Odyssey of Tragicomedy

         It is quite a demoralizing experience to see one's life spread across like a broken mirror; shattered and unable to be pieced back together. A few of these shards sit on the table, serving as reminders of the past. The news articles of that accursed day, an elaborate suicide note, and the contract which I was bound to are sprawled across the table. Mocking me with their very presence, the papers are slapped off the table and spread across the cold tile. An uncertainty weighs overs the answers I seek regarding life. Will I be able to control my own fate? Or is life meant to be nothing more than comedy followed by unforeseeable tragedy? Maybe there is a way to rewrite it all; starting from scratch on a brand new page. I pull out the water-stained journal and grasp the quill pen. The time has come for the pen that has been faithful to serve me once more. As these words are thrust forth onto the pages, an evocation of familiarity resonates within. No longer will my life be dictated by tragedy, no matter what path I take. I suppose I could title such a story "Odyssey of Tragicomedy;" as the past has truly been both happiness and misfortune.

         Indigo, Oh sweet Indigo. Her name was exquisite, but the setting was dull. Born to an Italian mother and Spanish father, together they lived out quaint lives on a Vineyard. The blue birds chirping, the sunrise casting its brilliance over the fields of grape vines, and the calming waters of the river nearby. The setting was perfect for a young child. Indigo attempted to live as children do, freely without a care in the world. However she often had to go out into the fields and harvest, which took up a lot of her playtime. Outside of school, she did not have much time to live like a normal child. She began to see the grape vines as snakes that constricted her from doing as pleased. This hindrance lasted a while until fortunately father and mother were able to hire workers after a great fortune of boosted profits. Finally unshackled from menial labor, young Indigo was free to seek out true jovial freedom.

         One day, her mind wandered so she decided to write what she was thinking. Mother had given her a quill pen, and now was the time to finally use it. Scenes danced around her mind and the quill pen glided across paper; capturing the imagination. It was pure ecstasy, getting lost within herself, fully submerged with not a care in the world. The whimsical nature of it all drove the young girl to seek ways for others to experience the same emotions. Thus begun her drive for playwrighting.

         On a trip to town, that is where good fortune had begun. Indigo had gone with her father to help him pick up some equipment. She carried along the journal with ink covered pages, full of scenes written down verbatim. Most of the papers had been drawn loose from days of being mistreated by a youth full of wonder. While awaiting father at a table near the local theater; the sounds of the actors practicing ring outside the doors. The girl began wondering if people would ever act out the very words which were being captured by the pen in hand. Her Indigo colored hair began to blow wildly, and suddenly the journal was thrust upward from her grasp. The ink-stained papers fluttered throughout the streets. Frantic steps could be heard, as the girl tried to collect them all. The townsfolk roared at the comedy before them; their cackles filled the air as a girl hopped around. The papers blew out of sight, and along with it her optimism. She sulked to father, who was still finishing up getting what he needed. A well-groomed man approached them as Indigo was stricken with disbelief.

         He handed her several pages, full of her dreams in the form of ink. The man began to express elation for being able to stumble upon such beauty. The young girl could not believe any of it, as she stared at the man with huge, sparkling eyes. This simple interaction, had awakened Indigo’s true passion. For it began the process that she had only dreamed of, producing works which could be given life in plays. Indigo found a certain beauty in stories being acted out, rather than becoming shackled to pages for eternity. The man who made everything possible that day was J. G. Pennington, a man renowned for his own literary eye. He had helped produce countless plays and novel works, along the way helping people become more well known. It must have been fate for those papers to blow away. What seemed like a cruel twist of fate quickly became the opportunity of a lifetime.

         Mr. Pennington introduced the young girl to a world outside of the Vineyard, showing young Indigo’s talent to his colleagues. At the age of 13 she had begun producing works of art. Indigo was fueled by her imagination wanting to spread its wings. Mother and father supported every decision to invest into her dream, as they had done so with their Vineyard. Multiple agents tried seeking the girl out, but Mr. Pennington was the only one Indigo wanted to be around. The youngling which nobody knew of quickly became well known. The first play titled “To Love, To Lost” was met with resounding success. Indigo grew content with the course of where her life was headed.

         "One shall not use their passion for arbitrary gain. It takes the soul, the very essence and meaning out of art when used for such hubris." Indigo once stated this when asked about how much wealth she had obtained, and no soul could convince her otherwise. Unknown to her, the man she once knew became a hound of selfishness. All along he played the role of the wolf, and she became the sheep. There was not passion in the eyes of the hound, only deceit. He used Indigo’s works as a monetary gain, rather than to display the beauty of playwrighting for all to see. Indigo never knew the extent of the man she was dealing with; the product of being a child prodigy and being naïve. This continued onward for years and years, Indigo producing works full of burning passion, and Mr. Pennington selling it off for only pure profit. Theaters would fill up with the sounds of intrigued patrons, common folk and big wigs alike wanting to see a spectacle. Those seats were full, but also empty as there was no trace of substance or care about the arts. J. G. Pennington never had his heart in the correct place. Unfortunately for Indigo, she was oblivious to the foreshadowing.

