The Music Critic

He hadn't meant to kill anyone, it simply happened. And if she had ever let up on him-just once-the whole thing could have been avoided. When he thought about it, there was no fault he could claim. He was innocent in a world crowded with fools- fools who couldn't understand the torment he'd endured for eight long, excruciating months. Torment that had eaten at his soul until the smallest fragments that remained screamed for survival in the only possible way. No, he shook his head, bushy hair swinging from side to side, he wasn't anywhere near at fault for this mess. It was all her- her and those damn cymbals!

* * *
Eight months ago the neighborhood was quiet. There was only the occasional scream of a feral cat, the backfire of a car now and then, or even a human shriek once in a while, but usually the streets were silent, without existence of any kind, and Darryl blessed the few parents who lived to the sides and across from him, blessed them for long hours at work that kept their brats elsewhere. He remembered his own childhood on this same block, full of snarls and taunts, teases and screeches. Yes, thank God for peace. He could work without interruption, the only sound in his home being the clicking of the keys on his computer as he bought and sold, ordered and re-ordered. He sat at his desk twenty-three out of twenty-four hours and only rose to attend the facilities or obtain sustenance. He even shopped for himself from his desk, clicking away, click click. His fingers went numb, sometimes, and he had to exercise them, and he had to rise every so often to bring circulation back into his extremities, but he tried not to let those times last too long...until the cymbals.

Until the cymbals, his life had been as close to perfect as he could bring it. No one bothered him, except for delivery men, and no one entered into his kingdom. But one day-the day he'd never forget-the cymbals came. And they stayed. The first time he heard them he was so startled he almost fell out of his chair. His heart started racing, the way it used to when he'd had to run. Darryl didn't like to run, didn't like the feeling he got from running. At first he'd tried to calm himself, to tell himself that someone was playing a nasty trick on him, the kind they used to play. Someone was trying to wrest him from his kingdom, but he wouldn't let them. All these years they hadn't won and they wouldn't, now. He'd stand his ground, cling to his life. Then the damn cymbals would return.

At 7:30 every night the cymbals would crash and bang and work their way into his head. The throbbing would begin until Darryl began to sob, to try anything to block out the pain. He had to stop clicking, stop living, and bury his head in a lumpy, grimy pillow while he moaned in time with the cymbals. They wouldn't let up, not one night. They came every night with no relief. Once they were joined by a drum, a snare drum, and the thump and the bang almost drove Darryl insane. He danced around inside his house, throbbing and moaning with the pillow stuck to his head. He'd lived through torture, pain, and humiliation before, he'd live through this, too, he told himself. But of course, that had been before he'd known real bliss, the blessed aloneness that had been his...until the cymbals. The pain was worse this time because he had something to compare it to. The thrill of a solitary existence, of a life free from chaos. It was all a memory since the cymbals.

Then she came. She knocked on his door one day, hesitantly. He was clicking, of course, clicking as if his life depended on it, which it did. The only people who ever knocked on Darryl's door were delivery men, and he hadn't ordered anything. He was frozen. Should he answer the door and invite an unknown presence into his domain? But he couldn't handle the knocking, it was causing his yellowed teeth to grate and grind, so he slowly, creakily rose from his faded blue chair and shuffled to the wooden door. His clawed hand turned the doorknob and he peered out, bloodshot eyeball glaring through the crack. He saw a girl, a girl with blonde-brown braids and wide, clear eyes. She was staring at his eye, looking as if she might bolt. That would be fine with him. He waited a moment or two, waiting for her to go, but when she didn't he croaked, "whatddyou want," in his under-used voice.

"Um," she stammered, "I'd like to know if," she swallowed hard and shoved obviously trembling hands, very clean hands, he noticed, into her pants pockets, "if you've seen my cat." Her words were almost whispered, small and meek, as if she were horribly afraid and speaking only through great force. Darryl was glad she was scared. Scared people stayed away, far away, and he wanted that.

"No," he barked. "I don't leave my house. No way for me to see it." His croaking voice grew stronger; he straightened and opened the door a little more.

"Okay," the girl responded, backing away. "I'm real worried, that's all. Thanks, anyway." She turned and began to walk down sagging, protesting steps.

"Hey," Darryl's voice stopped her and she turned. "Do you play the cymbals?"

The girl smiled uncertainly. "Why, yes I do. Have you heard them?"

From that day on, Darryl set about plotting the demise of that damned girl. He saw her when he clicked, when he ate, when he attended his facilities, and when he ordered and re-ordered and met delivery men at the door. He fancied that he could see her behind his eyelids if he really tried. And he didn't think it was an illusion. Oh, no, that girl and her damned cymbals crawled into his life, his skin, and they creeped and slithered their way into his chest, even. He could feel it squeeze, now, when the cymbals began to play, and he almost reveled in the pain, the torture. He savored the exruciating evil of it all, and he plotted.

At first, the idea was only a dream, something he wouldn't do, but something that brought a measure of calm to his shattered brain. He'd kill her, and then she couldn't play the cymbals. Why not? People killed others for less than destroying a man's sanity. His only dilemma was his resistance to change. He hadn't been outside since...he couldn't remember. Even when his mother had died, he'd sent for the ambulance, they'd taken her away, and arrangements were made by phone to dispose of her.

One day he had a revelation. He'd kill her with his flicking, clicking wrist. They had sites for all sorts of things, surely they had sites for such an endeavor? When he found it, the site he'd been looking for, it was a particularly bad day with the cymbals or he might not have done it. But the damn things poked into his head and pounded and wouldn't leave. What was he supposed to do? So arrangements were made, the event was paid for, and Darryl waited, anticipated the day. He'd know when the cymbals stopped, stopped forever, stopped their incessant banging and clanging and--but it would all stop, wouldn't it? The euphoria, the sweet agony of her songs, her creeps and her slithers through his essence, they'd all stop. He gasped. What had he done?

He frantically clicked and roamed through cyberspace, desperate and panting, trying to halt the pattern of destruction he'd begun, but it was too late, they said, too late to stop it, now. He cried, he sobbed, he wept, and then he couldn't hear the cymbals, anymore. She didn't visit his eyelids anymore, she didn't crawl into his skin. She was gone, and he was alone. For the first time in eight long months. Alone.

But it really was her fault, he decided. She shouldn't have played those damned cymbals every blessed night. she'd brought it on herself. He continued to click and attend the facilities and obtain sustenance. He answered the door to deliverymen. One day when he was closing the door with a bony thigh, a package in his skinny arms, a gray and white mound of fluff slipped in the door, past Darryl's leg. He set the package on the dusty floor and stared at it, the mound. It stared back, blinking, silent. Darryl shuffled off towards his desk, then stopped and turned. "Got tuna," his voice gravelled at the cat. "Want tuna?" He turned towards the dingy, dark kitchen. The cat sat for a minute longer, staring into the dark recess. Eventually, it followed him.