The Phantom of Reality

“I don’t believe this. Instead of watching Vladimar Vondov play in the hockey finals, I’m forced to go see a dumb play just because I’m failing English class.”

Derek Spinelli always found it comforting to vent his frustrated anger to his best friend Eric Iwalet, or as everyone called him—Frosh.
Frosh was multitasking—texting, talking to Derek, and popping open his bottle of pills that according to him were supposed to control his anger issues. He shook an empty bottle. “Are you serious—I just had this refilled.” Frosh had recently transferred to John Jay High School from a boarding school, Prolucks Preparatory School, in Michigan, and in a matter of minutes he was able to establish himself as one of the biggest troublemakers in the school. This of course was accomplished by pulling all twenty fire alarms throughout the school. This resulted in the cancelation of school for the day and Frosh was regarded as a hero. What set Frosh apart from anyone else were his indistinguishable two different eye colors of blue and green. According to him, at his old boarding school he got into a fight and got his eye completely taken out. It’s a story he has told nearly every one.

Frosh opened his mouth, “You don’t see me complaining. At least you have a choice. For me it was either this play or detention.”

Derek handed his ticket to the student ambassador of the drama club. “Ibsen gave you detention? For what?”

“Just because I was ‘harassing’ that new girl who sits in front of me. It wasn’t anything bad. I mean his class is tough enough. Now he has to take away anything that’s fun.”

Derek turned and looked at him, “You do know the true story behind Ibsen don’t you. I mean you only transferred in a couple of months ago. You don’t what this guy is capable of.

Frosh replied, “Well someone told me he once killed someone.”

Henry Ibsen had a reputation as the toughest English teacher in the school. From the first day of school his first words to the class were, “I hate you all. You think I want to be here?” If he didn’t like someone he would come out and say it. Once a student misused the word ‘good’ instead of ‘well’ in a sentence and Ibsen threw a fit by throwing around an array of papers and flipping desks. To make matters worse that student was forced to transfer out of his class because the pressure was overwhelming. His motto was illustrated by a plaque that hung above his desk. In bold letters were three words—Work or Die. It turns out that he didn’t even want to be a teacher. He served as a Marine on active duty for most of his life. The Gulf War and Iraq changed him as a person and people say that he hasn’t been the same since. Rumor has it that he was taken as a prisoner of war for six months and he was subjected to various forms of torture. After he was rescued he was given a teaching job based on his English degree from West Point. All the students feared him, and he once said that it’s better to be feared than loved. Machiavelli said this in his conquests in Italy.

Derek and Frosh entered the school auditorium which was minutes away from performing the play The Phantom of the Opera. They found seats deliberately in the back and they began by poking fun at the scenery.

Derek was the first to announce his observations, “Look at this—glow in the dark lanterns. Is this supposed to scare us?”

Frosh pointed to the cage above the stage. “Look at that. I have an idea. Let’s make this play a little more interesting. “

Derek grinned. “You mean sabotage—my favorite word. Let’s go.”

He stood up but Frosh put his hand out to stop him. “Wait, look whose here.”
Their formidable English teacher, Mr. Ibsen stood at the front talking to the one of the cast members, Carlos Durak. He briefly turned and made eye contact with Derek and Frosh with a menacing glare. Frosh slowly lowered his hand and whispered, “Ok—we both can’t go—it’ll look suspicious. You stay here and text me if Ibsen’s coming my way. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
Derek didn’t have time to argue so he just went along with it. He nodded, “Ten minutes and if you’re not back I’m coming after you.”

Frosh stealthily slinked into the shadows as he made his way backstage. Derek sat there taking in the scenery. He tried to remember what this play was about. He vaguely recalled watching a movie adaptation on AMC. It was a confusing movie because it was constantly being told as flashbacks; however, he remembered the sword fight scene. For a moment he believed that the glowing red lanterns were dancing around. He blinked abruptly. The bright spot lights casted an eerie, damp glow which created a spine-chilling atmosphere. In the background some prelude music attempted to set the mood with an array of violin strings. An opaque fog glided down the aisles, masking the feet of audience. Then suddenly the music sojourned and a booming voice emanated throughout.

“The play is about to begin. Please find your seats as quickly as possible. Remember that photography of any kind is not prohibited. As a courtesy call as cell phones should be turned off. Thank you and enjoy the play.”

The lights began to dim and in seconds the only source of light came from the spot lights that were lighting the stage. Derek checked his phone. It has been over ten minutes and Frosh wasn’t back yet. He tried to send a quick text to him but he wasn’t getting a signal.

