Chapter 2: A Shocking Sight

"Hi short stuff! How was rehearsal?" the much too chipper voice practically shouts from the other end of the line. How can one person be so happy? I can't even begin to comprehend what that must feel like, to be that happy. Or to just be any amount of happy.

"Rehearsal was fine," I reply as I find a bench outside the concert hall. I dust it off quickly, then take a seat, cradling my phone between my shoulder and ear as I fish through my pockets for my smokes. Finding them, I stick one between my lips and light it. "The concert starts in two hours, and call time is in an hour."

"Good good," Hanji says. "I was just calling to remind you that your flight is at nine twenty-three tomorrow morning out of Trost International Airport. You should find your ticket in your email. I've arranged for a driver to pick you up from the airport and take you to your hotel. Mr. Smith said you didn't have to be at the hall until Monday afternoon, at around one, so you'll have most of the day tomorrow and Monday morning to just relax after your flight. I've also included your hotel reservation information, the itinerary that Mr. Smith gave me, and the address of the hall. If you need anything else, just give me a holler."

"Okay, thank you," I say, rubbing at my eyes. It takes so much energy to keep up a conversation with her, and considering nightmares only granted me an hour of uneasy sleep last night, I really don't have the energy to spare. "I should go practice some more. I'll call you when I get to the hotel in Shiganshina."

"Don't work yourself into the ground, Levi," she chastises, but it's only half-heartedly. She knows there is no convincing me about anything when it comes to playing. "They're broadcasting the concert over the radio, and I found out which station will be playing it, so I'll be listening! Knock 'em dead, short stack."

I hang up on her and finish my cigarette in peace before heading back inside. The pain in my arm is starting to dull, so there are some preparations I'll have to make before call time rolls around. The recent night terrors help me maintain my pain though. The images are still burned into my eyes, and every time I close them, I see the mangled bodies of my friends.

So with my wound freshly irritated and haunting memories playing in my mind, I join the rest of the orchestra behind the curtains for the typical before-the-concert rundown. Everyone makes sure they have their sheet music- of which I don't need any, even for my solos- and everyone prepares and inspects their instruments one last time. Pixis bustles around, making sure everything is ready to go. I hold my violin and bow tenderly in one hand, straightening my pristine tuxedo. I adjust the cravat around my neck, making sure it's just tight enough and sits perfectly in place. I also tug at the left sleeve of my white button down and the black jacket over the top, making sure the gauze and tape can't be seen.

When Pixis deems it time, everyone files orderly out onto the stage. I hang back behind the curtains though. Pixis will introduce me to the audience before I make my appearance. I hear the sound of applause fill the concert hall as the orchestra takes their seats. Pixis waits back with me as the concertmaster starts to lead the rest of the group in tuning. After a few minutes, they finish tuning, and Pixis gives my shoulder a pat before heading out onto the stage to a new round of applause.

I take a deep breath and start the process of clearing my outer appearance of any negative emotion. I school my features into their happy mask. I keep my friends on my mind though, because without them, I wouldn't be able to play. When I hear Pixis start reading off my credentials and my achievements, followed quickly by my name, I slap on a fake smile and step out from behind the curtains. The stage lighting is bright and blinding, but it's nothing I'm not used to. The audience applauds me as they applauded everyone else, and when I reach my chair, I turn to give them a low bow before taking my seat.

The hall falls completely, eerily silent. All eyes are on Pixis as he takes his place on the slightly elevated podium. When his lifts his hands to hover out in front of himself, everyone lifts their instruments into playing position. A long beat of silence stretches, to the point where the anticipation for that first note can practically be heard throughout the hall.

Then Pixis' hands begin to move, and the concert begins.

It's during these times that I truly feel alive. When I'm holding my beloved violin, playing for hundreds, if not thousands of people, I feel a buzz that contrasts sharply with the constant dead feeling I always have. It's while I'm performing that I can easily imagine that my friends, and my father, are still here with me. I can imagine them scattered throughout the orchestra, playing their instruments, their sound becoming one with mine.

I've tried to figure out where this feeling comes from, and have tried to figure out what causes it, but I can't. I feel it when I'm just playing my violin in a practice room, or in my apartment, or just generally by myself, but it's never as prevalent as when I'm playing in a concert. That's the sole reason that I accept so many invitations. I have my own apartment in Karanese, but I'm almost never there. I never moved out of it thought after I left the Karanese Orchestra. I like knowing that I have a place to call my own, even though most of the year I'm on the road, staying in hotels. It's almost not enough. I would accept more invitations that would keep me travelling year round, but Hanji won't let me. She says that it would run me into the ground, that I need a week or two to recover every now and then. But what she doesn't understand, what she'll never understand, is that I feel the most worn down and stressed out when I'm not performing.

