Page 13 of A Wistful Symphony

Consequence March

T he day after the party, I wake up in my bed, still in the same clothes, stinking of sweat and cigarette smoke.

It’s late in the morning, and the bright sun pours all over my face, making me wince.

My skull pounds with the strength of a thousand drums and I close the blinds at once, pressing both temples until it’s not too agonizing to open my eyes.

Suddenly, it hits me that I don’t have the faintest clue about how I got home.

My chest thuds. A few hours of memory loss might be of no consequence to some, but it’s enough to make me panic.

Not having full control of my wits means I could’ve blurted out my intrusive thoughts.

Or worse, acted upon them. Most are harmless, but others …

. I chew my bottom lip and shake my head.

Snap out of it, Eric. The probability is flimsy at best, and even if it happened, there’s nothing I can do about it.

Sit with the discomfort; isn’t that what Dr Cameron says?

After a few rounds of breathing exercises, I’m calm enough to retrace my steps.

But even after I squeeze out the memories, there’s not much to work with.

After our snogging session, things turned awfully hazy.

We danced, we kissed some more, maybe had another drink.

Perhaps some touching? For the life of me, I cannot recall.

All that’s left is the worst headache ever and the lovely feeling of being run over by a truck.

I get up, undress, and throw my disgusting clothes in the laundry bin along with the whole bedding set.

The thoughts scream I should set them afire just to be sure, but a thorough wash will have to do.

I drag myself across the room, pick up some clean clothes and scamper to the bathroom across the hall before anyone sees me.

Scrubbing every trace of that abandoned house out of my skin is the first thing I need if I’m to have any chance of surviving today.

An hour later, I go back to my room and throw myself on the bare mattress. My stomach aches with hunger, but I’m too nauseated to think of food. Also, facing Mum and Aunt Petra is not something I’m eager for. They sent me to the party to take care of my cousin, not to get wasted.

Oh gosh, Zoe!

I sit up in an instant. She could’ve been kidnapped by mobsters and sold as a sex slave, and I wouldn’t have seen a thing. Did she get home alright?

The question is promptly answered when Zoe barges in. I exhale, relieved for a split second to see her messy hair and overalls until she slams the door shut. The bang plays like a parade march all over my skull, and a grimace twists my face.

“I can’t fucking believe it. You and Andrew Westcott sucking face last night? Did that really happen or was I too high?” She pulls the chair from my desk and rolls herself closer. “Damn, you look like shit.”

“Thank you?” I half-ask, pressing my temple. “Wait, you were high last night? Aunt Petra is going to kill me.”

“Just a bit of grass.” She rolls her eyes. “Like you weren’t high as well. You could not pull those moves with your natural self. What did Andrew give you?”

“Don’t know, some pill. Molly, I guess?”

“Holy shit. That makes sense.” She laughs and crosses her arms over the back of the chair. “I mean, me and Andrew had to drag you into Shelley’s car because you didn’t want to leave.”

“Oh, crap.” I bury my face in my palms, picturing the scene. “Did I say or do anything weird?”

“Nothing but the usual high nonsense.” She shrugs. “But to be fair, I didn’t get most of it.”

“Right.” I breathe out slowly. “Remind me to thank your friend for the lift.”

“You mean my girlfriend?” She smirks, resting her chin on her arms.

“Oh! You two worked it out?”

“Yep. It’s official. No more hooking up in corners, afraid anyone might see.” She smiles from ear to ear, and I can’t help envying her. “By the way, what’s the status between you and Andrew?”

“I barely knew how I got home. You think I have any idea?”

“But do you want to see him again?”

Flashes of your devious smile, your hand under my shirt and the taste of your lips fill my head.

Warmth spreads across my cheeks and I bite the inside of them.

Being completely focused on my music means I haven’t bothered to kiss a guy in almost three years, and now all I can think of is how badly I want last night to happen again.

“Yeah, I guess,” I bashfully answer.

“So text him. Find him on Facebook or something, set a date,” she says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Don’t wait for him to come to you.”

“Perhaps.” I grasp the edge of the mattress, glancing away.

“Perhaps? Come on, Eric, grow a pair. The guy hooked up with you all night and helped you get home safe. He’s clearly into you. Go for it, okay? Don’t be a wuss.” She gets up from the chair and stops by the door. “Never knew it could be fun to hang with you. We should go to parties more often.”