“Stupid T-Mobile,” he muttered to himself. He made a split-decision and he quietly skulked out of his seat and he made his way backstage. The darkness masked him efficiently and in seconds he couldn’t even see himself. He figured they would have some light backstage being that this was where the cast members and the technical crew lived. He made his way down the hall and to his surprise he didn’t even see one cast or crew member.

But then he heard a voice—he wasn’t sure where it was coming from but he felt a tingle creep up his spine when he recognized the voice of his dreaded English teacher with his best-friend, Frosh.

Ibsen’s voice drawled on monotonously, “Mr. Iwalet, I ask you again. What are you doing backstage?”

Frosh replied defensively, “I wasn’t doing anything. I told—I got lost trying to find this stupid play you made me go to.”

Ibsen’s voice rose, “Lies! Tell me what kind of skullduggery you were about to indulge in! I’ve had it with you undermining my authority! If it isn’t in class it has to be at a school event—we are going to settle this right now—”
Suddenly, there was a loud deafening crash which was followed by an indistinguishable yelp which quickly died. A loud thump was heard as something hit the ground.

Derek covered his mouth as he tried to come up with a reasonable explanation for what just happened.

Did his English teacher just kill his best friend? He slumped into the corner as he struggled to accept the fact that his teacher did kill his friend. He heard a clatter of footsteps approach. And then in seconds he saw about five cast members round the corner in the darkness with one final member leading the rear—it was a hooded figure—also known as the Phantom. It took mere seconds to put one and one together and realize that under the mask was Mr. Ibsen—Frosh’s killer.

He regained himself and realized what he had to do—he had to stop Ibsen before he killed someone else. When the footsteps finally faded away Derek slowly stood up and warily looked around. A red liquid slowly trickled down the hallway and Derek stood petrified as he watched his best friend’s blood flow effortlessly past his feet. With a sudden burst of energy he tore his eyes away from the scene and he took off in the other direction. The play was about twenty minutes into its runtime and he figured that the best thing to do was not to make a scene. He sprinted through the shadows searching for a teacher or a cop. His eyes made contact with Officer Shawl—the same cop who arrested him three months ago for shoplifting.

“Officer—come quick—there was a murder and there’s probably going to be another one!”

Officer Shawl spun around and hissed, “Mr. Spinelli, get out of here. I don’t want any trouble from you!”

Derek pulled n his arm pleadingly, “Please, there’s going to be a murder.”
Shawl retorted, “Well of course he’s going to try to kill Christine and Raoul, but in the end—”

Derek blinked confused, “Who in the hell are Christine and Raoul? I’m talking about Frosh and Ibsen.”

Shawl leafed through the play program, “No, I don’t think those two are in this play. You must be confused.”

“No, what are you talking about?

Shawl appeared annoyed, “The play.” He pointed again to the program. “Mr. Spinelli, if you spent more time with books instead of robbing convenience stores, then you’ll know that Erik the Phantom attempts to kill Christine and Raoul.”

Derek interjected hurriedly, “I don’t care about that—my English teacher just killed my best friend. Come, I’ll show you!”

He grabbed Shawl’s arm and dragged him backstage.
“Spinelli, this is preposterous!”

But Shawl didn’t want to make a scene so he yielded to Derek’s request.
He led Shawl down the hallway, backstage. “Right around the corner…”

They turned the corner and stopped short. Derek’s eyes went agog. He stuttered, “I-I don’t b-believe this!”

The corridor was completely clean. There wasn’t any blood on the floor. They wasn’t a body . The scene was totally spotless.

Derek repeated himself, “I don’t believe this!”

Officer Shawl was annoyed, “Spinelli, if this was supposed to be a joke then there are going to be serious consequences.”

“Officer, I swear there was a dead body here. I swear…”

Shawl turned around. “I’m going to handle this later. Don’t think you’re off the hook.” He headed back towards his seat.

Derek slowly slumped down slowly into a defeated heap. Was he going crazy? He lackadaisically walked back and Mrs. Waller, his principal, confronted him. She was mad, “Spinelli, I’ve been told that you’ve caused quite a brouhaha. Care to explain yourself?”

“Mrs. Waller, I swear Mr. Ibsen killed my best-friend Frosh.”

Mrs. Waller stared at him confused, “Frosh?”

Hurriedly Derek added, “Eric Iwalet, but everyone calls him Frosh.”

