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This is my life. I start. I stop. I breathe. I play.
Once I’m sure it’s nothing, I resume my practice. The music fills the room, a deep, mellow melody. I can feel the cello’s vibrations across the floor, through my feet. They seep into my bones. It’s almost like I can feel the music resonating in my heart.
I wish I could be braver. Stronger. I wish I was able to perform like this in front of a crowd.
I haven’t played in public.
Not since…
I shake my head.
No. Don’t go there.
My fingers toy with the bow again, bringing it up to the strings. The second I start again, a loud boom shakes the ceiling. Speckles of dust sprinkle over me, peppering my cello in white. A piercing shout follows. “Shut the fuck up! I’m trying to sleep here.”
The clock on my nightstand reads six at night.
“Oh, fuck off,” I roar back before remembering that, with the state of my bank account, this place may as well be a five-star resort. On top of everything else, I can’t lose this crappy studio, too. “Have a nice nap!” I tack on, hoping I won’t get a call from my landlord in the morning.
Oops.
Just as well, since I can’t seem to actually play. Instead, I press my fingers on the strings, forming the right notes. Then I move the bow in front of the strings, not quite touching, and pretend to play. And what do you know? The stage fright is gone. Somehow, I doubt the admissions officers at Juilliard will be impressed with this style of play.
Once I’ve practiced long enough, I place my cello back down, reach my hands above my head, and stretch out my arms, yawning. From here, my night crawls by. The sun slowly descends into the horizon, casting an orange-pink hue over the neighboring buildings. I feel like I’m suspended in time, my mind whirling in uncertainty.
Should I call Roman back?
I force out a long breath. My feet ache. My back aches. And, if I must admit it, my heart aches, too. Sweat coats every inch of visible skin. The gravy from earlier is congealed in my hair. Disgusting is a generous description of my current state.
Maybe I’ll call after the shower. Yep. That’s what I’ll do. Or maybe after I showertheneat. An even better plan.
I’m about to head into the bathroom when I hear a knock on my door.
My shoulders stiffen, and my mind wanders back to my brother. It can’t be him, right?
Moving to the door on autopilot, I peek through the peephole. In an instant, my heart beats a little faster in my chest. Two police officers stand in the hallway, and although I can’t think of one reason they’d be here, I’m on edge.
Their position obscures their faces, but then one of them moves, and I recognize him in less than a second.
It’s Matt.
A friend of mine from high school. Nice guy who was friendly to everyone.
Especially to me.
We remained friends after graduation, and through the years, he monitored Roman for me. When I moved to the city, Matt promised that he’d tell me if anything ever happened to my brother.
My jaw tightens.
The fact that he’s here now doesn’t bode well. It means something has happened.
Roman is probably in jail and not getting out anytime soon.
This isn’t the first time Matt has stopped by unannounced, considering my brother has always been in trouble with the law.
That’s not true.
There was a time when he wasn’t. That was when our parents were still alive, and he was able to be a normal teen.