“Sure, can’t possibly wait.”

She laughs it off.

Zoe’s words keep echoing in my mind, stronger than the throbbing of my temples.

Go for it. But how? I don’t have your number, you don’t go to school anymore, and I don’t know if you use any kind of social media.

You were always discreet about your personal life, which I find admirable for someone our age, but now it turns out to be a real inconvenience.

I suppose popping around Westcott House isn’t an option. Come on, who am I kidding? I’d never have the guts to knock on your parents’ door. And even if I did, if the rumours about you and your father are true, I wouldn’t dare to put you at risk.

Then again, do you even want to see me? We were both high as fuck (at least I was) and could not be held accountable for our actions.

And the ease with which you navigated the whole situation tells me you’re used to such parties.

Maybe I was just your fling of the night.

We never had any kind of familiarity aside from shared classes and awkward exchanges in the shrink’s waiting room to suggest otherwise.

And yet ….

I shake my head, trying to purge you from my thoughts.

My head hurts too much as it is to ponder the mystery of you.

Time to get back to reality, which means swallowing a big fat aspirin, going downstairs, filling my empty stomach with something that hopefully won’t bounce back and facing Mum and Aunt Petra’s wrath.

It’ll be a fun day.

The painkillers are the easiest part. I push down two tablets with a single gulp of water and open my door, turning the doorknob delicately to not make noise.

“No use trying to be sneaky, mister. I see you.” Mum is standing, arms crossed, in front of her room, holding a glare that cuts deeper than a scalpel. “Come here right now.”

Splendid.

I trudge towards her, uncertain if I should be thankful that it’s not Aunt Petra—the screams would be superb—or fearful to see her in such an unusual mood. My mother scolds me so scarcely I never know what to expect in such situations.

Her bedroom is clear, but not bright. The furniture is all cedar wood, and the double bed is caked with ash-rose embroidered pillows. Feminine and discreet. I keep my head down, mildly distracted by the intricate shadow patterns made by the lace curtains, not daring to utter a word.

“What were you supposed to do last night?” she starts, her tone dangerously controlled.

“Watch over Zoe at the old house party?” I know I’m stepping into a minefield.

“Then explain to me how you coming home mentally altered qualifies as taking care of your cousin.”

I have no answer to that.

As the silence stretches between us, my mother lets out a heavy sigh. “What the hell happened there? I would expect this kind of behaviour from your cousin, but not from you.”

Her probing brown eyes are on the same level as mine, which makes it easier to recognise the disappointment in her countenance. I can’t hold the stare for long.

“I had a sort of episode, and some guy offered me something to relax.”

“Eric.” Lines carve into her forehead, as deep as her concern. “I thought you were smarter than that.”

“It was just a pill and a few drinks.”

“Still, you know you can’t mix these things with your medication. Even experimenting could be dangerous.”

Then you shouldn’t have made me go to a triggering place , I think bitterly. I know well enough I’m not like other folks my age. Yet everyone is keen on reminding me.

“Won’t happen again,” I mutter, facing the floorboards.

My mother peers for a long moment, then shakes her head. “You act so much like an adult, sometimes I forget you’re only a teenager.”

She raises her hand, scarred at the back, fingers stiff and awkward.

Some days she can’t even hold the bow of her cello straight.

It pains me every time I look at it. It hangs in midair for a moment, and I see how badly she wants to touch my face.

Instead, she gently squeezes my arm. Mum is the only one in this house who respects my boundaries. I love her so much for that.

“That doesn’t mean you’re not in trouble, though,” she adds. “Consider your party privileges suspended until further notice.”

“Oh, bugger,” I say with a tiny grin.

“At least try to look disappointed.” She giggles. “It’s darn hard to punish you. What am I going to do, take away your piano?”

“Not an option.” I laugh along.

“Oh, I know. I could drag you to Sunday service tomorrow,” she teases, hitting my Achilles heel. My loathing for the church is well known in this house.

“Please don’t. It would be so awkward to hear Reverend Westcott preach after I kissed his son last night,” I confess.

“You what?” Her eyes bulge and her mouth falls agape, wavering between shock and delight. “How was it?”

“Good.” I give a coy smile and stuff my hands in the jogger pockets, a bit embarrassed to be discussing our night with my mum. “I liked it a lot.”