Page 42 of A Wistful Symphony

“Fuck!” A shrieking dissonant sound echoes as I bang both hands on the keys.

You jump from your seat, almost dropping your digital reader. Tossing the thing to the side, you dodge the coffee table and reach for my back. Your hands rest softly on my shoulders, massaging them with firm, careful presses.

“Eric, please, quit it for the day.” Your voice, although sweet, has a tiptoeing quality.

“You haven’t even touched your dinner, and it’s clear you won’t make progress in such a hectic state.

” You sigh, making circles with your thumbs between my shoulder blades.

“The song is already late, anyway. You can try again tomorrow after you’ve rested. ”

Except I can’t. If I can’t finish it today, I’ll never work again and everything will fall apart.

“Well, it’s great that you can be so flexible and take a week off at your little volunteer work.

” I spit the words, not even thinking. “But some of us have actual jobs with real stakes and responsibilities to fulfil.”

You slowly take your hands from my shoulders. “I beg your pardon?” Your crisp voice fills my stomach with ice.

Swallowing hard, I turn on the bench to face you. Your lips are compressed in a fine line, face as hard as stone, and I cannot bring myself to utter a single word.

“I’m going to take a walk and pretend you didn’t just say that.” You take your jacket from the rack and leave the flat.

Guilt spills out of my every pore. I’ve messed up our date and been nothing but an arsehole the entire night when all you meant was to take care of me.

And you did it despite needing my support after such a pivotal encounter.

What a crappy boyfriend I am. If Marvin was here, he would have a blast pointing it all out.

No. I need to stop thinking about that creeper and get back to my job. Perhaps with you away I can concentrate better and finish this thing.

I resume my pitiful attempts and let the phrasings take shape once again.

Crooked, unruly. The crappiest work I’ve ever done.

Not right. Absolutely not right. I keep squeezing whatever juice I have left in my brain between agonising thoughts.

An arpeggio. Marvin can’t go near my sister or my mother again.

A minor-tone chord. What if he blackmails me with my work?

A fumbling cadence. Everyone is going to hate this score.

It’s such an amateur’s work. Crescendo. I’m going to lose everything I have.

My job, my credibility. I’ll never work again. Fortissimo.

Not right. Not right. Not right.

I play it another time. Not right. Again. Not right. Over and over. So many times, I lose count.

Time passes. Minutes, hours, I don’t know. My fingers ache, sting and slip on the keys as if covered in grease. I don’t even look at them anymore.

The front door opens. You come back, hands stuffed inside your pockets. A clench tightens your jaw, but the intensity of your frown has dimmed, replaced by a melancholic expression likely caused by deep reflection.

“We need to talk about this,” you state, calm and resolute, and I shift in my seat, unable to stop playing. “My work may not be a big career or pay as much as yours, but that doesn’t mean you can—” You suddenly stop, eyes bulging. “Eric, you’re bleeding!”

Only then do I notice why my hands hurt so much. The corner of my fingernails must’ve been bruised by repeatedly scraping on the edge of the keys. Until they gave in.

The ivory is splattered in red. Thick droplets mix with scattered fingerprints, making an endless trail over the keys. I stare in horror, fingers slipping and making an all-new trace of crimson over the black and white.

Even then, I cannot stop. Or everything will go to shit.

“Eric, you’re hurting yourself. Stop playing, I beg you!” Your gaze flickers from me to the sides of the room, a deep crease forming between your brows. You take my arms from the keys, but I put them back, desperately trying to complete the song.

Not right. Not right. NOT. RIGHT.

“I’ll get something. Hang tight.”

You rush to the bathroom and come back with a towel. Then you sit by my side on the bench, take my hands from the keys, and wrap the towel around them. I shake thoroughly, my body a pale shell between your arms. Despite holding me tight, your embrace does nothing to soothe me.

I won’t finish. Everything I’ve worked so hard for will turn to dust.

