Soul of a Violinist (Steve)

         "...One of her ribs broke off and grazed several of her vital organs. Her spinal cord was fractured in several places and most of her bones sustained fractures if they weren't completely shattered." I listened to the autopsy people go on and on. "I don't know what would have motivated her to die in such a violent way." I showed them the various online attacks she received from Respect Ability Minecraft and its supporters. "Unfortunately, Caitlin's case not the first suicide we've had that was related to this organization. Here's a list of the names we compiled earlier. I also have their ages, occupations, and some of the last things they said."

I read the list of names and ages one by one, finding that most of them were in their teens or early twenties. The oldest was 45 and the youngest was 8. Most of them had incredibly low self-esteem and/or showed signs of depression. I skimmed the organization's Twitter and found that they posted positivity and resources for various things. Why, then, were there so many suicides linked to them?

This organization seemed fishy for a number of reasons due to the fact that they practically venerated people for their disabilities, but attacked those same people the moment they found identities outside of their disability status. Respect Ability Minecraft's motto is "Empowerment for all disabled", but what they're doing is anything but empowering.

I thought back to Caitlin's interactions with the organization and the things she said and then I realized why they hated her so much. Caitlin was always forthright, even blunt, about what she saw in others, including me, and a large-scale "charity" organization was no exception. Not only that, she chose love instead of hate in nearly every circumstance. Pitting our impairments against those of others is not going to help anyone, she said. Treat others well because, inevitably, everything is reciprocated.

I missed that. Her level of character is something I'm still striving for. More than that, however, I missed the little things. I missed feeling her hand in mine and how it felt when she slept in my arms. She liked it there, most likely because it was one of few the places she felt truly safe. I missed the sound of her voice whether she was talking to me, laughing at one of Mark's bad jokes, or practicing melismas in the shower. On one occasion, after I played a jazz-style solo on piccolo trumpet, I heard her imitating it perfectly using her voice. It sounded better than what I had played.

After a few more words, I left. It was about 4:00. Strangely enough, even though all I had was coffee, I wasn't hungry. I made my way home. Landon texted me, as evidenced by "Kokoro" playing.

Hey. Can you give me directions to the neurology clinic? Why would he need to go to the neurology clinic?

Where are you?

I'm near Mindcrack and the high school contest combat team is doing stuff. 

Take a right. 

Okay.

I continued to give directions. As I did that, I felt every ounce of animosity I had towards the guy melt away. Landon was actually pretty nice once you got to know him for who he truly was. From my understanding, he had a tumultuous past and was looking to get past it. It wouldn't seem true from the surface, but he and Caitlin had a lot in common. Both of them loved singing, for one. Their first duet must have been arranged by fate because, with very little practice, their voices blended as if they were made for each other. He texted again.

Actually, can you meet me there for moral support? I really need a friend.

Of course. Why me of all people?  Landon could have chosen anyone else, but he chose me. He chose the guy who hated him. Then again, I've found that the changes we undergo always have ways of surprising us.

I met him at the neurology clinic. His hair was messy, but not in the cool, controlled way it usually fell. He had dark circles under his eyes and was wearing a weird onesie with what looked like a distressed egg.
          "Hi." I waved back.
          "What is that?" I was wondering why he was wearing old pajamas.
          "Where I'm going, no one cares how I look." Landon laughed and averted his gaze.
          "Anything you need?" For some reason, my device's voice wouldn't work. It would either distort or start emitting the most awful noise in the world if I used certain words. I ended up using the voice labeled "kawaii" because it was the only one that would work consistently.
          "I just want to kill time. I'm bored out of my mind. You know what? I don't even know what I need. Something just feels weird."
          "Why are you here?" That came out more impulsively than I had originally intended.
          "I think my nocturnal epilepsy came back, which really sucks. I woke up yesterday and found out that I wet the bed. I don't know if it's the grief or what, but it's awfully frustrating." Yep. I knew what it felt like to wake up reeking of urine with a soaked diaper. If it wasn't that, it was my pajamas and sheets. "It started when I was six and it got worse and worse from there until I was about twelve. After that, it just stopped, even without the medication." He continued talking and opening up to me. It occurred to me, then, that if he was this honest to me, I should return that honesty.
          "I was a violin prodigy." I didn't really feel comfortable talking about my past as a violin prodigy. It wasn't something I was particularly proud of, even if I did get to perform a few concerts and get paid for it.
          "Lucky! Why do you get all the good awkward secrets?" Landon nudged me playfully, prompting me to answer. To be honest, though, my past as a violin prodigy was far from what others made it out to be.

It wasn't because it was forced on me. That would have never occurred to my parents, who just wanted their four boys to survive. Those four boys were Brandon, Trevor, Corbin (I call him Cory), and Steven. We grew up in a little village where (1) everyone wanted to kill us for not being human enough or (2) everyone wanted to kill us for not being villager enough. I heard the phrase "filthy half-breed" nearly every day of my life, but that's not exactly relevant to my violin playing.

