I looked up, more focused on what’s in front of me. There wasn’t anyone there. I wasn’t talking to anyone. Before me was the bottom of the convention space. I knelt in the middle of a large, hexagonal atrium. Far ahead of me was the entrance. Patterns of stanzas crazily lept from the door. As I focused harder, I noticed there were dozens, if not hundreds, of keys pinned to the walls, in between and out of the musical lines. Hundreds, possibly thousands of keys were trapped, nailed onto the walls. All of it led to a heavy, black metal door that was nearly twice as tall as me.

  Now given enough strength, I approached the fate that was lazily tossed at me. Security was light but still present. Two guards who weren’t paying attention stood at each end of the door.

  The hall into the theater took a vainglorious amount of time, as if it needed to take so much of my attention up. Brick walls were covered with pinned keys, pointed in all sorts of chaotic directions. Keyholes were framed on black portraits. I even saw a few posters for this pathetic display that I was forced to engage in.

  Light flooded my vision briefly as I entered. Looking back, I saw I exited from a keyhole, labeled ‘Seal Three’. There were a few pathways leading to the stage, although I was unable to count how many as I believe one or two of them disappeared in my view. I saw various groups of people- those who were paying attention quietly, those who weren’t paying attention in the slightest, and those who were being very loud.

  Most people would take every excruciating moment to procrastinate the inevitable. They try to do anything in their power to avoid pain, no matter how unavoidable it is. Time passes, regardless. Don’t get me wrong, I hate the passage of time. I loathe it. I wish moments never passed and that I could rewind every single last one of them, and I know in every moment that I want to savor every last one of them, no matter how insignificant or painful they are.

  I crossed the bridge. Procrastination doesn’t stop the passage of time. Crossing the bridge is truly terrible, but there is nothing else that can be done. I entered the inner ring of the theater, as all seats were otherwise taken. No matter where I looked, no matter who I waved to, I was forced to stand between the rows. Every single seat, every single chance I had was taken from me. I really was late to the play.

  A spotlight flooded its yellowed rays onto me. Then another, and then another. The heat from them nearly instantly beat down upon me. I realized an orchestra had been playing this entire time. All of them rocked back and forth like a ship. Their strings went upwards and downwards, like debris from a tornado. Despite how chaotic the performance was, I heard one viciously annoying voice shoot right through the howling noises of the strings like a bolt of lightning. Joh.

  “We’ve been waiting for you. It’s not proper manners to be late. We’re glad you’re here now,” It was hard to determine how exactly loud he was, as his voice simply rumbled through every plank of wood I stepped on. “Come closer. We just want to know- who are you, what do you want, and who do you look up to?” He asked.

  I looked around to see those in the immediate rows and columns next to me looking. Natural enough, nothing too weird. I looked back at Joh. I can’t even begin to think of an answer to half of those questions. It’s all lip service, anyway. They just want me to waste my breath, wear me out, and confuse the authenticity of my own thoughts.

  I took his challenge, regardless, and continued to stare directly at him while approaching the stage. Admittedly, he looked like a blob from how far away he was, so I can’t say how directly I was looking at him.

  I don't know what would be the right thing for an Ishmael to do: what I have presented before me isn't it, but I've exhausted all reason to do anything else. I am forced to do something unlike myself. I had my implement by my side, without shame nor pride. It was just in its most open, practical state I could wield it with.

  I projected my voice enough for just about everyone to hear me. “Elaborate. You’re the host. Make yourself make more sense,” I said.

  From what I saw, I believe he made a gesture to scoff. “Simple. You’re new to us. Tell us a little about yourself. What matters to you, and who do you see as a role model? The least you, kid, can do for us is give a little back. It’s the right thing to do,” he reached out one hand as if to take me on for a dance.

  I was still too far away, though. I had to have been a few dozen rows away. Since we had a few minutes before the final act, I might as well come up with answers for him. So, as I slowly but firmly walked to him, I gave answers as I thought of them.

  “Well, if you’ve somehow not heard my name before, I’m Ishmael. Call me anything. I really don’t care. It’s meaningless to me.

