Page 49 of A Wistful Symphony

I lie right to her face. “He called me and said he’s not feeling well. You know he has no one else, Mum. I promise it’ll be quick, and I won’t spend the night.”

Her jaw tightens. “I understand Andrew’s situation, honey, but you have your own life to worry about. Tell me, where will you draw the line?”

She’s right, of course. But I can’t bail on you now.

“Just this once, Mum. Then I’ll fully concentrate on my audition. Please.”

She crosses her arms. “This better be the last time, Eric, or I’ll have to ground you.”

“I promise.”

I ride like the wind down the gloomy country road. My calves burn with each turn of the pedal, but I don’t dare to stop until I reach your complex. Feels like I’m forever threading this path from my life to yours. Never fully in one place or the other.

A neighbour lets me in, and I gallop the stairs two steps at a time. I knock on the door and jab the doorbell in turns. Nothing. I try the doorknob just to be sure. Open.

Inside, you’re nowhere to be found. What I do find, however, makes my stomach sink. The set of spoon, lighter and needle tossed on the bed.

Shit. Fucking shit.

I flee the building and run straight to the riverbed. A cadence of scratchy violin notes tells me I’m on the right path.

“Andrew? Are you there?” I yell long before I reach the end of the pier.

Even in the dark, I can see your wildly unfocused eyes and crooked smile.

“Eric, hey!” You give a highly uncoordinated wave of your bow and draw a screechy note from your violin. “I’m composing like you!”

I take a deep breath and keep a straight face. “Shouldn’t you be working right now?”

You throw me a deep, confused frown. “Is it seven already?”

“Andrew, it’s almost ten.”

“Really? It’s so bright out here; it doesn’t seem that late.”

“But it is, and you need to wash this high out.”

“We could jump in the river,” you merrily conclude, pulling up your hoodie.

“For fuck’s sake, no.” I rush to you and push the hem of your clothes back down, scared you’ll jump in the water, crazed as you are. “I meant inside.”

“Bummer.” You giggle frenetically. “You’re such a buzzkill sometimes, Eric.”

“Yeah, I know, but I couldn’t give two shits right now.”

I take you by the arm, and you offer no resistance.

I’m glad the drugs make you groggy and malleable, otherwise I wouldn’t have the strength to drag you back to the flat.

The stairs prove to be a Herculean labour, with you tripping over your feet every couple of flights.

I’m scared you’re going to fall, so I use all the non-existent muscles in my arms to pull you along.

After what seems like hours, we finally reach your flat.

I throw you in the shower and turn on the cold valve.

I don’t know if it works for a high the same way as a hangover, but it can’t hurt to try.

You sit with your eyes closed, letting the water run over you, and I stick my fingers inside your mouth, trying to make you throw up.

You do. The bits of half-digested food on my hands send me running for the sink. I scrub them over and over.

Dirty. Dirty. So freaking dirty.

After using all your soap, I come back to the bedroom, only to stare at the darn things that made you so out of your mind. Fucking drugs . Rage burns in my gut. Without a second thought, I take everything from the bed and search the flat for more.

I remember well what my father was like, and I’m aware of the places one could stash alcohol or drugs. I search them all, turning your place upside down in my fury until I find every ounce of narcotics, legal or not, and toss them in the toilet.

“What are you doing?” you say when you notice what I have in my hands.

“What I should’ve done a long time ago.” I press the flush button.

“Damn it, Eric!” You jump up from the shower, soaking wet, trying to stop my hand. “Do you know how much these things cost?”

“As much as a car, I presume?” I raise an accusing eyebrow.

You scowl and lower your gaze. “Still, they’re mine. You have no business going through my stuff and throwing it away.”

“No?” I huff, nostrils flared, and raise my voice. “And who else will do this for you, Andrew? Who will tell you how much you’re wasting your life with these things?”

“No one. That’s the point, Eric,” you scream at the top of your lungs. “I have no one!”

The pain cuts through my chest, freezing my breath in my lungs. No one. That’s all I hear.

“Is that what I am to you?” I mutter in a hoarse tone. “No one?”

With your glistening eyes fixed to the ground, silence stretches between us. When it’s clear you won’t offer me an answer, I let everything out.

“You know what? I’m tired. Tired of reaching out to you and getting nowhere.

My audition is in a week, Andrew. Do you know that?

One week to prepare for the day that will decide the rest of my life, and I’m here, wasting my time trying to be there for someone who thinks I’m fucking no one.

” Tears are streaming down my face, but all I can do is shout the words trapped in my chest for so long.

“I need to practise, okay? I need to concentrate on my audition, and I can’t deal with this right now! ”

Fateful words come out of your mouth. “What the hell are you still doing here, then?”

I hold in a sob and grit my teeth, ragged breaths cutting through my lungs.

“Fuck you, Andrew,” I blurt out before storming from your place.