“Eric, please, tell me what’s wrong. I hate seeing you like this. I want to help. Please, trust me.”

A translucent drop falls on the keys. Another one mixes with the blood, diluting the small puddle of red. My throat is too tight for any sound to come out. The only thing pouring out of me is tears, an endless stream of them.

“I was seven the first time I saw my father hit my mother.” The words come out like shards of glass. “It wasn’t a heat of the moment slap. He beat her for real. A full-swing punch right below the eye.”

A strangled sigh leaves your chest, but you don’t interrupt me.

“Everything changed after that. It was like a curtain had dropped off my eyes. He would come home drunk and take out his frustrations on her.” I pause before I can go on.

“His attitude changed with me as well. Like he didn’t have to pretend anymore.

He never missed an opportunity to show how much I disappointed him, how inadequate, how strange I was. When I came out, it only got worse.”

“I’m so sorry, Eric,” you whisper, pressing my hands tighter inside the towel. My lips tremble, and I take a deep breath.

“He also ruined my mother’s career. He sabotaged all of her contracts, and when she had no other choice, he suggested she be a stay-at-home mum.

When I was fourteen, she put her foot down and said she’d go back to playing.

You know what he did? Pinned her hand against the kitchen counter and smashed it with a meat mallet.

By then I was old enough to come between them and suffer the consequences.

” The drought in my throat makes my voice wither.

“Jesus.” You bite your lower lip. “That’s horrible. Why wasn’t he arrested?”

I huff bitterly. “All she got with the police was a restraining order and a pat on the back. The whole thing got swept under the carpet in a snap of his fingers.” I give a defeated shrug. “That’s why we moved to Somerset.”

You exhale long and slow. “Thank goodness for that.”

“Indeed. Since then, I’ve tried my best to stay detached from him. To pretend I never had a father and forget he ever existed. And you know the funny thing?”

“What?”

“That day in the restaurant, he said something that broke every shard of confidence I had. And yet I still wanted him to see I turned out fine despite what he did. To be proud, for once in his life.” I press my eyelids, letting the tears fall again. “How fucked up is that?”

You rest your chin on my shoulder, and the warmth of your body comforts me.

“Our bonds with our parents are stronger than we care to admit. Even when they hurt us so badly.”

I sigh, low enough for you not to hear.

“But you need to know he’s just a person, and what he thinks of you doesn’t define you.”

“What if he’s right?” I whimper. “What if I’m fooling myself, thinking I can do this?”

“Believe me, that couldn’t be farther from the truth. I’ve never seen a more talented and hardworking musician than you. Don’t you trust me?”

I smile through the tears. “With my life.”

“There you go.” You rub your nose against my cheek. “But you need help, Eric. You’re not well. I know you hide your troubles beneath denial and lashing out, but you’ve crossed a line. You can’t push through anymore.”

“Andrew,” I plea, the rush of dread invading me again. “I can’t afford to stop now. My entire career depends on this.”

“No, Eric, that’s the OCD talking. I’m sure we can work this out. Maybe talk to your boss and ask for a sick leave.” You put your arms around me. “No job is important enough to cost you your health.”

That almost makes me laugh. If I lose one more day of work, that means I’m out. Ms Thorne will cast me out of the project and put that sly wanker Jameson in my place.

It’s not just a job. It’s my dream that’s shattering.

“I can’t, Andrew.” My voice comes out ragged. “I’ll lose the score.”

You heave a defeated sigh. “At least let me call your therapist and set an emergency appointment. Okay?”

My entire body trembles, screaming ‘no,’ but deep down I know you’re right. It’s been years since I’ve had a crisis like this, and being so close to drowning in my compulsions scares me.

No, that’s a thorough understatement. It terrifies every fibre of my being.

“Okay,” I agree, my voice as soft as the evening breeze.

You brush a damp strand of hair from my eyes and wipe my tears. “I’m here for you. You know that, right?”

A lighter breath comes out of my chest, one that’s been trapped there for days.

“I do.”