  As you might know, I’m not from the City. Even if I were, I stick out so much that I might as well be an alien from it. Every train of thought I’ve had ran in the opposite direction from anyone: everyone I’ve interacted with,” I hid how I felt about Rebecca and continued: “I wish I could tell you exactly what it means to be me, but I think that defeats the point of myself. I am defined. I’m not the one to define me, nor are any of you.” I said.

  The rows went downward. Gravity felt like it was pulling me toward the stage.

  It took a minute or two to find the next answer: “I want to know why. What am I doing here?” I had no expectation anyone would give me an answer that wasn’t meant to make me stray from the answers I sought.

  “I feel like all of you have a pretty good idea what you’re doing, why you do it and why you want to do it, maybe…what you like and how it applies to your life, and some sort of instinct towards validating your survival. But me? I only know what I shouldn’t care about.” I shook my head and gave a short ‘tsk’: “That’s no reason. The inversion of a reason to exist doesn’t validate why I should. I know I should, inherently, as I wouldn’t exist if I didn’t think I should exist. I know I should figure out why…though. I know I won’t be the most of me that I can be unless I knew why I should be…me,” I said.

  I let that answer sit. It’s not like anyone cared. It felt nice to find the words I had been looking for, though. It was my implement, I think, that gave me a sharp rush of clarity.

  “You know, it’s hard to think of someone I consider a role model. I just don’t know. I can’t think of a person off the top of my head who I think, ‘Wow, I really want to be like him.’ It’s just not something I think of since I’ve normally thought about my own situation and what I should do based on my environment.” I said.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  He finally had some input, and it was a headache to listen to. “That’s completely self-absorbed. Listen to how full of yourself you sound right now. What do you mean you don’t look up to anybody? Come on, think of someone,” His voice rippled through every railing, chair, and pillar holding up the balconies far behind me.

  “Oh. Not like you really care, but I think you’ve gotten the wrong idea about my answer. I’m not saying I’m better than anyone. I’m not saying I have nothing to learn from others. Oh, I have plenty. I have so much to learn, in fact. Most, in fact, all of you,” I say while spinning around and pointing, “have something admirable, authentic, and human about you. All of you, I’m sure, are better than me in some way or another.

  The way I’ve felt having my temporary stay in the City has been that everyone, I think, is better than me. I really have nothing going for me. I don’t think I have any place here. I didn’t think I’d even make it this far. But here we are. I’m your problem. You’re my problem. I think we can cut the formalities now,” I held one of my hands to my hip and approached the stage. I took a little more time before going up its brief staircase.

  “No, Ishmael, I don’t really know what you mean, if I’m being honest. Listen, I’ve seen dozens of kids like you before. They think they know themselves. They think they know everything. You’re a little strange, I’ll say that much. I think-” He was cut off.

  I hit the peak of my voice. “I don’t think you’re listening. I never said I knew everything or even anything. I said I was looking for answers, from other people. Just because I haven’t shown interest in whatever stupid hobbies or taste preferences they hold, doesn’t mean I think I’m some sort of prissy.” I replied.

  “Well, you’re sure acting entitled. You’ve blown off too many people to count. And the people you did talk to? Asking questions like a midterm quiz. Whatever you think you are, I think you’re lying to yourself. You’re just telling yourself the story of who you think you are. It’s a coping mechanism. It’s all just coping to give you a little rest at night. Grow up.” He was about to say something else, but Joh was cut off again.

  “Look at you talk. I don’t want to begin to hear about how someone might tell a cute little fable to wrap themselves up at night. I can count how many things I know about you on my hand, and every last one of them is another factoid about your forceful behavior. Try me.” I said.

  “Are you trying to threaten me, young man?” He sounded like a squeaking door.

  I glared at him. He knew what I meant. He just wanted to trip me up. I think…the best course of action is to ignore what he said. I finally stepped onto the stage.

  “I am one of two things. First. I am the radiation of the concept of Ishmael. You can taint my body all you wish, but I am the only one who can change me, and believe me, I’m great enough at falling apart. Second. I am a will. Maybe it’s not the amount of thought I put into my actions. Maybe it’s not the sheer contrarianism from others. And on that front, I don’t think it matters if I try to reinvent the whole wide universe to reinvent the fruit cake in a truly original way. My experiences are a sandbox unconnected from what it means to be Ishmael. I might exist in this world, but it is the lag when rubber meets the road in which I derive the proof to in a uniquely identifiable essence of Ishmael. It is because I am alone, and because I walk only on my two legs, and see only through my two eyes that I, at the very least, uniquely exist. I do not deny or affirm any of your existences, but I know I am real, unchangeable, untaintable by a force larger than me without my consent.” I explained.

