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This was different from the previous times he held me. There was nothing lustful or sexual about it. He merely wanted someone to hold onto. It was this realization which led me to ask, “Why?”

“I just want to hold your hand.”

Unable to come up with an appropriate response, we stayed like that: limbs entwined while taking comfort in each other’s presences. In that temporal state, there was no need for composition or vampires or etiquette rules. There was merely me and him in a world all our own.

A knock sounded, vanquishing whatever hysteria had momentarily overcome me. With it, my shade dispersed into smoke like a true phantom. I shook my head, sitting up on my bed while rubbing my hands.

As the circulation returned, my scowl deepened. I needed to leave. It didn’t matter where, but before my shade returned with his actual body I needed to get out of here. It didn’t matter where as long as continents were between me and my shade.

Slowly, I stood up, smoothing out the creases in my too-white robes and opened my door, praying that whoever was on the other side would help to distract me. Thankfully, it was only Abbas.

“Teacher,” he said. “I’m here for my lesson.”

I nodded, my eyes drifting off towards the copy of my violin that child had created. I didn’t have a shoulder rest and that was fine since playing with one limited some of my movements, but for a beginner it would be too much.

In the recesses of my near non-existent memories, a faceless human was saying something to me. Some answer I needed to provide me with appropriate steps I needed to take. Over and over again, I clawed and stretched reaching for them.

I clutched at my head, trying to block the near-deafening white noise muffling that person’s voice and words. What gender were they? Were they an adult or child? Was I even an adult in this conversation? What language were they speaking to me in? All of that relevant information faded from my mind’s eye as if it had never been there.

Two words remained: “why” and “sponge.” The words that the past me had spoken were irrelevant. I repeated those two words in every language I knew, the etymology blending into each other until all meaning was lost.

“Teacher.”

I turned back towards Abbas but there was no worry in his clear eyes, but another negative thing. I could have sworn it was envy.

Likewise, I cocked my head to the side. In turn, Abbas pointed to his cupid’s bow. My finger went to my own, touching something sticky. Pulling my hand away and holding it close to my eyes, the crimson fluid was unmistakable.

I pointed at the chair. “Practice breathing.”

Abbas did as instructed, so calm was he that I was forced to exhibit the same level of cool as I approached the door to the adjoining bathroom in my room. Inside, I placed my hands under a crystal facet until lukewarm running water flowed out. I washed what I could of my face, but the blood wouldn’t stop flowing.

Looking around, I opened various drawers until a pile of small square washcloths revealed themselves to me. Grabbing one, I placed it under the running water until it was damp enough, twisting it until it was malleable enough to be shoved up my nose. From the mirror, I looked ridiculous, but it wasn’t falling out and the bleeding was slowing down.

I gripped the smooth surface of the too fine sink and looked at my eyes in the mirror. “Just breathe.”

As if I was out there with Abbas, I imagined my stomach blowing up like a balloon and slowly exhaling over a span of eight seconds.

Maybe it was the emptiness of my own gaze. Maybe it was how much I disliked my current appearance. Or maybe it was how red the cloth in my nose was dyed, but for whatever reason, I looked away, my eyes darting towards the contents of various drawers.

My eyes glazed over bottles and bottles of perfumes, make-up and oils until they landed on a drawer with brushes, a large round cosmetic sponge and some material similar to rubberbands that I used when braiding my hair.

Picking up the dark sponge and rubberbands, I muttered, “Why did I forget that sponges and rubber bands could replace a shoulder rest?”

“Do you regret it?” a familiar voice asked from behind me.

Squeezing the sponge like it was some toy, I asked, “Regret what?”

“Giving up your memories, of course.”

I stood up straight, feet slightly parted in a v-shape like my violin was in my hands and a performance was about to start. “I don’t remember being so weak-hearted as to give up my past.”

“You know, it’s funny,” the self-proclaimed god said with a face devoid of smiles. “Created beings who don’t remember being pushed to the brink or have never been in that situation could never imagine themselves giving up something as precious as their pasts.”

“I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” He chuckled, but there was no feeling behind it. “If your memories were so painful, it drove you to want to end everything, would you still want them back?”

I walked past him, turning my head in his direction as my hand gripped the handle. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a lesson to give and cannot entertain you today.”