Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 104127 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104127 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
These past few days, sleep hasn’t come easy, and work has been extra difficult because of it.
Who are you kidding? You’re waiting for Roman to show up at your door, strung out and looking for money.
I moved to this apartment in my rush to hide from Roman. It’s the first place I’ve ever lived that he doesn’t have the address of. I don’t feel even an ounce bad about it. My sanity—and my wallet—thank me for cutting off his frequent visits, which always accompanied demands for cash. My job doesn’t pay enough for me to support myself and an addict. Yeah, he’s my older brother, but most times, I feel like his enabling mother.
I couldn’t do it anymore. Had to break the cycle that I’d allowed to persist.
Maybe that’s what worries me. That he’ll find me. That the cycle will start all over again.
It wouldn’t be too hard for him to track me down. He has connections that I don’t even want to know about. I know enough.
I’m finally saving money, and if I keep it up and qualify for a generous financial aid package, I should be able to apply to Juilliard next year. It’s hard when I make crappy tips and a base salary that’s even more pathetic, but I’ll get it done.
You know it’s bad when the world’s biggest pessimist turns to optimism.
It’s true, though. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel. It’s just close enough that I can almost reach it. Sitting pretty in my bank is practically enough money for tuition, rent, and living expenses. Yeah, it took forever to earn. And yeah, I had to distance myself from Roman. But I did it. I freakin’ did it.
There’s only one remaining problem…I still have to audition.
Stage fright is a bitch. It’s also quite a problem to have when your dream is to be a concert cellist.
The bane of my existence, in fact.
I can barely play in my own apartment. I certainly can’t play in front of other people.
Like every hurdle life has thrown at me, I’ll figure it out. I have to.
Enough stalling.
I take a seat, adjusting until I’m comfortable. Okay, stalling until I muster the courage. Once in place, I close my eyes and bring the bow up, allowing myself to fade into the music. Only a few chords ring through the air before I hear my cello’s rumbly voice and still. I hold my movements.
This is my life. I start. I stop. I breathe. I play.
Once I’m sure it’s nothing, I resume my practice. The music fills the room, a deep, mellow melody. I can feel the cello’s vibrations across the floor, through my feet. They seep into my bones. It’s almost like I can feel the music resonating in my heart.
I wish I could be braver. Stronger. I wish I was able to perform like this in front of a crowd.
I haven’t played in public.
Not since…
I shake my head.
No. Don’t go there.
My fingers toy with the bow again, bringing it up to the strings. The second I start again, a loud boom shakes the ceiling. Speckles of dust sprinkle over me, peppering my cello in white. A piercing shout follows. “Shut the fuck up! I’m trying to sleep here.”
The clock on my nightstand reads six at night.
“Oh, fuck off,” I roar back before remembering that, with the state of my bank account, this place may as well be a five-star resort. On top of everything else, I can’t lose this crappy studio, too. “Have a nice nap!” I tack on, hoping I won’t get a call from my landlord in the morning.
Oops.
Just as well, since I can’t seem to actually play. Instead, I press my fingers on the strings, forming the right notes. Then I move the bow in front of the strings, not quite touching, and pretend to play. And what do you know? The stage fright is gone. Somehow, I doubt the admissions officers at Juilliard will be impressed with this style of play.
Once I’ve practiced long enough, I place my cello back down, reach my hands above my head, and stretch out my arms, yawning. From here, my night crawls by. The sun slowly descends into the horizon, casting an orange-pink hue over the neighboring buildings. I feel like I’m suspended in time, my mind whirling in uncertainty.
Should I call Roman back?
I force out a long breath. My feet ache. My back aches. And, if I must admit it, my heart aches, too. Sweat coats every inch of visible skin. The gravy from earlier is congealed in my hair. Disgusting is a generous description of my current state.
Maybe I’ll call after the shower. Yep. That’s what I’ll do. Or maybe after I shower then eat. An even better plan.
I’m about to head into the bathroom when I hear a knock on my door.