Page 35 of A Wistful Symphony

Doctor Wilkes—I’ve learned his name during our round of exams—comes in to bring the test results.

They’re not good. Both my eardrums are perforated, but the right one has suffered damage to the inner ear.

He says even with surgery, he’s not sure I’ll regain much of my hearing.

I don’t care. Mum and I are adamant about trying out every option.

He writes a referral for my GP to schedule the surgery at the reference hospital in Bath once the swelling has faded.

I’ll still need hearing aids afterwards. I ask if they’ll be good enough for me to get back to playing, but he hesitates before writing his answer. That pause turns my stomach to ice.

“You’ll receive a standard model, which is fine for everyday life, but may be lacking for complex sounds like classical music. There are more advanced models nowadays, but they’re not covered by the NHS.”

“Of course,” I mutter with a dreary smirk.

He writes again and flips the clipboard to me.

“Don’t worry, Eric. Beethoven kept playing with both his ears impaired. I’m sure you can make do with your hearing aids.”

I glare from the paper to Dr Wilkes. My deepest wish is to take the damn clipboard and throw it at his stupid face.

Is this supposed to cheer me up? Does he have any idea how much a musician needs to trust their hearing while playing?

How competitive it gets out there? And I’m good, but I’m not freaking Beethoven, am I?

He takes a hint from my silence and excuses himself. Mum scribbles something, but I don’t wait for her to finish.

“I want you to leave me alone.”

“Honey—” she begins.

“Leave,” I yell, startling her.

She nods as if she’s in pain and closes the door behind her. My throat is tight, tired of holding in a lump that only gets bigger and bigger. The first sob escapes like a hiccup, and I grasp the hem of the linens, bracing for the next.

It comes. Like a cracked dam, they burst out of me, one after the other.

A torrent of tears washes down my face and drips on the bedsheets.

I shut my eyes tight, but it’s no use. My chest convulses and aches with an absence I never thought I’d feel—the phantom pain of my music being ripped out of me.

Worthless.

The word keeps screaming in my mind with every falling tear.

Worthless! Worthless! Worthless!

I’m sulking in bed at the end of this ordeal of a day.

The buzzing has grown worse, and I’ve been having headaches non-stop.

The night shift doctor says it’s a good sign, that my body is responding.

I spit out that he should have one of these himself before calling it a good omen.

He sighs and says he’ll take care of the discharge papers.

Aside from my bruised and swollen face, my cracked ribs, and my close-to-useless hearing, apparently I’m healthy enough to go home.

Everyone is being exceedingly patient with me, most of all my mum. I want her to scream. Scold me for being an arse and yank that moody attitude out of my head. She doesn’t. No one ever does.

I’m so sick of everyone’s pity.

Though silence has been my best friend for the last few hours, my mind races endlessly, the nailbed on my thumbs burning raw with all the scratching. I’m cornered in a catastrophic train of thought that screams every minute of every hour.

I’ve lost the one thing I loved about myself. I’ll never play like I used to. I’ll never enter the Royal Academy of Music. I’ll never have a career, or a decent job, for that matter. I’ll stay at home and depend on my family’s support. I’ll be a burden forever.

Burden. Burden. Burden.

Mum sits on the armchair watching some show on the telly, while I curl under the comforter, back turned to her. A nurse comes in, and I hope she’ll finally let us out of this hellhole. No such luck. After talking with her, Mum walks to the side of the bed and touches my shoulder with care.

“Honey? Andrew is here,” she says after I look at her lips.

I frown, not sure if I caught it right. “Andrew?”

She nods and takes the clipboard from the side table. “Do you want to see him? Or do I tell him you’re too tired?”

It’s been a night and a day. Both without a visit, without a single word, without a fucking “get well soon” card with your name on it.

Even Shelley came along with Zoe earlier, and I barely know her.

If the roles were reversed, I’d be at your bedside from moment zero, and God help whoever tried to separate me from you.

What excuse could you possibly have to show your face only now?

I almost tell her to shove you away. The doubt, however, would eat me alive.

“Show him in.” I lean on my unsteady arms so I can sit on the bed.

She leaves the room and returns with you on her heels.

Your steps are slow, cautious, and your eyes are bound to the ground, like a little boy who was caught doing something wrong.

I’m tempted to smile in contempt, but don’t have the strength.

