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My hand is itching for a music sheet to write down the melody.
“You’re beautiful,” she says, lost in that half-dream state, as if she’s drunk. But she’s not. She’s depleted and half-asleep. I don’t know if she realizes she’s saying this. “You’re gorgeous,” she repeats, “and the way you move on the stage is magnetic. No one can tear their eyes off you. You are a magic this world has never seen.”
My eyes go glassy with tears.
“People love your music so much that they are willing to commit murder for you…” her voice trails off and I think she’s fallen asleep, but then she adds: “They love it because they see themselves in it. Your music style is different because you’re different than anyone else. You’re a genius, but you know that. What you don’t know is that not every singer puts their soul on a plate and offers it up to the public. That takes guts.”
I bite back a surprised laugh.
“I’m hardly a genius…” I begin.
“You’ve invented a new kind of music,” she interrupts me, her face still pressed against my shoulder. “That’s what you’ve done. You always kept feeling unworthy and comparing yourself to your mom and your brother, but you… You are brilliant. You have the entire world at your feet. You can say anything to them, and they will actually listen. You have power.”
I fall quiet.
‘You can say anything to them, and they will listen.’
What have I been saying to them all this time? I have been talking about pain, which is resonating with the audience, that’s true. But is it good? Talking about pain is good, I stand by that. But that’s not all I have been doing, is it? I have been wallowing, complaining, holding on to bitterness. Holding on to grudges. Refusing to forgive.
Blaming.
Hating.
My songs are soft and vicious at the same time, something that is reflected in the original mix of my music: It’s classical—thanks, James—meets pop slash indie-rock. But the songs themselves are also a mix of love and hate. I can’t deny that any longer.
It is exactly what I’ve been feeling these years since I lost Eden.
The pain of losing her turned me into a monster. But she is made of light. There is nothing to hate in her, not even the fact that she decided to leave. Pain or no pain, I have become a monster—I have made myself one. And it’s time to face it.
“Want me to sing some more of my genius songs?” I ask her past the sudden lump in my throat and she nods against my shirt, her body getting relaxed against mine.
“I want you to make one,” she says, voice muffled by my chest.
“What—?”
“Like you used to,” she sighs, and I know exactly what she means.
She used to get these anxiety attacks back then, nothing like the severe, almost lethal panic attacks she’s been having now, but she used to struggle a lot. I used to compose songs on the spot to soothe her. It was the only thing that would calm her. If I sang a song that already existed, it used to make her worse, because—in her own words—they ‘always remind me of something’.
So, as instructed, I make a song.
It starts soft and tentative as I test different melodies and tempos, and then suddenly, the melody I was composing before comes out. Except this time it’s formed better. It’s got structure, a verse and a chorus. I start vocalizing—there are no lyrics yet—and I can’t stop. The music just pours out of my lips like water, taking me with it, flooding my soul with something that, for once, isn’t killing it.
It’s feeding it.
The music is weeping. But it’s quiet and playful, and you couldn’t even tell it’s weeping at first, but you will feel it in your bones once it grabs hold of you.
Once I change to E minor, I close my eyes. I just know.
This is the best thing that’s ever come out of my head. I sing it over and over until I’m sure I memorize it, until I polish it to perfection. I have no lyrics for now, but I have the entire music. That never happens.
Eden falls asleep on me at some point during my third time humming the new tune, and I promise myself then and there that I won’t move a muscle until she wakes up, even if she sleeps a hundred years like a princess in a fairytale.
But after I’ve finished composing, I fall asleep on the floor, next to her, Pooh’s little body nestled between us. I’m holding them both. I dream of trees. I smell the red leaves and see the sun turning golden, and, in my dreams, we’re sleeping holding hands on the grass, safe in our woods.
Safe from what came afterwards.
…