“Mr. Spinelli, this is quite a tall-tale even coming from yourself. Not only did Mr. Ibsen serve our country, he’s one of the biggest assets to our school. I find it ludicrous and downright insulting that you would dare accuse him of such atrocities. Go to my office and I’ll deal with you shortly.”

Defeated, Derek walked away from a livid-faced Mrs. Waller with his head down. No one believed him. He needed some kind of proof, but he didn’t have any way of attaining any.

He opened the door to the Principal’s office. A huge mahogany desk greeted him. Around it were three burgundy, plush chairs. Personal photos were littered haphazardly around the desk. A single lamp hung at an awkward angle and on the bulletin board behind that was various school related flyers and posters. Behind the desk was a huge trophy case highlighting John Jay’s accomplishments and right next to that was a row of file cabinets that were lined up orderly. That was when he realized that the permanent records of all students and faculty were stored here. And that would mean…

In a matter of seconds he had lunged towards the cabinets, nearly ripping the handle off in the process. He forayed the folders and he pulled out Ibsen’s file. Quickly he leafed through it searching for any incriminating evidence. He found a list of Ibsen’s war accolades he received while on duty. However, he didn’t find anything he could use. He sighed deeply and his eyes fell on another file with the name “Erik Iwalet.” For the longest time he believed that Frosh’s real name was spelled with a ‘c’ but there was something about that name which looked all too familiar. He began leafing through Frosh’s file and he brought up the transfer files from his old school. Frosh had told him that he came from Prolucks Preparatory School in Michigan; however according to these files he was from Salinger’s Psychiatric Reform School for Troubled Boys. According to this file Frosh was diagnosed with the onsets of schizophrenia after witnessing the murder of his parents nearly seven years ago. His psychiatric tendencies revolve around unstable mood change. The pills. He’s always seen Frosh with pills he says is for his anger issues. Apparently, it just wasn’t for his anger. He read, “Aripiprzol is a schizophrenic medication used in teenagers. If not taken or used in excess, signs are regression are significantly apparent.” In the back of his mind he remembered what flash told him earlier. Are you serious—I just had this refilled. But what motive did Frosh have against anyone? He further leafed through the files searching for something he always wanted to know. And that’s when it all started to come together.

According to this file, Frosh wasn’t kicked out of school for joy riding in a teacher’s car—it was because someone ratted him out two years ago for placing a dead pig’s head in a student’s locker. And the person who ratted him out went by the name Carlos Durak. Where did he hear that name before? It wasn’t until he looked at the bulliten board in front of him and saw the promotional flyer for the Phantom of the Opera play in front of him did it hit him. Carlos Durak was playing Raoul in the play. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the movie version he saw such a long time ago, but he could only remember that sword fight. Instead, the voice of Officer Shawl crawled back into his head as he heard his distorted words. Erik the Phantom attempts to kill Christine and Raoul. For once in his life everything made sense. Frosh was going to do something bad because of a vengeance that is clouded by his inability to distinguish reality due to his lack of medication. If something was not done immediately, unlike the actual play itself, there was going to be a murder.

Derek took off running towards the auditorium. In his desperate attempt to make it there a thought popped into his head. If Ibsen didn’t kill Frosh, then that must mean… He tried to shake that thought out of his head because he couldn’t imagine a scrawny teenager overpower a trained war veteran. However, the tight of the dripping blood consumed his thoughts and he struggled to accept the truth.

He busted through the stage doors and was met by a ghastly scene. Actually this scene was the dungeon scene and the Phantom was poised with a seven inch butchers knife with a gleaming handle with Raoul standing mere feet away from him. Derek jumped onto the stage and pushed Raoul off in an attempt to save his life. He fell into the orchestra onto a pile of folding chairs.
“STOP THE PLAY! HE’S REALLY GOING TO KILL HIM!”
Some audience members looked at each other apparently confused at this anachronistic person on the stage. “Who is this guy? He’s not in the program.” However, the majority of the audience began applauding thinking that this was part of the show.

The teachers and Officer Shawl could only stare at Derek with their mouths gaping open as if to question his audacity.
Derek was flabbergahsted at the audience reaction, “WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU GUYS? SOMEONE’S GOING TO DIE!”
This response was met with a greater round of applause.
A member of the audience whispered to the person in front of him, “I don’t know which character this is, but this is the best part of the play.”
Another audience member whispered, “This is a great soliloquy.”

