The Study of Truth: A Short Story

by Ace Aeterna

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The dawn Octavio finally awoke, he could not help but notice his marimba strokes lined up with the beats of the tenor drums, a synchrony only an expert percussion writer could have managed. He loved performing with the marching band. The power of music was the release of the souls of all the performers. To be an artist is to express one’s soul unyieldingly and with full faith of rejection, but the performers of this small town hardly cared what their audience thought. They performed to feel each other, to inspect each centimeter of soul as though it were some tangible object, to experience each thought, each emotion. Souls literally tethered and communicated. Some thought it was mad, but Octavio thought it was the only way to live.

And yet, there was something comforting about the collective, he thought as he listened closer for his parts to synchronize with those around him. He played a mallet percussion instrument, so he often played melodies of his own, or supporting harmonies, or dramatic hits meant to inject intensity into the performance. Everyday he connected with a different soul as he thought about how his music supported theirs, or was supported by theirs. His secret was that the moment his soul was probed he only feigned playing, and therefore was left a mystery to most of the band.

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It was after the final performance of the rehearsal, a final-run ritual that the band always partook in, that Gunnar, the same tenor player that Octavio was thinking on earlier, approached him with a smirk on his face.

“I know your secret.”

Octavio had many secrets, so he had to proceed cautiously. Could he have learned that he thinks of Sylvia as his ferocious muse, despite the fact that he had no sexual attraction to her, but divine attraction? That he enjoyed painting her while her skin shone in the tiny bit of morning sunlight that filtered through the shutters, and then passed those, the red curtains. Could he have learned that he thought of Virgil as a Roman bust, and poet not only in word and thought, but in appearance as well - and that every thought about him, regardless of how grand or minor, was tinged with a twinge of envy. Could he have learned that the only person who he had truly let into his soul was himself, a ghost of himself that visited on occasion, it seemed like several times every thirteen days, and that he had a lot to say about what was going on in Octavio’s life?

Octavio realized he was staring blankly at his accuser. “You’ll have to narrow it down,” he was honest in saying.

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“You don’t let anybody in. You fake it as soon as anybody tries, either stop playing along or present a picture, a ploy, a… dammit… persona, that’s the word.”

“I’m not the first,” Octavio said.

“I’ll tell on you,” Gunnar replied.

“Why would you do that?”

“Because it’s not fair to anybody.”

“Well, that’s true…”

“But I have to admit my reasons are selfish.” Octavio looked the boy up and down. He was a wrestler and had a wrestler’s physique, but was so gentle that feathers blossomed at his touch. He was ferociously faithful to the one true God, and proselytized it often, and could be rather judgmental. Still, the most curious thing about him was the bright pink beanie that he wore, a complete paradox to his physique and his emblazoned masculinity that one had to look twice to take in the whole of his image. “I want to learn more about you.”

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Octavio wondered if any of his other friends could see their ghosts. It was impossible for him to ignore his own, a phantasm that looked just like him but slightly older, prompting and prodding in moments that seemed trivial, and silent during moments of crisis. Virgil was inhaling and as he exhaled, Octavio imagined the smoke that had filled his lungs as his ghost. Perhaps his very breath was life itself, and when it was released, dirtied by the smoke, it lost its clarity, its liveliness. Sylvia motioned over to the newcomer, Gunnar, who had only joined them to spend time with Octavio, as though to ask whether or not he intended in partaking. Octavio was not surprised when he shook his head.

The truth was that nobody saw their ghosts, and only Octavio’s haunted him. Tec, as Octavio had started calling him because Tecpatl seemed too long and complicated, watched the situation that had crystallized closely. Sunlight filtered in through the makeshift window of the abandoned boxcar and allowed out what little trails of smoke could manage. It was silent, save for the sounds of lighters clicking and the inhalation and exhalation of breath. The only movement was the darting of Tecpatl’s and Octavio’s eyes, watching everything closely as though something was supposed to happen.

Octavio’s eyes settled on Virgil and something within him twinged. He seemed to be glowing, illuminated as though his soul hadn’t already been revealed to Octavio before. There was a lingering pang in his stomach as he watched Virgil, a pang he could not identify as anything related to hunger. As he took in Virgil’s beauty, he had to imagine that it was only envy, because only envy was so appropriate.

“I was afraid I wasn’t going to get anything out of you,” Gunnar said. “And yet I’m still not satisfied.”

“And you won’t be,” Octavio retorted.

“I’ll tell. Everybody.”

“Tell everybody what, that I haven’t been playing?” Perhaps it was Octavio’s inebriation beginning to speak. “But I hardly care.”

“I’ve noticed more about you than you’d admit to anybody.”

“Fine. What would you have me do?” “What else do you do?”

