Page 34 of A Wistful Symphony

Hymn to Loss

E verything is hazy when I wake up. My left eyelid is swollen, covering half of my sight, and my whole body is sore. My bottom lip stings and the tiniest movement aches in my guts, making its contents rise to my throat. I heave and push down the nausea.

Where am I?

The room is exceedingly bare. White walls, white furniture, and white linen sheets covering me.

Rails on both sides of the bed trap me. I tentatively reach for one and notice the IV stuck in my arm.

I look up. A translucent fluid drips with clockwork precision.

One. Two. Three. Four. Over and over again.

What happened?

Soon, it all comes back to me. The fair, your meltdown, Ollie, the fireworks, Benson and his mutts.

The jerk sure did a number on me. I purse my lips but stop soon enough.

Even that hurts. I blink twice and focus on the surroundings.

Ollie rests on a chair with dark bags under his eyes and deep creases between his brows.

Mum gets up and rushes to my bedside. Her face is washed with tears, but she still attempts a smile while running her fingers through my hair. I hate seeing her like this.

You, however, are not here.

“Where’s Andrew? Is he okay?” I ask, but despite the vibration tickling in my throat, I can’t hear my voice. Perhaps my senses are jumbled from the assault. When Mum answers, the mute movement of her lips is the only thing I perceive. That’s when I realise something is wrong.

The room is too quiet, even for a hospital. It’s as silent as a tomb.

I snap fingers near my ears. Nothing. My eyes widen and my heart thumps in a rattling tempo.

I jolt from the hospital bed, grab the nearest thing—a remote?

I’m not sure—and bang it against the bed rail.

Still nothing. Mum tries to grab my wrists and make me stop, but I’m too terrified.

I push her aside and throw everything around me against the walls to produce any kind of sound.

Still fucking nothing. Tears run down my face, and I only know I’m screaming because my throat burns like it’s on fire.

It’s a nightmare … a bloody nightmare …. It’s got to be.

My breath is so rapid I wheeze. My deranged fingers reach for my neck, attempting to loosen the collar of the hospital gown.

I pluck the IV out and sprint for the corridor.

Ollie tries to get ahold of me, but I push him aside, staining his T-shirt with the blood dripping from my forearm.

I can barely see a thing through the tears and, quite frankly, I don’t want to.

All I need is to hear something. Anything.

This can’t be happening.

The nurses gawk as I storm down the infirmary.

One of them tries to stop me before I get to the exit, and I knock him over.

I’m not so lucky with the second. The nurse ensnares my upper body in a tight lock and holds me close to the ground.

The pressure on my bruised ribs hurts like hell, but it doesn’t stop me from screeching and squirming against my burly cage.

I can’t lose my hearing. I can’t!

A needle jabs my thigh. Soon my muscles relax, and I see nothing else.

I’m in the white room once again. My head is heavy and dizzy, and I can barely hold my eyelids open.

They gave me something strong by the feel.

Delia sleeps atop my bedside, and Mum talks to a doctor with greyish sideburns.

They don’t notice I’m awake. Mum sobs with both palms covering her mouth, while the doctor says something to comfort her.

With a shred of hope, I notice I can hear them. Not enough to understand what they’re saying. Everything is distant and muffled, like I’m underwater. It’s better than nothing, which means I’m recovering. Right?

“Mum? Has Andrew come?” I mutter, my throat sore.

She rushes to me and brushes a lock of oily hair from my forehead. She shakes her head. I understand her usual ‘honey’ by the movement of her lips but miss everything else. Does this mean I’ll have to learn sign language or how to lip read?

No. I will recover and make it to my audition at the Royal Academy in two months.

Stay positive, Eric.

The doctor talks and hands her a clipboard and a pen. I believe he means for us to communicate in writing, which is frustrating, but necessary. She takes it and scribbles something in her elegant round cursive.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve just gone deaf,” I say, and attempt a chuckle.

Her lips tremble, her worn face threatening to cry again, and I regret the self-depreciating humour.

“Are you in any pain?” she scribbles.

“No. The meds here are good. Thanks, Doc.”

The doctor smiles and utters, “You’re welcome.” That’s easy to understand. Then he takes the clipboard from my mother’s hands and writes something as well.

