Chris Cheng was at home. Yes, Chris Cheng was at home as usual,
practicing his favorite saxophone literature, the Concerto by Glazunov. He
felt great when he played it; it often gave him the sensation of placing
ice cubes on his eyelids while drinking hot cocoa.
"I should give Jacob a call," he thought.
The call, however, was very unsuccessful. It ended with Jacob promptly hanging up the phone.
"Damn. I hate it when people do that," said Chris, aloud.
Many people had been hanging up on him lately. His phone conversations often started with a "Hey" and quickly ended with a "Get lost". He could never understand why they were so reluctant to talk to him, especially when he felt like opening up. He suddenly became depressed, and decided he should play his concerto some more. He started his favorite passage again, adding his personal touch to it. His fingers moved violently up and down the pearly keys, dancing in harmony with the repeated lashing of his tongue. When he finally finished, he felt much better than when he started. He decided he should play it once more, just to relieve some of the stress. He started again, increasing the speed and volume with which he played. His body became tense and crunched; he was shaped into odd positions to achieve maximum performance. Chris Cheng repeated this passage several times in this crazed manner, increasing tempo and volume with each attempt. He was now becoming addicted. He felt the need to play it just one more time. With every repetition, his addiction grew worse. Something was happening to him. He body arched more, his chest expanded more; he looked much like a cat that was scared out of its wits. His mind seemed to stop thinking. He was playing the passage involuntarily. Chris Cheng tried to stop, he tried to gain control, but it was no use. His consciousness slowly slipped away, dropping in a pool of eternal darkness. A sharp pain entered his skull as the room seemed to shrink in size. The walls and ceilings ("ceilings?" he thought, "how is that possible?") moved towards him, causing him to scrunch even more. Chris Cheng, or his body, rather, continued playing in its violent manner, never-ending, not even stopping for air. The blackness slowly enveloped the room and entered his brain. Chris Cheng fell to the floor, completely unconscious.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jacob was in heaven. His sectional with Jean Junior started nicely, but soon turned into a barbarous clarinet throwing contest in which Jean would run around madly trying to prevent the destruction of instruments and Max Eddy would run around madly handing nearly broken clarinets to eager spear-throwers.
"C'mon, use more arm when you throw the damn thing," explained Max to a hesitant freshman, "it's just like the Olympics. You want to do well at the Olympics, don't you? Here comes the gold medal!"
"Max, what ever happened to graduating? Aren't you supposed to be in a college somewhere in the middle of nowhere studying?" asked Jean, obviously annoyed.
Max consented and slowly brought the savages to their chief. Jacob was among these brutes, carefully harboring his prized possession. He sat next to another junior and carefully listened to Jean give her speech about the hazards of instrument throwing. She covered key aspects such as the inability to play the instrument afterwards, lack of insurance coverage for intentional damage, and etc.
"Yes, but we don't mean to break them when we throw them," questioned Max. "Why would we? We couldn't throw broken ones; they don't fly as far. And besides, how are we supposed to know that they would break? They've survived Bagel Ball, haven't they?"
A loud murmur of approval elevated from the group.
"Actually, the clarinet didn't survive Bagel Ball. We had to tape it back together using duct tape," replied Jean.
The rest of the sectional was pretty uneventful. Jacob drove home to his odd house. It was then he noticed something wrong.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chris Cheng woke up from his slumber. He shakily got up and looked around. He strained to focus his eyes. He felt different, somehow. Something wasn't right. He started hearing things, strange things about what people felt and thought. His mind raced through countless landscapes of places he had never been and sights he had never seen. He stumbled across the room and tried to make his way downstairs.
"Chris Cheng, where have you been?" questioned his mother as he tumbled down the stairs. "It's nine o' clock and you haven't even eaten dinner yet."
"Ugh," came the reply in a soft moan.
"Chris, what's wrong? You look horrible. You're acting as though you are drunk. Oh no. Have you been drinking? Answer me, have you been drinking?" shouted his mother, unknowingly. "You look like it. You are barely able to stand! How much did you drink? Since when did you start this? I knew those friend's of yours were no good."
"No...no..."
"What? How dare you tell me no. Do you think I am stupid? I know what you have been doing, Chris, don't you try to fool me. Drinking, of all the things. Look at me. Look at me!"
"No...I...no..."
"I tried to warn you. I tried to raise you right, but this is how I am repaid. With a worthless drunkard for a son"
Chris Cheng's mother slapped him hard across the face.
"Mom...I...please..."
"What? Shut up, just shut up," replied Chris's mother as she began another slap.
"NO!"
Chris's hand caught his mother in the air. In a split second, Chris's hand sporadically released shock waves as it wrinkled and became cold. His hand vibrated intensely and his whole body experienced convulsions. A spectrum of light escaped his eyes and filled the room. A second later, his mother flew across the room, hitting the fireplace entrance.
"No...no..." started Chris, obviously frightened.
He stumbled to the phone and called 911. Minutes later, ambulances came and took Chris's mother away. They police escorted Chris into a car.
"My mother..." asked Chris, as he watched the bloodied body be escorted away.
