Curve Ball

I cannot describe to you with words in detail for I wish not to open the curtains to this unfinished drama. However, I will tell you the plot and setting to the best of my knowledge and experience.

It seems it has been little more than a month now since my eyes started to question the intentions of an untold deed. To put it in simple terms... I was completely confused at the events that occurred previous to the start of this particular month.

Sometimes I would try to figure it out. It is like a mystery novel that abruptly stops at the climax. I was left to cleverly conjure the end of the tale. It seemed there were too many stunningly fitting conclusions to this certain piece of literature. I am no mastery of words and will not pretend to know the fit end to the tale that had unraveled. But I had to know for it was torture in itself to not be able to close the book.

Sometimes I let hope slip away. Since I had filled my library with clever conclusions to an unwritten novel, I started to feel as though my writing hand had spent its last excruciating moment in useless babbling. I told myself to forget about it... just let the book fade into the darkness of unpublished memories. But then it happened... almost as if I had stolen something. I felt guilty, as though the debt I owed to myself had yet to be satisfied. I think it is then that I realized I was ashamed. Not because I did not try, not because I had not brilliantly filled an imagination with successful finales to the tale (both to succeed the protagonist and the antagonist alike), but because I realized I was not the one to finish this account.

It is something in literature they call point of view. Though the entire scroll of words had been laid out in front of me as though I had lived it and had seen it with my very eyes, I realized that at the height of the climax there had to be a change in position. I had to release myself from the story and let the omniscient take over. No, that is not what he meant to say. To the reader he strives to state that it is the omniscient narrator that must oversee this drama. There cannot be an end to the mystery laid out before him unless the mystery can be fulfilled with those who have the knowledge of the clues. It is not he, you see; he has already lost himself to endless conclusions of a tale that is not his to conclude. For this tale to be told you must need the other. You must know the thoughts of the antagonist (who conversely, in this case, is not antagonistic).

However... the unfaithful fait of this factitious fable is that the antagonist is stricken with loss of speech. Not through physical traits nor through enduring restraints. It is through will that this speech has been drowned to silence. For this very reason has he spent too much time in worry and wonder writing wonderful tales. So then it seems it rests on the antagonist (as we will call the position for now) to unravel this tale.

And then it hit me like a curve ball thrown one hundred miles an hour at my gut. Regrettably the truth was not told through the beholder, rather a third party. This unfortunately has its complications in a dramatic battle between trust for one over the other. However I had not heard from one, as the speech problem persisted. So, I took what I could. And what I took was the unforgiving curve ball. The finale to the insane mystery plot has now unfolded to produce two unique endings that I must say, have the most fantastic and suspenseful endings as one such as the brilliant poets at the peak of the Renaissance could produce. I hastily burned all of my endings, all of my useless time-wasted endings. Nothing was as good as these two dramatic, unsuspecting conclusions. The tale was unfolding... coming to the climax, right at the pinnacle of brilliance and madness, and I had unraveled...

What he meant to tell you is that I told him what had been said to me. He meant to tell you that I unraveled the mystery by revealing the clues to him. And now I know for sure that he is on the brink of sanity, that for once in this cruel month, he is almost complete. This is because now he can find the truth and decipher the end of the tale. He can match the written style of the conclusion with the novel. The pieces will soon fit, but to what end we will not know, for that is the true mystery.