“Is there anything you want to ask me, Eric?”

I huff out of my nose. Of course this doctor knows exactly where my mind is spiralling right now. I grip the hem of the bedsheet and swallow hard, trying not to sound forlorn. “Am I ever going to hear again?”

He pauses for a moment before writing. The time he takes to deliver the answer stretches for miles. When he finally shows me the paper, my lips are pressed in a fine line, and a scared furrow creases my brow.

“It’s early to say. There’s severe damage to your right eardrum, but the left one seems to be recovering. We’ll have a better notion once the swelling fades. A specialist will come later and run some tests, okay?”

I nod. He leaves me alone with my family.

With a deep breath, I stare at the wall and let the realisation sink in.

I might lose my music. The one thing that makes my life meaningful, that makes me worth something.

Who would I be without it? A freak. Just some freak with psychiatric problems and fucked-up hearing, who has no back-up career plan, only my stupid dream of being a musician.

Who would want to be near someone like that?

Not you, for certain. You haven’t even bothered to come and see the mess I am now.

Worthless.

The word scratches my mind, over and over, in an infinite loop.

I ask for a glass of water, more for distraction than actual thirst, and my mother hurries to hand me one.

My hands are shaky. The water spills. Mum comes to my aid, and I blame the dizzying medication.

She doesn’t argue. Delia wakes up and says something I can’t comprehend.

I want to scream and tell her I’m bloody deaf but say nothing.

Mum takes the clipboard again. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” I turn my gaze to the bedsheets. If I try to vocalise the hopelessness snarling in my chest, I might never stop screaming.

Delia’s huge eyes glisten, and she says another thing I don’t get.

She wraps her skinny arms around my shoulders and tucks her face in the crook of my neck.

For once, I don’t mind her touch. Mum throws us a sorrowful smile and takes the scene as permission to hug me as well.

They hold me for a long time, the three of us together in silence.

A silence I fear might last forever.

While we’re waiting for the specialist, the police come by to take my statement. Mum makes a formal charge of assault on Benson, Spencer and Talbot, and is thirsty for blood. Most of the conversation is lost to me, but two things I understand well: maximum penalty of six months and unlikely.

Apparently, Benson was smart enough to make his minions—who are underage—take the blame for him.

If we’re lucky enough to get a harsh judge, they’ll get time in juvie.

But since it’s their first offense, they’ll probably get away with a referral order.

A bloody “rehabilitating” programme. While I’ll be deaf forever.

Laws are a sick joke.

The policeman tells me since I suffered permanent damage, we could sue them and win at least enough to pay for top-of-the-line hearing aids.

But there’s a catch. This would have to be done in a settlement between both parties, otherwise the process could go on for years.

And lawyers cost money. Money we don’t have.

Mum wants to go for it, but I shake my head.

“Honey, I think we have a good chance ,” she writes on the clipboard.

A chance to burn away all our savings on a fruitless lawsuit to get a pathetic amount, since Benson and the others are as poor as we are. I don’t have the disposition to be that kind of burden. And it will change nothing.

“No. I’m tired. I don’t want to go through all this.”

Mum peers at me for a long time, her belligerent countenance dropping to a melancholic air. She understands. She was once in my shoes for a much graver offense, and she chose the same.

“That’s alright. You concentrate on resting and getting better ,” she scribbles.

The policemen leave, and we don’t get a follow-up visit from them.

The specialist arrives a couple of hours later and runs a ton of exams. Blood tests, image tests, sound tests.

He exposes my ears to a wide range of pitches, and I realise my hearing range is painfully narrow.

That’s on my left side. The right one is deaf as a post. And if that isn’t enough, now and then an agonizing buzz takes over, making me want to bang my head on the walls.

The doctor prescribes some pills and an IV, but they help little.

Is this what my life is going to be from now on?

The room is filled with clipboards for whomever enters the room.

Mum’s presence is constant, while Delia, Ollie and Zoe take turns checking in with me.

You still haven’t come, and I try not to dwell on your reasons for abandoning me at this hour.

Everyone talks around me, which is only natural, but not understanding what’s going on is driving me crazy.

I’m bitter and on edge and frequently lash out at everyone.

I know I’m being a jerk, but no one complains. I wish they did.