Page 7 of A Wistful Symphony

Delirious Nocturne

I ’ m cooped up in my bedroom getting some practice done on the digital piano.

Ever since my medication was raised, practice time has become an unyielding source of frustration.

My hands shake, I forget passages I memorised months ago, and my focus has gone to hell.

Despite my complaints to Dr Cameron, the intrusive thoughts are indeed better, so he suggested we try it for a while longer and see if the side effects dim.

I did no such thing.

To be perfectly frank, I felt like flushing the damn bottle down the toilet more times than not, but I’m not that irresponsible.

All I did was take a single tab instead of two starting a week ago.

The thoughts came rushing back, but my piano skills have already returned to their former dextrous selves.

If only I could be in the sitting room playing Nan’s Welmar instead of this digital mockery, the evening would be perfect.

Nan’s piano is a shabby upright model from the 70s, with heavier keys and a more nuanced sound.

Nothing beats acoustic when it comes to pianos.

Unfortunately, Nan Olympia is blasting her shows on the telly and both the girls are home, making the sitting room an impossible place to concentrate.

The digital piano it is. Though not even my shut room is enough to rid me of this house’s pandemonium.

Zoe’s outcry resounds through the walls. “But everybody else from school is going. Why can’t I?”

“Not everybody. Eric is staying home,” Aunt Petra retorts.

“Come on, Mum. The weirdo hardly gets out of the house if he can help it.”

I love how she talks about me as if I can’t hear her blaring voice just one room away.

“Last time I let you go to one of these parties, you came home wasted. You’re still seventeen, Zoe Elizabeth Campbell!”

The full name. Aunt Petra’s serious.

“But Shelley will be here to pick me up at any moment.”

“You better ring her then, before she gives herself the trouble of coming here for nothing.”

The echoing stomps on the hardwood floor are a foreboding sign before Zoe bursts into my room.

“You’re ruining my life, you know.”

“By existing?” I retort, my gaze never leaving the piano keys.

She growls and slams the door.

My relationship with my cousin is rocky at best. Despite having similar ages and being both queer, Zoe is outspoken, funny, and even a bit popular for an openly lesbian teenager.

Everything that I’m not. Her “loving” jokes about my mental health problems only add to my loathing every time she speaks.

Alas, she’s family, and we have each other’s back in a weird manner.

After Zoe goes away, I breathe out in relief, but Mum’s lenient tone joins the bluster.

“Perhaps Eric could keep an eye on Zoe.”

No. No. Not a freaking chance in hell. I’d rather carve my eyeballs out with a spoon and eat them with a bowl of chicken noodle soup than be crammed in a loud, grubby house with all the people I hate from school.

“What?” Zoe exclaims. “Wait, that’s not what I—”

“Well, Eric is responsible. If he’s with you, maybe I could let you go,” Aunt Petra says.

The stomping restarts and it only takes seconds before Zoe barges in once more.

“You heard that, didn’t you? So? Can you help a girl out here? Come on. Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.”

I’m about to tell her to piss off when Mum pops up as well, peeping through the door frame.

“Why don’t you go to the party with your cousin just this once, honey? You’ve been so stressed lately. Taking the audition out of your head might do you some good.”

She wears her wavy deep-brown hair loose over a knit jumper, along with a tender smile. Shit. I don’t have the nerve to say no to Mum, even if there’s an enormous hole in her logic. A party will hardly make me less stressed.

“Fine. I’ll go.” My tone states clearly the amount of cheerfulness the prospect gives me.

“Yes! Thank you, Aunt Trish.” Zoe almost bounces. “Get ready, weirdo. Shelley will be here in twenty.”

“But I still have to shower!” I say, but Zoe is already far off down the corridor.

Mum lets out a silent giggle before turning to me again. “Thanks, honey.”

After she closes the door, a deep sigh leaves my lungs. I cannot freaking believe they managed to drag me to a party on a Friday night when my audition is only a few months away.

This family.

When Zoe’s friend parks her blue Corsa in front of our cottage, we’re both standing at the front door.

I hate to shower and get dressed in a hurry, but it helps that I’m not trying to make an impression.

A pair of jeans, the first plain coloured T-shirt I can find and a worn-out jacket are enough.

