Storymania - Gibsin The Night Fall by Drley

Gibsin The Night Fall
Drley

Gibsin: The Night Fall

by

Dr. Leyrose

The
    young boy sat and listened as the two men discussed his fate. They talked about him as if the boy wasn't even there. They never once even looked at him, instead they just continued to say painful things about him. "He just isn't making any progress. I'm sorry, but he hasn't responded to any therapist or treatment we have attempted. I'm not saying he's a lost cause. We just can't reach him here". the headmaster explained.

Outwardly
    oblivious to the conversation taking place, Gibsin watched the model airplane suspended from the ceiling. Th himthe design was wrong. One day, he thought, he would have to show them how to fix it.

"What
    are you suhggesting then?" the social worker began. "You're giving up.....How can you do that? He just needs the right approach, the right person to say the right thing. You need to be patient. " But the headmaster had made up his mind. The boy's future was already decided. He would have to go to another school.

The
    clouds, rushing by like animals running from a fire, made the starlight dance through the windows of the workshop. Gibsin stood there, still as a statue, mistaking the images for people. As he realized it was the light cascading through the windows, the shadowy spectres within the workshop no longer posed a threat. Watching this theater of the night unfold before him, Gibsin recalled his childhood - and he still hated the headmaster. Oh how he loathed those days. What were they trying to do anyway? Each day he sat and listened to simpletons yack about this and that. They made such a big deal about common sense notions. The idiots would talk for a while, their babblings making Gibsin grit his teeth. Then these minstrels of folly would try to "test" Gibsin to see if he understood their "profound" message of futility. He should have been teaching them! Those endless mondane days of listening to things someone else knew. And, the ridiculous ritual of "testing" him to see if he understood - what a joke! The whole process made him feel like a dog in obedience school. Why couldn't they talk about something new instead of things people learned already?

Heart
    pounding, fists clenched, and brow furrowed, Gibsin stood in the workshop entranced. The memories of those days fueled the already growing rage. One at a time he would teach people a lesson. After all, someone had to lead these sheep. Someone had to wake them up and teach them a lesson. At 25, Gibsin was continuing a promise he made himself as a very young teen.

For
    thirteen years he had remained silent. He only conversed in his mind. Why should he waste time trying to talk with these mentally impoverished bafoons. Occasionally, they amused him with their transparent schemes. But generally, he usually began to feel sorry for these crude creatures. And, he also realized, they were just acting the way they had been trained. Too bad they had lost the ability to think for themselves! He was impressed that these simpletons had stunbled across the knowledge that led to landing men on the moon. He almost wanted to stand and applaude the effort. Then, as he watched it on the television, he realized how crude and clumsy the whole fiasco was. Just when there seemed to be hope for these, these morons.

He
    had tried writing down some things to help these people, but they didn't understand. The frustration he felt, trying to get them to to understand the simple concepts he was writing. Granted, it was different from that scribble they called writing, but if they only used their brain they could see what he was trying to give them. Fortunately, he saw the futility in trying to help them, that's why he had to leave.

That
    night, as everyone slept, Gibsin made his emancipating run into the darkness. He had liberated himself from that house of horrors, and would do anything to keep from going back.

This
    stroll down memory lane was costing him valuable time. He had to stick to the plan. He picked up the gas can and began pouring the fuel everywhere. Once he emptied the can he removed the igniter from his jacket pocket. He had designed it himself. Simple, but effective, it had proven through the years to be very reliable. It gave him enough time to get safely away before it fulfilled its purpose. He worked swiftly now, there was much to do before daybreak. He was so engrossed in his work he never noticed the telltale signs of movement outside.

The
    call came into the officer on duty just before 3 A.M.. The gentleman on the phone, although calm, quickly described the movements of someone in his workshop. He held on watched for what seemed an eternity, even as the officers surrounded the building.

As
    the officer sent out the call to all available units, he silently hoped this was the man they were looking for. He hoped this was the guy a lot of people were looking for. If it was, this phantom of the night, (responsible for millions of dollars in fire damage), would finally be where he belonged. In a followup to the arrest that night, the officer called the house where Gibsin had been arrested. A woman, about 30, answered the phone. Soon the officer learned the family was on vacation during the call and subsequent arrest. Their alarm system had never signalled an intrusion, and their phone was disconnected while they were away. But, this was the number, the phone, and the house that that infamous call came from that night - the night the phantom took the fall.

The
    night phantom had burned more buildings through the years than you could put in a small town He always used gasoline and an extremely sophisticated timer-igniter - just like the one found in the workshop. Every agency in the country had studied the design. For many years engineers tore it apart and put it back together. It had spawned a whole new generation of devices. In fact, just about every aircraft flying today had parts based on the technology of that device. Police, engineers, doctors, and government officials were itching to get their hands on the phantom.