“Talk to my ghost.”

He blinked.

“He’s over there,” Octavio motioned at Tecpatl. Sylvia and Virgil were unflinching, having already heard ravings of this ghost before. Not that Octavio was mad, simply that Tecpatl could be maddening.

“Well why don’t I see him?”

“He only haunts my family.”

“Does your family see him?”

“No, he only haunts individuals in my family. It’s an ancestry thing, I guess.”

“So will you stop faking it?”

“No.”

“Then I know what I need to do.”

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Octavio’s conflict was greater than being betrayed to the rest of the drumline. Octavio reflected on the uniqueness of the situation: he was haunted by his own ghost, only about a decade older. This had many implications on its own, but this was not Octavio’s main concern. As Octavio paced his room, the droplets of artificial rain, the spray of sprinklers, rolled down his window. He was not haunted by the fact that he was haunted: many of his family members had spoken of being cared for by or caring for a ghost. But never had anyone mentioned that they were haunted by a mirror image ghost, or one that spoke so openly and freely about the inconsequential, and were silent when stakes were high.

Octavio thought of the philosophies of Tecpatl’s people. Tecpatl, though a mirror image of himself, claimed to be ancient. He spoke of the metaphysical world as transient, and our existence in that transient world as even more evanescent. The only way to be true was to show balance between the pulls of the universe, to express oneself through art in such a way that the self was better understood. For this reason he supported Octavio’s participation in the marching band. For this reason he disapproved of how he participated.

Octavio felt judgment in the veracity of all things he did, and whether or not they reflected his true self or not. This. This was the source of his existential dread. His epistemological dread.

“You know, there is one expression beyond that of art that I can think of,” Tecpatl said, as though listening to Octavio’s thoughts.

“What’s that?”

“Love.”

“Why do you say such lame things?”

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He moved from what was a suburb of Salt Lake City but had become ridden with crime, somehow stripping the neighborhood of its suburbia status. Homes changed occupants within blinks and the memories were so fleeting that it seemed even the lasting neighbors had amnesia for each other. The thing everyone relied upon most in that neighborhood was family. Family and love were the only things that seemed to make sense in the eye of the storm. It was why Octavio’s mother had instilled in him the ritual of waking each morning and spending time with family, even if it was just to share a chocolate drink. His mother was kind and kissed him on the forehead every day before sending him off to school, with final words, “Be my big man today.”

Octavio thought about those words hard when he approached the high school. There was a dense fog this morning, uncharacteristic and unseasonal. He wasn’t sure what would happen when Gunnar revealed his secret, or which of his secrets he had noticed in the first place. Even as the sun struggled to force its way through the clouds, the pillars and peaks of the school came into view just as Octavio noticed Gunnar’s unmistakable pink hat.

“Have you been waiting for me?” Octavio asked.

“I thought we could walk to rehearsal together.”

It was not until partway through the rehearsal during a break that Octavio began to understand why Gunnar had taken a sudden interest in him. Octavio had known him from seminary classes, occasional regional church meetings, and the like. But for this sudden pique? It was all unexplained.

“I just want one thing before we start rehearsal. The most honest expression of who you are, without letting me in of course.”

“And what would that be?”

“A kiss.”

“What, like, on the cheek?”

“No.”

“Then no.”

“And why not?”

“Because I said not.”

It was amid the fog of the football field during a break in the rehearsal where Octavio felt the painful relief of bursting a blood blister of the psyche. Gunnar strode across the football field, drums in tow, and planted a kiss firmly on Octavio.

“I’m not - “ Octavio started.

“Are you sure? I see the way you look at Virgil,” Gunnar said.

“I swear, I’m not - “ Octavio sputtered.

He thought hard, of all the support he had, of his friends who certainly wouldn’t care, of the people he had been neglecting by keeping so much of himself from them. Octavio thought of the philosophies of Tecpatl’s people. Tecpatl, though a mirror image of himself, claimed to be ancient. He spoke of the metaphysical world as transient, and our existence in that transient world as even more evanescent. The only way to be true was to show balance between the pulls of the universe, to express oneself through art in such a way that the self was better understood.

Love was the best expression of that he knew.

https://steemitimages.com/80x80/https://steemitimages.com/DQmVzSo2bfA2xrbshEQjjbTKeXGJpX5dy1KXjkQwR24phPW/grunge-spade-symbol-4-1004x1024.png Thank you for reading my work. I appreciate your time and comments. To speak more of my writing ambitions, I am looking to strengthen my creative/generative acumen. Over the next several months I will be working on a novel, and as such, some themes or characters that I have dwelt upon may come up. Thoughts and comments on my work are helpful as my ultimate goal is to improve my novel such that I improve my writing.