When you dare to lift your gaze, your countenance drops and your throat bobs so hard I can almost hear it.

“I must be quite a looker, huh?” I throw in a crooked grin to mask how much it hurts when you look at me like this.

Standing in the middle of the room, you shake your head and avert your eyes.

“I’ll give you two some privacy,” Mum says before leaving the room.

You stay put, fiddling with the hem of your jacket, and I breathe out a sigh. “Come sit by my left side. If you speak loud enough, maybe I can hear you.”

You grab a chair and carry it next to the hospital bed. With elbows resting on your knees, you fidget with your fingers in silence. After a few moments, your lips finally move. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ll need to be a bit more specific.”

Words pour out of you, but they’re too fast for me to comprehend.

“Stop, stop!” I raise a hand and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Take that clipboard and write.”

You bite your lower lip and comply. The pen slowly scratches the paper surface, and when you turn the clipboard to me, there’s just a single phrase.

“I should never have brought you to the fair.”

I can’t shake the feeling that what you wrote is far shorter than what you said.

“ That’s what you’re sorry for?”

You flinch at my tone.

My gaze falls to the sheets, my lips pursed. There’s resentment lurking in my chest, some sick and twisted feeling I didn’t know I had. Creeping into my head, tainting my thoughts of you. I fight hard to not let it settle, but every word out of my mouth seems to be drenched in it.

A wave of buzzing takes over my head and I wince, shutting my eyes tight.

You jolt up, saying something I don’t understand, and put your hands on my shoulders.

I raise a palm to my left ear, pressing it hard.

You shake me lightly until I open my eyes, and a gutted frown scrunches your forehead as you examine me with pressing concern.

Your mouth moves, but the sound is lost to me.

“Clipboard,” I say, and you hurry for it.

“Do you want me to call the nurse?”

“No, it’s just an annoying buzz. It’ll go away soon.”

You rub my back until the sound fades, leaving me with the usual aftermath throbbing in my temples. My head falls back to the pillows, and I give in to the weight of pain and medication.

“How are you feeling?” you write after sitting down.

I blink heavily, feeling my eyelids droop, and let out the truth.

“Like the only thing I’ve ever dreamed of is going to shit.

Hoping that the surgery and the hearing aids will give me something close to normal, otherwise I’ll have to learn BSL, or how to lip read or something.

Oh, and let’s not forget doing all this while trying not to go crazy with the shit I already have.

” A bitter chuckle escapes. “But I’m doped on meds right now, so that part is covered. Yay.”

Your head lowers. The silence in the room is deafening.

“I waited for you all this time,” I mutter. “Not knowing if you were okay, if they did something to you as well.” I swallow hard, my mouth dry as a desert. “Why didn’t you come earlier?”

You bite your lower lip hard enough to draw blood. “I tried. Many times. But I couldn’t.”

“It’s a simple thing, Andrew. One foot in front of the other until you get your arse to the hospital.” My jaw is clenched so tight the words come out between gritted teeth. “I needed you, and you weren’t here.”

Your lips tremble. “I’m sorry. But I couldn’t face you knowing I’m to blame.”

“That’s exactly why you had to be here!” A burn rises to my throat, and I blurt it out in a rush.

“I never wanted to go to that fair in the first place, but I did it for you. I was scared, but I stood up for you when those arseholes were triggering you. And how did you repay me? By bailing when I most needed you.” I shake my head. “Some boyfriend you are.”

For the first time, your eyes narrow at me, and your lips compress in a fine line. “Well, none of this would’ve happened if you’d let me take the pills. I would never have had a shutdown if I was on them,” you rebuke, loud enough for me to hear.

“Excuse me?” I spit, not believing my impaired hearing. “Are you seriously saying this was my fault for not letting you do drugs? Fuck you very much, Andrew.”

The pepper-red taking over your face and the dew clouding your lowered gaze are telling signs. You know you’ve gone too far, and silence stretches for agonising moments before you pick up the clipboard again.

“Do you want me to leave?”

I look away, my voice coming out ragged. “Yes.”

Two lone tears stream down your cheeks. I try not to focus on them, but your heartbroken expression pierces me in my peripheral vision. You grip the sides of the chair, lifting yourself up, and without another word, you disappear beyond the door.

My head sinks on the pillows and I cover my face with both palms, fighting the burning sensation in my eyes.

I’ve truly screwed up things this time.