"Don't you worry, your mother will be fine," lied the policeman.
Chris Cheng's mother was dead.
"I should give Jacob a call," he thought.
The call, however, was very unsuccessful. It ended with Jacob promptly hanging up the phone.
"Damn. I hate it when people do that," said Chris, aloud.
Many people had been hanging up on him lately. His phone conversations often started with a "Hey" and quickly ended with a "Get lost". He could never understand why they were so reluctant to talk to him, especially when he felt like opening up. He suddenly became depressed, and decided he should play his concerto some more. He started his favorite passage again, adding his personal touch to it. His fingers moved violently up and down the pearly keys, dancing in harmony with the repeated lashing of his tongue. When he finally finished, he felt much better than when he started. He decided he should play it once more, just to relieve some of the stress. He started again, increasing the speed and volume with which he played. His body became tense and crunched; he was shaped into odd positions to achieve maximum performance. Chris Cheng repeated this passage several times in this crazed manner, increasing tempo and volume with each attempt. He was now becoming addicted. He felt the need to play it just one more time. With every repetition, his addiction grew worse. Something was happening to him. He body arched more, his chest expanded more; he looked much like a cat that was scared out of its wits. His mind seemed to stop thinking. He was playing the passage involuntarily. Chris Cheng tried to stop, he tried to gain control, but it was no use. His consciousness slowly slipped away, dropping in a pool of eternal darkness. A sharp pain entered his skull as the room seemed to shrink in size. The walls and ceilings ("ceilings?" he thought, "how is that possible?") moved towards him, causing him to scrunch even more. Chris Cheng, or his body, rather, continued playing in its violent manner, never-ending, not even stopping for air. The blackness slowly enveloped the room and entered his brain. Chris Cheng fell to the floor, completely unconscious.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jacob was in heaven. His sectional with Jean Junior started nicely, but soon turned into a barbarous clarinet throwing contest in which Jean would run around madly trying to prevent the destruction of instruments and Max Eddy would run around madly handing nearly broken clarinets to eager spear-throwers.
"C'mon, use more arm when you throw the damn thing," explained Max to a hesitant freshman, "it's just like the Olympics. You want to do well at the Olympics, don't you? Here comes the gold medal!"
"Max, what ever happened to graduating? Aren't you supposed to be in a college somewhere in the middle of nowhere studying?" asked Jean, obviously annoyed.
Max consented and slowly brought the savages to their chief. Jacob was among these brutes, carefully harboring his prized possession. He sat next to another junior and carefully listened to Jean give her speech about the hazards of instrument throwing. She covered key aspects such as the inability to play the instrument afterwards, lack of insurance coverage for intentional damage, and etc.
"Yes, but we don't mean to break them when we throw them," questioned Max. "Why would we? We couldn't throw broken ones; they don't fly as far. And besides, how are we supposed to know that they would break? They've survived Bagel Ball, haven't they?"
A loud murmur of approval elevated from the group.
"Actually, the clarinet didn't survive Bagel Ball. We had to tape it back together using duct tape," replied Jean.
The rest of the sectional was pretty uneventful. Jacob drove home to his odd house. It was then he noticed something wrong.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chris Cheng woke up from his slumber. He shakily got up and looked around. He strained to focus his eyes. He felt different, somehow. Something wasn't right. He started hearing things, strange things about what people felt and thought. His mind raced through countless landscapes of places he had never been and sights he had never seen. He stumbled across the room and tried to make his way downstairs.
"Chris Cheng, where have you been?" questioned his mother as he tumbled down the stairs. "It's nine o' clock and you haven't even eaten dinner yet."
"Ugh," came the reply in a soft moan.
"Chris, what's wrong? You look horrible. You're acting as though you are drunk. Oh no. Have you been drinking? Answer me, have you been drinking?" shouted his mother, unknowingly. "You look like it. You are barely able to stand! How much did you drink? Since when did you start this? I knew those friend's of yours were no good."
"No...no..."
"What? How dare you tell me no. Do you think I am stupid? I know what you have been doing, Chris, don't you try to fool me. Drinking, of all the things. Look at me. Look at me!"
"No...I...no..."
"I tried to warn you. I tried to raise you right, but this is how I am repaid. With a worthless drunkard for a son"
Chris Cheng's mother slapped him hard across the face.
"Mom...I...please..."
"What? Shut up, just shut up," replied Chris's mother as she began another slap.
"NO!"
Chris's hand caught his mother in the air. In a split second, Chris's hand sporadically released shock waves as it wrinkled and became cold. His hand vibrated intensely and his whole body experienced convulsions. A spectrum of light escaped his eyes and filled the room. A second later, his mother flew across the room, hitting the fireplace entrance.
"No...no..." started Chris, obviously frightened.
He stumbled to the phone and called 911. Minutes later, ambulances came and took Chris's mother away. They police escorted Chris into a car.
"My mother..." asked Chris, as he watched the bloodied body be escorted away.
"Don't you worry, your mother will be fine," lied the policeman.
Chris Cheng's mother was dead.