I let the pain envelop me as the concert continues. It starts to fade as the minutes tick by, but that feeling of being alive, that buzz, is enough to keep me going until the last piece. Nine times out of ten, when I'm invited to play with an orchestra, I'm asked to perform a solo piece somewhere during the course of the concert. Half of those times, it's just a short piece that serves as a sort of intermission for the orchestra, and the other half of the time, they're long compositions used as either an opening or a closing to the concert. Pixis always has me finish out the concert, and usually with a piece of my own composition.

So when the applause of the last piece fades out into silence, I stand from my seat and take a few steps out closer to the end of the stage, facing the audience. A quiet applause greets me, and I bow my head before bringing my violin back up to my shoulder. I let my eyes close before lifting the bow to the strings. The piece Pixis chose for me to play is a composition that I wrote at the height of my grief, and it reflects that state of mind. Pixis says it's one of his favorites. It's one of mine too.

I let my heartbreak and loss fill the concert hall. I let it flow from my heart into my fingers, from my fingers into my strings, and my strings convert it into sound. The pain I feel becomes pain everyone else hears. I keep my eyes closed as I work my fingers over the strings. My bow flows smoothly, the sound resonating off the wood. My violin is the only thing that understands my loss. It sings to the world just how I feel. It takes unspoken feeling and makes it heard. I let myself get lost in the music, letting my hands and fingers take control and play a piece that they crafted, that they've played hundreds of times.

After the final notes fade into silence, and I finally lower my violin, the concert hall erupts in cheer. Applause echoes through the hall, replacing the sound of my violin. I don't force myself to smile, but I fight to keep from frowning as they applaud my misery.

Pixis signals for the rest of the orchestra to stand and take a bow and the applause grows. The audience gets to their feet and I relax slightly, knowing they are no longer cheering just for me. I step back with the rest of the orchestra and bow as well.

It takes entirely too long for the concert to officially come to an end, but eventually, after Pixis says a few words to the audience, we clear the stage.

I waste no time carefully packing away my beloved violin and head into an empty practice room to clean myself up. I gingerly remove the rubber band and peel off the blood soaked patch of gauze. A new, slightly dulled sense of pain stings up my arm, but I take a deep breath and welcome that pain.

I don't cover the wound back up, simply cleaning it up before lowering my sleeve back down. Leaving the small room, I find Pixis in the concert hall before leaving for good. He takes my hand in a firm handshake, gripping my shoulder with his other hand.

"Your performance was spectacular, as always. Just beautiful," he says. "I always enjoy listening to you play. There is so much emotion in your music. I do hope you'll come play for us again soon?"

I'm glad that he at least can sense the emotions in my music. I wouldn't so much call it beautiful as I would painful, but at least he hears that something is there. I really do enjoy playing under Pixis though, so I shake his hand in return with a forced smile. "I'll be back. As soon as possible, Dot, I'll be back."

I leave the concert hall, hailing a taxi to take me back to my hotel. I call Hanji on the way, and she congratulates me ecstatically on my performance. I only half heatedly listen to Hanji ramble on. She doesn't know about my past, or my means for being able to play my violin. She mentioned once how my music always sounds so sad. She said it makes me seem lonely. And maybe I am lonely. Hanji is the closest thing I have to a friend, despite not seeing her very often. But that is by design. After my father died, I pushed everyone out of my life. I fought against relationships, refusing to let anyone in. I didn't want to be hurt again by their loss. So I simply isolated myself with my violin. When I met Isabel and Farlan, I don't know what it was about them, or if I was just tired of being alone for so long, but I allowed myself to grow close to a few other people. That turned out to be a mistake, and fate reminded me why I wasn't allowed to have anyone in my life. So I pushed everyone out again, and ever since that accident, I've adamantly kept everyone at arm's length, including Hanji.

Back at my hotel room, I properly clean up the self inflicted wound on my arm before packing up the little things I have around the room. I don't want to have to deal with packing tomorrow morning before my flight.

However, laying awake in bed at four o'clock in the morning, I start to wish that I had left myself something to occupy me. My insomnia gave me just about an hour and forty-five minutes of sleep before it woke me up around three, leaving me wide awake ever since then. As I lay there, I contemplate pulling out my violin to play, but the pain from the wound on my arm has already dulled to a useless level, so I'd have to either reopen it or create a new cut, and, although I'm irritated by my insomnia, I'm not low enough emotionally to hurt myself.

So I climb out of bed and walk over to the window. I pull the curtains back, and the light from the nearly full moon floods the room. I stand in front of the glass, in nothing buy my boxer briefs, and stare down at the tiny streets from so far up. The endless noise of the city is actually calming to me. I don't like silence. So I open the window just a crack to let the noise into the room.

I stand in front of the glass for a moment longer, then cross over to my backpack and pull out a rigid folder. I also grab a pencil and pen and take a seat at the desk. Flipping open the folder. I shuffle through the dozens of pages of roughly scribbled, partial scores until I find some blank staff paper. I pull out a thin stack, then push the folder aside and lay the staff paper out in front of me. I've never had to hurt myself in order to compose music, just to play it. So I let my imagination flow unhindered by my lack of physical pain, fueled by my emotional pain and by the noise of the city.