  “Well, whatever you are, I think you’re a real piece of work and a pain in our neck! Have you ever thought your identity was pretty crumby?” He tried explaining further, but he was cut off again.

  “That’s exactly why I am me! We’re all mixed bags, but I know for a fact that I am filled with pros and cons! You can’t get the positives about me without the negatives. What I can do, what I can persevere through, what has let anyone find anything attractive about who I am is because of my flaws! I would not be Ishmael if I didn’t have rough edges! I am not proud, nor am I ashamed to me be me! I simply exist and accept that I am Ishmael!” I asserted with a pinkish-reddening face.

  “Well, aren’t you snazzy? I bet it feels great having all those flaws. Say-” I didn’t give him another word.

  “And do you know who I am, you know what I’m worth?” I pounded on my chest once.

  “You’re- what? Gonna want me to say something, anything other than you’re nothing, that you’re a piece of trash?” He tightened his fists and tossed out a pointer finger at me.

  “No, you got it right. You got it absolutely right. I’m nothing. I have no achievements, nothing to be proud of, nothing to define me, no friends, allies, partners, or any sort of house of cards or sandcastle to stand upon! I have no subjects, I have no farm, no house, or any sort of power in the slightest! Nothing to command any of you or anyone here. For all we care, you’re the king, you’re the king, buddy. You’re the czar, the emperor, and you’ve got your little kingdom.” I gave a projecting talking tone the best I could. My obnoxious voice cut through the entire orchestra, finding the exact key I needed to let everyone in the entire room listen to me.

  He looked bewildered in between postures. He tried to say: “What’s your point?”

  “I’m the prophet and I have the freedom to say there are zombies here trying to drag us down to the grave!” I screamed.

  If you’re ever thinking about running at someone larger than you, you’d better hope to have a plan. Mine was to go outside of his triangle of control. So I did, with ease, by jumping and stepping on his knee from the outside. He buckled nearly instantly, and I went for it- slashing him. As I circled him, he tried to grab me; my body finding it harmonious to duck into him and pierce his chest. What could only obviously be his lung had popped, collapsed, and what came out of his mouth was in line with that theory.

  His voice being completely destroyed, only letting words travel with hollow wind, he said: “You got one thing going for you, kid. You’re a natural-born killer.”

  I cut a gash into his shoulder. Then, across his back. After, his bicep. I kept going and going, and yet I was careful not to get caught up in what can only be described as bloodlust. Every strike, although amateurish, underhanded, and pathetic, was still calculated.

  As he made a thunderous thud onto the wooden stage, I heard him again: “Welcome to the City. Take a good look at the thousands of hollow faces around you. You’re next. No escaping fate. Run all you want.” his head hit the floor.

  For a moment, I actually listened to him. It was my mistake since he grabbed my ankle and pulled me down with ease. I faced him, and I couldn’t really escape him as he bled out, becoming stiffer rather than limp.

  Blood congealed more than what I would have imagined. Although small spouts of liquid gushed from his shoulder, large, thin clumps of it primarily inched out. It was like watching the blood itself escape like it was crawling, caught underneath debris from a burning building. As the solidified shape stained in a horrible burgundy crept out in its totality, it began to crane upwards, it twisted, and then flopped down.

  It should not have been so easy. It was a chance, but one that I have consumed at the cost of everything. I’m a goner now. I’m surrounded by thousands. The entire City has me in its unscalably large maw. I don’t even have seconds to run, and no matter how far, I knew I had no time before I was eaten alive. Fear manifested in the form of a boiling feeling running up and down my veins. I was nearly out of breath, not from the act but from the feeling of my being cornered. I tried getting up on my elbows to at least move off of him.

  The orchestra was like a tornado with me in its eye. As the orchestra swelled, and I slowly turned my face upwards and forward, I noticed a broken mirror across from the stage. It was then that I saw the full extent of my bloodstained face. I had become a murderer, entangled in the illogical, immoral hysteria of the City.

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