         One eve, Indigo had finished creating a draft that was exuberant and was excited at the finished product. Mr. Pennington came to notify the girl of tragedy. Quickly, they made haste to the family Vineyard to find it up in smoke and flame. Never had she experienced true tragedy until this very moment in time. It did not feel like reality, but instead like a nightmare. Why should people with so much happiness, so much comedy throughout their life be filled with instant despair? Thankfully, mother and father had made it outside alive, but to them something did die. Their dreams, gone and reduced to cinders which blew away in the wind. Firefighters had arrived, and began attempting to tame the flames. It was at this moment where young Indigo realized the hidden meaning behind the topic of life. No matter what one does, or how many measures they take, there is no such thing as a fully happy life. Something will occur that brings down the weight of sadness, spearheaded by tragedy.

         On the next eve, the tragedy-stricken girl left behind the misfortune to pursue a wider audience. Mr. Pennington had taken her to fly off to America, so more plays could reach a new, refreshing audience. For the first time she made the decision to pursue monetary gain over passion. The pain that resided in father's face, the tears which swelled in mother's eyes pushed Indigo over the edge. The birth of a new dream to make them happy once again had overridden her playwriting passion. Anything for them the have their dream back, Indigo would do. Every waking moment Indigo felt empty, a shell of her former self. Betraying moral views for monetary gain, the feeling that she had spat on the beauty that was the art of playwrighting hurt deeply. Producing play after play with no true substance, no true passion; but the money kept flowing in. Indigo forced a façade of believing this was the right course of action. She kept listening to Mr. Pennington telling her she made to correct decision. The burning flame once within had been extinguished by self-betrayal. However, this routine was kept so that father and mother would be able to smile once more.

         For a while something did not seem correct about the events that transpired on the Vineyard. Father was careful handling anything flammable, and in general the police reports detailed an accelerate had been used. Someone was the culprit, and she was going to find out who had the guile to take away her family's happiness. During the day the girl was Indigo, a famous playwright prodigy from Italy. At the crack of dusk, she spent all night taking over the roll of a detective. Unknown at the time, the regret that would come with the truth would be too much to bear. Indigo had come across a list of well-known hired criminals wanted by the FBI. Men who would commit unspeakable acts just for monetary gain. Despicable in the eyes of Indigo but at the time she resonated with the idea. Selling one's morals for a quick gain. Perhaps she was no different after all. One person stuck out in particular, as he was from Germany, but yet he did a fair amount of business contracted in Italy. After not being able to find anymore, the young sleuth was contacted by a person who knew her, but she had no knowledge of. An email was sent and it detailed the climatic information Indigo had been seeking. The anonymous person hacked their way into her life, exclaiming that if help was ever needed, they would be on her side. Hesitant at first, eventually she look into horror that was contained within the encrypted file.

         Comedy and tragedy, happy and sad. Simple words which carry weight; a weight that came crushing down at the realization. The encrypted information stated that the contract criminal did most of his work under Mr. Pennington. Various robberies, assaults, and arsons had taken place. All of these were underhanded tactics for him to get a leg up on competition. The very man Indigo knew, was nothing more but a bully with ham-fisted tactics. A particular arson caught the attention, taking place on a Vineyard. Everything had been torched to cinders. Accelerate used, but not a single trace or evidence otherwise. No casualties, but three emotionally broken victims. Now considered to be a cold case. A single had man orchestrated all of the comedy in Indigo’s life and with it, tragedy.

         The confrontation was thundering. A reckoning in which the wolf had not foreseen. Mr. Pennington did not try and deny anything; in fact, he seemed rather relieved knowing his transgressions came to light. A feeling took over; darkening the rest of the light within. There was nothing else to be spoken. No blame could be placed unto him as there had been signs of his ways. Was betraying one's own morals worth the monetary gain? Did the passion which guided her truly exist? The answer was no, so the young prodigy placed the blame unto herself. What she sought not to become was all that was left; a blank mirror with no reflection. An empty shell of a person who sold away their morals. After this realization, Indigo attempted to create distance from Mr. Pennington, however he foresaw this coming. He had revealed in their contract that he legally owned the rights to everything which was produced. He owned everything, the plays, the housing; essentially everything in her life. All belonged to him, there was no escape only powerlessness. The only thing that could be done, was going back to where it had all begun.