Derek was stunned. He came in expecting wide-spread pandemonium and people rushing to the doors in a frantic evacuation and instead he was greeted by a standing ovation. No one was listening to him so Derek decided to take matters into his own hands. With a surge of energy he rammed himself into Erik the Phantom and tackled him to the stage floor. He found himself face to face with him and through the pale, ghastly mask he stared at his liquefied green and blue eyes. They were throbbing uncontrollably.
Erik laughed manically, “What took you so long? You’re not going to stop me.”

Derek hissed, “I know this is not you. We need to get you your pills. You didn’t really want to kill Rao—Carlos didn’t you?”
Erik opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, “They said if I didn’t kill him, they would kill me.”

Derek shook him repeatedly, “Who said that? Who said that?”
Eriks lunacy was progressing, “Seal my fate tonight. I hate to have to cut the fun short, but the joke's wearing thin. Let the audience in. Let my opera BEGIN!”

“You’re not making any—“

Erik ripped his mask off and struck Derek across the face to loosen his grip.
To the rest of the audience, the following scene seemed like it was part of the play. However, the teachers and drama students were perplexed over what was happening. That’s when they begun to realize what really was happening.
With his mask now removed, Erik’s identity was revealed.

The drama teacher yelled, “That’s not Gerardo!” Apparently, Gerardo was supposed to be the real phantom. He probably was tied up in a closet somewhere.

Erik picked up the seven inch knife and attempted to gut Derek’s throat with it. With his free hand, Derek attempted to counter the applying pressure, but Erik was stronger than he anticipated. The knife was a mere inch from plunging into his skin.

Erik resumed the deranged, maniacal look on his face. He smiled, and whispered into Derek’s left ear, “Why so serious?”
Derek was not amused. That line was taken from a Batman movie and Batman wasn’t going to save him. Well at least he was going to die with a live audience. He felt the cool blade of the knife press firmly against his skin. He closed his eyes…

But then there was an all too familiar voice—a voice Derek wouldn’t normally say he was glad to hear.

“FREEZE! FEDERAL AGENT—drop your weapon and put your hands on your head or so God help me I will shoot!”
Henry Ibsen stood there poised with a 9mm handgun in his hands and a gold-plated badge hung around his neck by a silver chain.
Erik laughed, “I didn’t want to hurt him. I just wanted to kill him! YOU-drop your weapon or I’ll—”

There was a deafening gunshot as Ibsen shot Erik in the leg. Audience members yelled in fear and immediately fell to the floor. The knife fell loosely from his hands as it hit the ground with a reassuring clatter. Ibsen spoke into his mouth piece, “This is Agent 60210. I need a medic team at John Jay High School A-S-A-P. I’m sending you my coordinates. Hostile is down and situation is under control.”

Ibsen went over and recovered the knife Erik dropped. He then began applying pressure to his left leg in order to stop the profuse bleeding. He quickly made a tourniquet using a prop shirt. A pill bottle fell out of Erik’s pocket. Ibsen analyzed the empty bottle, “Aripiprzol, a hallucinogen. Giving this stuff to kids has nasty side-effects.”

He then tended to Derek, “Are you all right? You have a nick on your there—stay there—a medic team will tend to you.”

Derek struggled to find the right words to say to Ibsen. “What just happened here?”

“Mr. Spinelli, This is going to be hard to believe, but I’m an undercover F.B.I agent of the Special Activities Division at the Bureau. We specialize in covert operations vital to national security. I was stationed at this school for a classified reason, but the actions that took place warranted my intervention and now my cover is blown.”

Derek stuttered, “B-But—I saw you get killed earlier today!”

“Did you actually see that?”

“No—but there was blood and everything.”

Ibsen pondered this for a moment, “Oh-I know what happened. Mr. Iwalet and I were arguing and he knocked down about three cans of red pain from the shelves. I spent the remaining time cleaning it up. If I knew that mental state of Mr. Iwalet was this severe, I would have interfered earlier.”
The sound of sirens grew louder. Ibsen went about to calm the crowd down. Derek took one last look at Erik who was clutching his leg in intense pain. How frightening must it be to be unable to distinguish reality from fiction? His life was basically a phantom which was masked by medicine that controls his actions. His inability to make his own decisions must prove unbearable. Derek looked away, closed his eyes, and allowed himself to be taken away from reality.

Humankind cannot bear very much reality. ~T.S. Eliot

P.S The pharmaceutical and military terms used throughout the story are all factual. Research was done to make it plausible.