind began connecting the dots of my crazy stories.

+++

              Settling in my bedroom, Michelle and I used the light to reexamine
the gift
.  The postage was dated three days after her horrendous house fire.  Questions loomed.  Flipping the canvas, I noticed a slight but deliberate tear in the paper lining.  It begged my investigation.  Pulling off the protective cover, I saw an address scribed on the frame.  It read:  “California Fertility Partners, Los Angeles, CA.”

              “She froze her eggs,” I deduced.

              “What do you mean?” asked Michelle.

              “We had talked about the possibility of mass producing these Crystalline kids,” I said.

              “How?” asked Michelle.

              “When our genetic codes mix with traditional human coding and true love, we produce Crystalline children,” I explained.

              “Right, and?” asked Michelle.

              “If a couple are in love and are willing to pay a fertility clinic a large sum of money to create a miracle, than they already pass The Council's 'The one you hold most dear’-covenant.  They are the perfect unsuspecting hosts,” I continued.

              “Right?”

              “The problem with The Program is forging an honest union, under the pretense of an agenda,” I said.

              “So?” asked Michelle.

              “In theory, The Program would no longer need to sustain on the works of fallen angels.  We could harvest our own enlightenment.  Once the public becomes savvy and witnesses the difference our unions can make, everyone will want to invest in the brightest stars The Council has to offer.  Our genetically flawed human coding would soon be replaced with the eggs of Crystalline donors and future Programmers,” I said.

              “That is, if it works.  Isn't that what Dez was trying to stop, in his own warped way?” asked Michelle.

              “Dez was trying to manipulate the world and destroy something divine.  He was a monster,” I said.

              “You're talking about an assembly line of enlightenment.  That's no less irresponsible than trying to stop it.  You can't mess with The Council's will and we can't walk around the planet with god complexes.  It's the same path that destroyed
Juno
,
Ben
,
Simon
,
Zane
,
Magnus
,
Grayson
and
Elisa
.  You have to stop this,” explained Michelle.

              “Why?”

              “I'm sure Ash was well-intended — I'm sure you both were, but you have to understand the complexities of this.  Even if The Program fails, it fails naturally — because we allowed it to.  Dez felt imprisoned and sought a dark recourse.  He tried to control the future, but we are better than our fears of tomorrow.  We have a greater responsibility to the salts of the earth — the people just trying to survive and enjoy the fleeting moments of bliss worth living for.  Predestination isn't freedom, nor power — it's fear.  It's the abandonment of responsibility.  It's man-made arrogance.  We must…,” pleaded Michelle.

Epilogue

The SOng Remains the Same

To this day, I still have no idea how we arrived back in Charm City —
alive.
  It was as if I blacked out or was drugged by The Council.  Deciphering Grayson's last words has haunted me.  I never thought I'd be blessed with the opportunity to tell our story or go public with it.  'Nervous' doesn't even begin to explain my apprehension — lest we forget the snide comments and ridicule that await me.  How does one live a life like this and sell it off to a publishing company? 

              Well, it is not for sale.

              As you know, there were a few happy endings.  Ash's beautiful baby girl, Akiane, was adopted by a family in the United States and Crystal's baby boy, Ari, survived.  Amidst all of the tragedy, a Crystalline man and woman still walk this planet.  Someday, they are going to find each other — that is, if I ever finish this monstrosity.  It's amazing what is really going on out there, while we toil away our existence.  We are mere pieces of an ever expanding puzzle.

              Rand, Ash, and Icarus entered The Beyond.

              Ben, Zane, Magnus, Juno, Grayson, Elisa and Simon remain in the Hallways of Sorrows.

              Dez is somewhere.  I’m sure of it.

              Then, there's me, Neco!

+++

              A few years ago, I recall sitting on a blustery NYC park bench.  I had settled into a new career, while the ethnic curbside florists of Chelsea were preparing for another beautiful sidewalk sale.  The masses mindlessly went about their day.  Synchronicity struck, while I sat reflecting on my hotel's name.  Knowing my journey was far from over, the Hotel Indigo reminded me that I had a story to tell. 

              I am the only Programmer left.  It's not something I have the luxury of taking lightly.  Knowing my fallen friends are trapped in the hideous stench of the Hallway of Sorrows and awaiting my death — this book begs my attention.  There are times when I think about pulling the trigger, joining my old friends and starting anew, but our story needs to be told.  My biggest obstacle is, I'm not an author.  I'm a writer, with a quirky outlook on life and a playful working knowledge of the English language — that's it. 

              I still look back on those days with a certain romanticism. 

              I've tried to carry the torch, by hiding our story in my dark songs.  It's a tricky balance between keeping the music accessible and straining people to the point where they simply disconnect or won't bother.  Souls use art and music to escape.  We all want to believe in something greater than ourselves and are tickled when someone can show us the world from a new perspective.  Music is a spiritual experience.  It takes our hand and provides the soundtrack to our personal journey.  It's our birthright. 

              You either steal their hearts or capture their imagination.

              I always knew the day would come when I'd have to anxiously sit down and put this whole messy thing together.  I'm grateful to finally be in a position to do so.  I still miss my brothers and sisters of The Program and continue to seek true love —
daily
!  Perhaps, there's still hope for me — I don't know.  My essence is fading.  Perhaps, I'll come back with the next incarnation, find this book and get a good laugh. 

              Life is surreal.  Our memories can really envelope us to a still, if we let them take the wheel.  Now, imagine magnifying that tendency over multiple incarnations.   The hardest thing we're forced to do is take another step forward and with this memoir, I hope I can finally put a few of my personal demons to rest.

              Peace.