Zoe, on the other hand, has a purple dress under her coat, and her usually dishevelled honey-brown hair is brushed enough to show her laser-cut bob.

And she’s actually wearing makeup. The only hint to her tomboyish nature is her pair of black combat boots.

“Someone is trying too hard.” I smirk.

“Oh, fuck off,” Zoe spits back as Shelley lowers the window.

“Hey, Zoe.” She turns her heavily eye-lined gaze to me. “Is your cousin coming too?”

“Yeah, Mum only let me come if he babysits.” She rolls her eyes. “Un-fucking-believable.”

“No problem. Hop in, you two.” Despite Shelley’s politeness, the furrow between her thin brows tells me she’s not keen on having a plus one. “Looking forward to the party, Eric?”

“Sure, I’m buzzing with excitement back here.”

Shelley and Zoe laugh, and we take off.

We drive along the country road and I slouch on the back seat, arms crossed tight, watching the trees pass by.

It’s a full moon and the leaves are tipped in faint silver lustre, blowing in the gentle breeze.

While Zoe and Shelley talk in the front, I let myself dissociate, thinking of a nocturne that would go beautifully with the scenery, and soon enough, we reach the stone-paved streets of the town centre.

In a few turns of the road, we arrive at a dark lane, silent save for the muffled pulsing beats coming from our destination.

It’s an old house, abandoned for years, somewhat rotten and surely filthy, but the teenagers from our town deemed it a good enough place for their regular party-throwing.

Everybody knows this. Even the police are well aware of the underage drinking and drug use happening here.

They raid the place on occasion, but most nights, they turn a blind eye.

Gosh, I hope this will be one of them. I can’t have that on my record.

Shelley goes in first, but before we follow, Zoe pulls me aside. “Look, it’s not that I don’t want you here—”

“You don’t want me here.”

“Okay, I don’t. But if you could back off tonight, it would be great.” She lowers her voice. “I might have a chance with Shelley.”

“Fine, I can watch you from a distance.”

“I owe you big time.” She punches me on the shoulder and grins. “Try to loosen up, weirdo. This might actually be fun if you let it.”

“Sure,” I say blankly. She has no clue of what a place like this does to me.

As soon as we enter the foggy hall, I realise this was a huge mistake.

I can barely stand being in a classroom full of students during the day.

What makes me think I can deal with a horde of young people swaying and rubbing each other in the dark, in this filthy and probably hazardous place, blasting what should only be described as Satan’s lullaby?

Zoe and Shelley grab drinks, and I soon lose them beyond the dance floor.

The keen stench of sweat and mould defiles my nostrils and the floor sticks to my trainers like Velcro.

Everything makes my skin crawl. It’s a welcoming parade for the intrusive thoughts to rush in and scream until I feel like banging my head on the walls.

I reach for the flask of hand sanitiser like sweet salvation, but one meagre squirt is all that’s left.

I try tapping one of Haydn’s sonatas on my thigh, but the melody eludes me.

The bloody rave tune surpasses any attempt at soothing, its low beats pumping through my eardrums and making my ribcage tremble.

My body is like a crystal glass, soon to be shattered by the falsetto of an opera soprano.

The techno keeps blasting, again and again. Six hundred and thirty-seven beats divided into one hundred and fifty-nine compasses of a bloody four-minute-and-thirty-three-second-long song. My breath is shallow and speeding along with the beats. I need to get out of here. I need some air.

I walk to the balcony at the side of the hall. Seventeen slow and painful steps through the madding crowd until I reach the tall double doors. I push one side open, two lines of four rectangular glass panes in a wooden frame, and finally, I’m out of there.

The balcony is blessedly empty. I breathe in the night air, one, two, three times.

My jittery hand goes straight to my jacket pocket where I carry a pack of smokes, the only thing that prevents me from going mental sometimes.

Lighting the cigarette proves to be a Herculean labour.

My fingers slip on the trigger, fighting the flickering sparks until the darn thing is lit.

I down almost half the cigarette in one pull and go straight for another.

Soon there’s enough nicotine in my bloodstream to ease my heartbeat and let me regain focus on my surroundings.

“Didn’t expect to find you here.”

I whip around, almost choking in the middle of a drag, only to find you staring for God knows how long.