It's been light out for a good hour and a half before I finally decide to take a break from my composition to check the clock. It's just past seven thirty. The cab will be here in half an hour to pick me up. I pack up my composing tools and tuck them back into my backpack. I take a quick shower, changing into a clean set of clothes, and don't bother to eat anything before heading down to the lobby to check out and catch my cab. I take a deep breath and try not to dwell too much on this upcoming gig in Shiganshina. As much as I'm dreading being in one place for so long and playing with such an inexperienced group of musicians, I know that it won't be that bad. Hopefully. It might actually be nice to play with a young orchestra. They'll still be full of fire and energy, things that tend to fade rather quickly on the road to becoming veterans.

I don't know where all this optimism is coming from, but I don't fight it. I let it try to calm me as the cab brings me closer and closer to the airport.

...

I know Hanji told me that I wasn't supposed to be at the concert hall until tomorrow, but by the time I get checked into my hotel room in Shiganshina and get my things unpacked, I find myself restless. I don't want to stay holed up in my hotel room right now. I'm not even sure if the hall will even be open at this late hour, but I know Shiganshina holds evening practices so it could still be open. With that thought in mind, I gather up my backpack and violin and hail another cab to take me to Shiganshina's concert hall.

When the cabbie first stops in front of the building, I almost argue with him that this can't possibly be the address I read off. The building is so small and looks pretty nondescript, whereas most concert halls are grand and artsy and draw the eye. This indistinguishable building can't possibly be the concert hall. But when I look out the window and up at the front of the building, sure enough, Maria Concert Hall is written across the front of the building in fancy white script. We're in the right place.

I climb out of the cab and head into the building. The front doors are unlocked, but the hall is pretty empty. At least in the foyer it is. I've never been in this hall before, so I wander aimlessly, trying to find the practice rooms. I'm in no hurry, so I meander slowly through the halls, looking around and trying to get a feel for the place. If I'm going to be here for three weeks, I might as well learn the layout as soon as possible.

As I walk down one narrow hallway that's a little too dark, a sound reaches my ears and I know I'm in the right place. It's a sound that I am very familiar with, and I can feel it seep deep into my bones and relax me. As I continue down the hall, the sound grows louder, although never growing louder than a low hum. It would appear that these rooms aren't completely soundproofed, but well enough.

I freeze mid step in the hallway as the notes of the violin reach a very familiar pattern. The notes, pretty deep on the register for a violin, and humming in a minor key... That fall and that crescendo, and that staccato... It's one of my pieces. I shouldn't be so surprised. My compositions are pretty popular, but it still catches me off guard. I'm not used to hearing them while not watching, or participating in, a concert.

The notes are slightly off here and there, and the violinist stops and restarts. I listen for another few measures, running through the familiar melody in my head, before moving closer to the room. I quickly discover which room the sound is coming from. The doors all have narrow windows looking into the practice room, a realization that frustrates me. It will make it hard for me to go through my preparations. But that thought quickly shifts to the back of my mind as I lean forward to peak through the narrow window.

The violinist is standing- I find that odd considering that violinists usually sit while they play- with his back to the door. My eyes first fall to the instrument cradled between his shoulder and his chin. It's a very old, very worn instrument with tiny dings and scratches littering the surface. The finish is dull. It bothers me, the state of the instrument, but I force myself to tear my eyes from the violin to its musician.

The first thing I notice is that he's definitely a man. He's tall and thin, but not in a lanky kind of way. In the middle of summer, his choice of wardrobe is a white t-shirt and light shorts that are surprisingly short. But looking over his long, strong legs, I can't say that I'm complaining. I even find myself wishing that they were a little shorter, which surprises me greatly. Since when have I enjoyed looking at men's legs? I force my eyes from the tan skin of the backs of his legs up to the rest of his body. His arms are strong, and the muscles move smoothly beneath the sun kissed skin as he glides the bow over the strings. The low collar of his shirt shows off just a hint of his back and the long line of his neck, which leads into a messy mop of brown hair.

I watch for another minute, and am just about to back away from the door to go find my own practice room when the bow makes a rather unpleasant sound across the strings. I can see him exhale sharply and drop the violin to his side. His other hand comes up, still grasping the bow, to scratch at the back of his head. I hear him curse, a soft sound that would've gone completely unheard if I hadn't been standing right in front of the door.

Before I can stop myself, I knock on the door. The musician startles slightly and whips around to look at me. My breath catches in my throat.

He's younger than I had guessed him to be. He can't be much older than his early twenties. His face is kind with soft features, yet still maintaining a very masculine edge. His lips are parted slightly in surprise, and his chocolate brown hair falls just shy of his wide eyes. It's those eyes that catch my immediate attention and make my heart skip a beat in my chest. They're absolutely stunning, a color that I instantly love, because they are almost the exact same shade of green as Isabel's.