I was about three years old when I started. Cory was the one taking violin lessons because my parents inherited an old violin. He taught me a few notes and, the moment I picked up the bow, I found out that I loved the violin. We bonded over that wonderful instrument. Eventually, I became better than he was and he pestered my parents into letting me take lessons. My parents relented and took me to my first violin lesson for my fourth birthday.

Rather impressed, my teacher gave me something I barely knew how to read. The notes swirled on the page and blurred into a mess. The music came in a colored sleeve and I read it through the sleeve because I "liked it better", so I said. It was actually so I didn't get sick on my music. Going with my tendencies, the violin teacher supported me and found that I had an especial gift for the instrument. I got bored with the beginner book and began devouring etudes, scales, and other music like candy. The recitals came and went as always: with me receiving applause and eating as many cookies as I possibly could.

Unfortunately, after Cory hit his head while we were playing spleef, the medical bills piled up to the point where I had to give up my violin lessons. I kept playing and challenging myself, hoping the sound of the violin would serve as an anesthetic to my pain. It was a trying time for all of us. Brandon and Trevor started fighting even more and it escalated into Trevor getting a black eye and Brandon's school project burning into a pile of ashes. My parents started bickering over the tiniest things and blaming everything on me. My grades started declining because I couldn't think about anything else besides the unrest in my family.

I ran away so that I could be with my violin. I played in villages hoping to get money. It worked. I practiced until I couldn't bear the throbbing pain in my fingers. On weekends, I played from sunrise to sunset with very few breaks other than to get food or use the restroom. What I made I mostly gave to help with the medical bills, but I saved 1% of my money to get new bridges, strings, and food.

I gained the attention of many people and eventually started playing in concert halls along with some of the top orchestras in all of Minecraft. More importantly, they agreed to help me in my situation by sending money to my family. I went to school in the morning, played my violin at night, and worked on my violin on the weekends. I lived off of herbal cough drops, apples, and, when I got lucky, chicken and wheat soup.

Unfortunately, this newfound attention led me to basically sell myself in order to play and please the crowds. Day and night, I performed, did my homework, and gave my soul over to performance. The melody from my instrument just became noise, but I was happy as long as the crowd enjoyed it, or so I thought. The medical bills came back again and there were even more of them. I didn't want my parents to have to worry about paying them, so I played my fingers to shreds. I lied to the local luthiers that the stains on my strings were from dirt, but, in reality, I played so much that it wore through my skin. On one occasion, I couldn't shake anyone's hands after a concert because they were dripping with blood.

It hurt to hold a pencil in class. No one cared that my hands were screaming with pain or that my neck felt like it was made of steel cables. They didn't care that I performed day and night. They just cared that I cranked out a grade. I remember sitting hunched over a paper thinking of a poem that had a strong rhythm that tells a story about the life of a talented person. I ended up writing the following:

Do this.
Do that. 
You should. 
You can't. 

Put on
A show.
Just hold
Your bow.

Learn math
And write. 
Stay up
All night.

Who cares,
Who cares
About 
Your life?

At my last violin concert, I was about to enter the sixth grade. I picked up my violin, the cuts on my hands showing the state of my heart. Awaiting my entrance, I listened to the orchestra play their songs. When I heard my name, I walked onstage and went through the usual ceremonies. I readied my instrument and nodded to the conductor to start.

Everything fell perfectly into place. When I came in, my fingers were fleet and fluid. I moved my bow to create the notes and, as they moved, I saw the ambulance's flashing lights heard my brother encouraging me to bow the strings, smelled burnt plastic and paper, tasted the bland hospital food, and felt the sting of the string cutting into my fingers. However, above the din, I felt the music. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was actually playing. Art washes away the dust of everyday life, so people said. I felt the dust wash away from my soul.

The orchestra moved with me, almost as if we were dancing. I closed my eyes and felt the chill of the snow and the thump of a snowball hitting my face. At the end of the thing, my hands begged for mercy as I lowered instrument, faced the crowd, and acknowledged the orchestra and their conductor. I took so many liberties with that piece it was a wonder they could stay with me, let alone sound good while they were doing it. My mother came to the concert hall, and, instead of hugging me or telling me what I played well, dragged me by the ear and scolded me for not being supportive. I was shocked. Did she know that I was sending money from my performances to help with the medical bills?
         "...You know, Cory would be ashamed to have a brother like you!" She snatched my violin out of my hands and broke it on a wall, crushing the bridge under the sole of her shoe. After taking my bow, she snapped it in two. "Going out and doing this meaningless music stuff..." It was useless trying to argue because she shattered my soul along with the violin.

I never played violin ever since.