Gibsin
    woke up in a small four foot by four foot room. The walls were smooth cement and the only exit was enclosed with heavy metal bars. But, he wouldn't be there long. He already had the inspiration for how he would once again be free.

Under
    heavy guard, he was escorted to a large room. The room was filled with people. There was a psychiatrist, a lawyer, someone from Washington, D.C., and others. As he sat down, the lawyer explained that he didn't have to say anything. But, she encouraged him to talk to the psychiatrist.

"I'm...
    not...talk...um........want..... with her", Gibsin began calmly. "Foolish, simple.......lesson", he continued. More and more questions ensued, prompting similar responses. Slowly the man from D.C. lost interest. Soon, only the psychiatrist seemed to care about anything Gibsin had to say. She was different, she actually seemed to be learning from his wisdom. Yes, Gibsin was beginning to like her - she had potential.

Nobody
    wanted to believe that this man, the man that could hardly speak, was the right man. They just didn't or couldn't allow themselves to even think it. But the evidence was indisputible. Somehow this man was responsible for tremendous destruction. Then, the theory was born that Gibsin was only the pawn of a criminal mastermind. This theory was much more comfortable to everyone, everyone except the psychiatrist. She truly felt Gibsin was the one, the night phantom. Actually his name was Gibbs, N. or more precisely Nathaniel H. Gibbs. At the school Gibsin attended as a youth, it was common practice was to call everyone by their last name. In the event of more than one with the same last name, the first initial was added to tell them apart. So he became Gibbs,N or Gibsin. Nathan, as she began to address him, was the one responsible for all that destruction - and she wanted to know why.

In
    the trunk of the rolling junk heap the police impounded at the scene, they found an old suitcase. Inside were diagrams, drawings, and page after page of mathematical equations. Numbers and characters written this way and that. And, there were symbols and character totally unfamiliar to everyone. It took three years, over twenty teams of engineers, and the best computer NASA could build, to decipher Gibsin's cryptic information. In it was the answers to the design problems with the Apollo program. And more, much, much more. There was so much, in fact, that it woukld take millions of dollars and years of research to develop the contents of those pages. The technology was now going to be available that would lead the world into the next century. Hopefully by then, the three pages still left to be decrypted, would be understood. The complete work was published, and the authorship given to Nathaniel Hawthorne Gibbs.

Day
    by day Gibsin collected the things he needed. He would be free soon, he had worked it all out in his mind. He would miss her, the psychiatrist, but he had to be free. The wheels of the legal system, meanwhile, continued to turn slowly. gradually working toward the daywhen he would face his day of reckoning.

The
    psychiatrist, with authority of the court, assembled the record of Gibsin's life. As she read, tears streamed down her face. Her sadness soon turned to anger as she continued to read. "How could they have been so blind? The symptoms were right in front of their face." Gibsin, (Nathan to her), had a common malady. His deficiency, if you wanted to call it that, was similar to the affliction that made Einstein's trek in academics so famous. "Those pompous jerks chose to write him off !!" she stammered. With these records and her report, shewould see that Nathan got the help he needed - and recieve the understanding he was long overdue.

Finally
    alone in his cell, Gibsin drew a cup of water from the small sink. Then he began to assemble the materials he'd gathered over the weeks. Gradualy he ground them into a powder and mixed them together. Then, he added them to the water and stirred the concoction completely. This mixture was a poison powerful enough to kill 20 men. He would be free - the torment finally be over.

As
    he took the cup to his mouth and drank the mixture he gazed through the bars into the hallway. Ther, standing just outside the bars, was an old man. The man had white hair and his face shined like the sun was reflecting off it. They talked for a few minutes and Gibsin was warmed all over by the message he recieved from this old man. Just before he fell asleep, he heard the old man's voice, powerfully strong but gentle. And, lastly, he thought he felt the touch of a hand on his head.

He
    awoke this time in a hospital bed, shrouded by curtains around his bed. He tried to sit up, but his arms were restrained. As he looked too the foot of the bed, he noticed a nurse standing there. He weakly asked, " how long have I been in here?" Startled, the nurse ran to get the doctor. When they returned the doctor asked Gibsin if he knew who he was and some other silly questions. Gibsin retorted quickly, " I'm Gibbs,N, don't YOU know who I am?" The doctor was amazed, Gibsin was talking - and making sense. He was speaking clearly! He had to go get the other doctors!!!!

"Who
    was the old man, the old man that was outside my cell?" Gibsin asked the nuse, still stunned by the events.

There
    was no record that day of any visitors for Gibsin, except the normal parade of doctors and such. No other person saw that old man, not that day or any other.

Although
   Gibsin would never leave the confinement he crafted for himself, he did go on to author many books and other works. He never learned to write, all of his work was dictated to a friend who wrote for Gibsin. The message in all his works was about a man he came to know better and better. Each and every work, and in front of every book, the dedication was written:

"To the Lord Jesus, the one who gave me freedom"
- Rev. Gibsin