I wake up dizzy and coughing. The pain in my arm subsided over the nights when I finally managed to rest, but it would swell up again during practice. I reached for the glass pitcher of water beside my bed. It did not do much to soothe the fire in my throat.
I waltz through the rest of the day in a blur. Stumble to the dining room, eat breakfast, go to the bathroom, freshen up, go to the practice room, and fall asleep. I feel a fever encroaching. My body is breaking down, and it is getting to difficult to hold out. One more day. Just one more day.
Hours later I wake up feeling slightly better. I hear a commotion outside. Everyone is already beginning to set up. I hastily get myself ready then hurry to the stage. I see my master in his usual position, backstage behind the curtain. I approach him. He stands with his son, they speak in hurried whispers.
“If it’s only the solo then… then what am I supposed to do for the rest?” Mikail says.
“Interpret as you need to. Hover,” his father says and then looks at me.
“Well, where is it?”
“What?” I mumble confused.
“Your violin boy,” he sighs annoyed.
“Where is it?”
“What, I don’t have…,” I begin to say, but he cuts me off abruptly.
I flinch at the harshness of his tone.
“Your violin boy! Hurry your violin, your violin!”
“My…My mute?” I mumble.
“Yes!” he says and then starts to cough. “Where, where is it?”
“It… it’s in your room,” I reply.
“I need a drink of water. Stay here, I’ll fetch it,” he declares exasperated.
I stand there confused and ashamed. I should have remembered he would want to play during the concert. But I was excited for… Mikail cuts into my thoughts with a sinister laugh. “You can’t possibly still think that you would be playing on stage? You can barely string a sentence together and you think you can perform? Not on my stage,” he hisses.
He walks towards the curtains and flicks them open. They part for him and a beam of bright light encompasses the space around him. I flinch away, unable to take the onslaught of sudden light. He marches forward. Without as much as a backward glance he walks out. The curtain swooshes close, enveloping me back into darkness.
Well. I did think that. Maybe I would get to play out on stage. Why couldn’t I hope for it? Years of practice. Of compliance. Of no complaints. Why was that so hard to believe? Why… did I let myself believe?
Why do I allow myself to dream?
I should have known…
Mortimer never let me practice with the actual orchestra. Of course you would have to practice with them. Even if you just had a solo. Even if it was the one thing you were doing. The one small thing you wanted to do.
I stand still, a waterfall of my own thoughts rushing through, too fast for me to catch a single one. So many questions, accusations, self pity. I hear the murmurs as the rest of the orchestra come in. Chairs scrape on the floor. Papers shuffle. Stands are hit with bows for good luck. Instruments are tuning. More murmurs from people as they rush back and forth with things that they have forgotten. Then silence.
The crowd comes in. They too murmur in excitement. They fall silent. The king makes a speech. The concert begins.
Everything is at a blur. I hardly hear the music on stage. Like the buzzing of a fly in the distance, that I can hardly be sure of is there.
How does it feel being the smallest thing in the room?
I sit down, clutching my bow and violin, trying my best not to cry. When was I handed my instrument? When did Mortimer come back? I don’t remember. What time is it? How long has the concert been going on? I look around for Mortimer. He is facing the curtain, paying no attention to me. Everything hurt. My head hurts, my stomach aches, my back is sore, my hand is pounding and my heart is heavy with sadness. Then suddenly Mortimer turns to me and motions me to stand. I hear him whisper “play the piece boy, do it, do it now!”
I play, my fingers moving swiftly. I’ve done this a thousand times. And for what? I don’t even understand anymore. For what? Was this a test? To see if I could match up with everyone on stage? With his son? If I could play together?
“If you do this right, maybe you’ll get to be on stage someday huh?” he mumbles, whispering in my ear, watching my fingers moving. A preposition? A threat? “You have to do this right,” he whispers, too close to my face.
I flinch at his words.
I make a mistake.
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