         At the earliest chance Indigo packed up everything that legally was hers; the clothes on her back and the same quill ink pen she used for years. Something else was added to that list, her freedom. Mr. Pennington must have thought he had his puppet for eternity, but that was not the case. He had let his guard down, and with it Indigo disappeared from his clutches. Left with tragedy once more, the flight back to Italy was a somber feeling. It was the first time Indigo set foot in her homeland in years. The very place where the comedy ended, became refuge. Mr. Pennington would never think to search on the land he ordered to be torched to ash. Known to only the family whose lives he destroyed, there was an underground cellar which was never used. This became shelter as Indigo prepared what would be her last gift to the world as she no longer felt grasping onto life was necessary.

         The quill ink pen served her well throughout the most strenuous of endeavors. Indigo treated it like an extension of her own body. Now it created the final act for its faithful master. Emotions flowed throughout that did not exist prior. As the pages filled up with words full of disdain, it was made sure that the play had the signature Indigo touch. When the play was finished, a relief quickly overcame Indigo. It felt like completing the end of a long journey and being able to be at peace. The next morning, she made haste to an old friend and dropped her play onto his desk, making sure no one saw. Once again, the torn-up prodigy withdrew from the world, and awaited the eve of her final act.

         The play must have stricken an accord with her follow colleague, as he knew immediately who the anonymous author was. He managed to do exactly what she desired. He spread the word about the play, as he knew actors would line up to see such a spectacle. A search party was gathered to find her once a strange pattern was discovered within the play itself. Hidden amongst the text a separate note appeared spread throughout by key words. Only someone with Indigo's brilliance could have accomplished such a complex technique. Her friend managed to piece it together and was shocked at what it stated. The note was cryptic and full of hopelessness. He could tell it was written by a person who was about to end their own life.

         On the eve of the premier, standing above the scene in a breezeless night was Indigo, the proclaimed child prodigy. Downwards the crowd was wondrous, as they filed into the theater eager to see a spectacle. Above them was a girl who was about to complete her own play, titled “Life.” Indigo took in the night air, and stared off into the still night filled with stars; beautiful like a painting. This was to be her last night seeing such beauty on Earth. No longer could the emotions be handled, the betrayal of her own heart hurt deeply. The conflict orchestrated by an evil man caused irreversible strife. Bearing the guilt, Indigo gracefully began to fall downwards. She had made sure none of the crowd could see, as she wanted none of the crowd to have their night stained by an act selfishness. Deep down she knew what she was doing was terrible, but Indigo saw no other alternative.

         During the downward spiral, the stars turned into blurs, the still night picked up rapid pace. This was the desired climax as the torment was about to be over with but fate had a different plan for Indigo. The night air began to pick up, gathering speed and force. She could not believe what was happening before her eyes, large wind gust had formed below her. Suddenly, the wind shot upwards with enough force to carry her all the way to safety. Indigo landed in a few bushes, completely dumbfounded. This is what she had wanted, but he must have thought otherwise. She turned and spotted him, after dusting herself off. The man who had saved her, though he was far from ordinary. Swirling winds obscured vision of his lower half, while his top seemed to float effortlessly above it all. It did not take Indigo long to realize he had no lower half. His head piece gleamed in the star lit night and his glowing tattoos illuminated brightly. The wind had calmed, beckoned by a simple gesture. It was unbelievable to fathom, until the man began to speak.

         The man introduced himself as the Mayan god of storms, Huracan. The divine man explained to her that he was an ancient deity, and went into detail on why he saved her. It would be a shame to let someone as brilliant as Indigo cut their life short. He promised that under his watch there would be no more suffering. Indigo noticed something was different about Huracan compared to J.G. Pennington. No motives cast in shadow, or blank faced facades. Straightforward about everything that was on his mind. That is when he asked Indigo to become his essence, the very extension of a deities very existence. During the spiraling parts of her life from comedy to tragedy, power was building up from the emotional distress. A chaotic hurricane of emotions as raging as the very winds which were a part of Huracan himself. Huracan explained this had drawn him in, as no other human he ever encountered had “it.” This was an insult at first, but hesitantly Indigo agreed to follow him as there was nowhere else to turn to. After attempting to take her own life, she could no longer bare to face her parents. Huracan wanted her to live, and she was done being selfish. Indigo, the prodigy playwriter had already acted out the final act. It was time for a new prologue, a blank slate with endless potential. So, an Indigo did perish that night, the former who was consumed by tragedy. Taking her place on the stage was a new Indigo, who would make sure the former’s transgressions would not go in vain.

         The story once appeared to have concluded, but yet is now being rewritten. How interesting that fate can align in the direst circumstances. The once child prodigy had found a new purpose and passion, and a way to rewrite her tragic past into a comedy filled future. There is no definitive answer to which way her life leans now, tragedy or comedy. As it is an ongoing performance I, Indigo Alvarrez Montague, will make sure this story titled “Odyssey of Tragicomedy,” will be one remembered for the ages.