24. Chapter 24

Three days later, and I'm still thinking about that letter.

The words float around my head like water circling a half-clogged drain.

Or like one of those coin machines you'd see at the mall as a kid, where you fed it a penny, and it would go round and round a type of giant funnel until it disappeared into the dark depths beneath.

Well, my pennies just keep circling, never actually going anywhere.

The few times I've seen Deacon since then, I'll catch myself averting eye contact, or worse, staring when he's not looking.

Hyper-analyzing his mannerisms and facial expressions.

It's almost as though the letter has shed light on parts of him that he's deliberately kept in the shadows, but now I can't unsee.

If he notices the changes in my behavior, he doesn't let on.

He comes out of his cave for meals and the occasional bathroom break but otherwise, I haven't seen much of him.

Where that was an annoyance before, I'm now thankful for the distance because the less I interact with him, the less likely I am to spill my guts and admit what I did.

The truth is, I feel guilty, and I hate that.

I hate feeling guilty.

It was a useless emotion.

One born out of fear.

Fear of knowing you've done something wrong, of telling the truth, and of facing the consequences of your actions.

Fear of not knowing what will happen after.

I know all about that.

After first meeting Dante, keeping everything that happened to me was like a festering wound just beneath the skin.

Not seen from the outside but felt from the inside.

Which is why I've since tried to live my life as freely and openly as possible.

You could never feel guilt if you led an open and honest life.

The fact that I now had this new secret eating at my insides was like a blemish on an A+ student's academic record.

But as much as I want to come clean and talk about the letter and his mother, I somehow know I'm in no position to demand conversations like that from him when I've been unwilling to give more myself.

So, until I figure out how to handle this situation, I'm stuck here, stewing in a mess of my own making.

I'm feeling guilty because of what I did and because I'm still thinking about it.

Try as I might to ignore it, certain bits from the letter play on a loop inside my head.

The cadence of the words causes a riot of emotions inside me that ebb and flow until they're almost … melodic.

If it were a song, it would surely break your heart.

Eyes widening, I turn my head from where I've been staring out the living room window to where my violin case still sits untouched.

For the first time in weeks, my fingers itch to feel the bow in my hand, and even though I rarely need to reference sheet music to play a piece, I can see the notes of this particular melody laid out on the paper, plain as day.

I nearly cry at the possibility that there may still be some music left in me after all.

Perhaps the chaos around me was just so loud that its beautiful notes were drowned out.

Somehow, the words of that letter have cut through all the white noise, determined to crank up the volume of those notes.

Sweat beads my upper lip, and I dart my tongue out, swiping at it nervously as I stand and walk across the room.

I reach out with shaky hands, and lift the case onto a nearby end table.

I stare at it for several long moments before I steel my resolve and decide to open the latch.

As the lid comes up, I run my fingers over the instrument, and when I take it out and position it against my chin, it feels like coming home.

As I close my eyes, I see the first few notes floating behind my closed lids.

On an exhale, I bring the bow up, focus on those notes, and just let myself feel .

My insides war with the pull of the new song and the habitual instinct to play Bach, but I have to remind myself that I'm no longer in that house.

I'm no longer a puppet being controlled by invisible strings.

Still, the conditioning is so deeply ingrained that I start and stop multiple times, useless tears of frustration springing to my eyes.

It's as though some invisible barrier stands between me and the visceral need to bring to life the words of love from a damaged mother to her, even now, damaged son.

It's only after that first tear spills over and I have to swallow several times past the lump in my throat that my anger sets in, and it's that anger that pushes me to break the habit for good.

Finally.

I take several deep breaths and try to remember the melody I found in the letter.

The first few tries sound rusty, even to my ears, but after a minute or two and a few adjustments, the series of notes in my head begin to vocalize themselves through the strings and then pour out of me like a tidal wave.

Eyes still closed, with my cheeks wet from tears, I let out a watery laugh that causes several hitches in the song, but even as I lament the lack of perfection, I have to recognize that it's one of the most beautiful pieces I've ever played, because of the significance of its timing and the emotion behind its source.

I'm not sure how long I stand there in the middle of the small house's living room and play, but whether it's 10 minutes or two hours, it'll never feel like enough.

When I reach the stage that my neck begins to ache and the muscles in my arm weaken to the point that the bow shakes in my hand, I end the song on a low melancholy note.

One full of regret, despair, and longing.

For what was and for what could've been.

But there's also love there.

An outpouring of love.

Lowering the instrument, I keep my eyes closed for a moment longer, listening to the resonating sound of the last note.

Many people wouldn't hear it, and if they did, it would simply be relegated to ambient noise.

But I savor it because the song isn't finished until that note disappears completely.

When I finally open my eyes, I find Deacon sitting in the armchair only feet away, staring at me.

He doesn't say anything, only sits on the edge of his seat, his forearms braced on his knees.

His mouth parted slightly, and there's a look in his eyes that I can't readily identify.

I feel a tinge of uneasiness at the knowledge that the song was inspired by something so personal to him, and he has no idea.

"How long have you been there?"

I ask softly.

There's no heat in my voice.

I'm not angry.

I've never been the type to gatekeep my music, so I don't feel any violation over the fact that he watched me play.

Especially knowing they're his mother's words put to melody.

He continues to stare at me, and I can see the gears in his head turning.

This would be the point where a normal person would either gush about how much they loved the piece or tell me what areas they found fault in and how it could be improved.

He does neither of these things.

He just watches me, eyes dancing back and forth between my own .

In a somber tone, he finally replies, "Long enough."

To quell my nervous energy, I move to put my violin and bow back into its case.

My feet freeze to the spot when he says, "Don't."

I glance back at him.

He's still staring at me with that laser focus.

He motions to the instrument with a tip of his head.

"Will you play it again for me?"

he asks softly.

Not commands, but asks.

He's giving me the choice.

I don't doubt that if I refused, he'd let me.

The stark contrast between this moment and all the times that Dante would demand that I play for him is startling.

They're like night and day, the two of them.

With a slow nod, I raise the violin again, position the bow, and begin the song once more.

I don't close my eyes this time but keep them open and on his, watching as an array of memories play out behind his eyes, even as his face remains stoic and unmoving.

I infuse the song with every ounce of emotion left inside me, willing him to feel what I feel.

Wishing I could let him into my head, but I also knew that the amount of sympathy I felt for him and his mother would drown him.

It's not a new feeling.

It's one I'm used to because this is my process.

I compose, I play, and I feel.

More than anything else, I feel.

But where there's usually a degree of separation that allows for critique, that line has been more than blurred.

It's been all but erased.

As he slowly leans back, settling into the plush armchair, I can tell that the song is causing its own feelings within him.

If only he knew just how similar our thoughts really are.

I play the song once and as it comes to a close, I don't need any words from him to urge me to start again.

It's all in his eyes.

The blue is bright and slightly glassy.

Pleading.

So I play, and I play, and I play.

Not because I'm being forced to but because I want to.

I want to heal him the way he's been trying to heal me by tracking down the person that hurt me most.

If the only way I can do that is through music, I'll play until I can't anymore.

Then I'll do it again.

And again.