Lily had survived the movies, which surprised her. She was able to feign interest, but her brain was not on the movie. How could it be? She had just read of a beating, and the writer sounded like he could care less (or at least that's what she imagined). As the movie was done Sarah asked her a bunch of meaningless questions about how she liked the movie and whatnot, and she seemed to have passed that test.
After they had said their goodbyes and promises of calling each other, Lily ran to her apartment. She had to know, she had to. If she were to be killed this instant, she would only regret not reading the rest of this man's story, which seemed a little odd and depressing. She threw her stuff down onto a couch and went to the bedroom with the story. She held her breath and waited. After all of this anticipation, she was now not sure if she wanted to read on, but she shook her head at this thought and plunged into the depressing narrative:
My life was unbearable, but nonetheless, I had nowhere to go, so I stayed. They eventually allowed me to pick up music again, but only if I was to play in the depths of the night, and in our basement. I grew accustomed to staying awake all night and playing, sometimes I would also try to find something to eat, but for the second time in my life, music became my sole substance on which I survived.
This also became the starting point for my first opera, but still I had no name for it. I felt it was to be the greatest achievement when I was done with it, little did I know what would happen when I did finish it. But I am again jumping ahead to another part, let us stay here.
The opera became my outlet for all my sorrows. Though I was untrained in writing opera, I had seen a few, and felt that I knew the ropes well enough to start. During this time, my father stopped beating me. In fact, I think he stopped coming home before dark, but I'm not sure since I was nocturnal. I was living a life of a shadow, of a shade, not really existing, except in music. I felt bound to the music I wrote; I felt that my soul went down on those pages, and nothing else.
One-day (or should I say night?) my mother came down to the cellar. I was about to look at her when she stopped me. She put a bag over my head (I had stopped wearing the pillow case awhile back) and told me she wanted to hear me play my violin. I stared at her threw my eyeholes. I wasn't sure why she would ask this of me. She motioned for me to play, and I turned to the music.
I lifted the violin slowly, and I felt silly for being scared. I had never felt so scared, but at the same time, I was…I think I was ready for this. I needed to show my mother what was still in me, that there was still a person inside of this body, which needed to be loved and cared for all the same…At least that's what I thought subconsciously. I started, and suddenly nothing clogged my mind. I played and played, remembering every note to the song. I do not know how long I was playing for, but after awhile, I heard a sob. I stopped and turned around, and there was my mother, crying like I'd never seen her before. I asked what was wrong and she realized that I had noticed. She quickly wiped her tears and simply said, "It's beautiful."
I went to hug her; I suddenly felt like she no longer cared about this hideous scar, that I was her son again. This came to me the moment she uttered those words, this feeling of being reunited. But I was wrong. Instead of embracing me like I would have thought, she screamed at me.
"Did I startle you?" I asked, quite perplexed.
"Just stay away from me!" She screamed again, and ran back upstairs. I did nothing after she left. I did not move, nor sleep, nor even breathe. I must have stood there for a few minutes before I fell to the floor. It was cold and damp, but I didn't notice.
I was crushed, my music was my one source of output that I had in my life. That is what I based it on. To hear such phrases in conjuncture with my music was astounding, but my music meant nothing to my mother. My only source of beauty still scared her beyond words. I was still nothing more than a piece of trash, like a mouse to her. Something she would see and just throw out of the house.
I stayed there, on the floor, that night. I did not move, but simply stayed. The thoughts that went through my head were little. In fact, I only thought of the conversation. I only thought of my mother. Sleep was not in my plans, and in all truthfulness, I had absolutely no plans. I must've drifted off with these thoughts in my head, to another dreamless night. I had noticed my dreams had stopped coming to me after the fire. I had started to sleep in total darkness. I didn't know why, or at least that's what I admitted to myself. Inside I knew the reason. It was obvious. I did not dream because there was nothing to dream about. My imagination had died with the fire, as had all my goals. Dreaming is to simply drift to a fantasyland, one where everything went right. But I knew better. I had no fantasyland, because nothing would ever go right. Nothing.