I must have fallen asleep at some point because I awake to weak, early morning light streaking through the dirt-stained window that has served as my pillow. My eyes are puffy and dry from the unusual sleeping conditions and every muscle in my body is screaming in protest. Their cries are easy to ignore though because of the sight out the window.
It's the sunrise.
A common occurrence perhaps, but no less beautiful because of its every day nature. The way the sun barely peeks over the green hills and the soft haze of clouds making everything fuzzy and ephemeral. The sky burns red and speaks of the contradictory harshness and compassion of sunlight.
Staring at it now, it's obvious why countless poets and musicians have attempted to capture it in both the written and musical word. Something like this would awaken a sleeping muse in anyone's breast.
There's a piece of blank score and a pen in my hands. Logically I must have grabbed them from my bag sitting next to me, but I don't remember every tearing my sight away from the sunrise.
I stare unblinkingly until my eyes are dry and sore. It's beautiful. The music inside my head should be beautiful. Things should be different now.
I wait for something to happen.
The sunrise is right there; why can't the music that haunts my very existence reflect that?
The rhetorical question is answered by the quiet and uncertain whine of the trumpet. It's an odd sound for an instrument as bright and brassy as a trumpet to make, but I know exactly what it's meant to signify. How many times have I written the same theme to represent my father waking up hung-over and bleary eyed? I wonder if my lack of presence in the house will cause the melody to change at all.
Probably not. Dad always has his same routine in the morning – wake up hung-over, stumble to the bathroom, take a long shower, make an easy and quick breakfast, head out the door and go to work. Nowhere in this part of the music does my leitmotif show up.
No good morning wake up calls. No early morning cheer at my expense. No best wishes and farewells.
When I look down at the page in my hand, it's filled with notes, dynamics, phrase markings – for all intents and purposes it's a completely polished couple of bars of music that I've managed to write in a manner of minutes.
Of course it's perfectly polished. Of course it is.
I've written the same wavering trumpet solo for months on end.
My bag feels inordinately heavy as I heft in onto my shoulder and make my way towards the train's door. No announcement has been made for where we are or even if we're close to a stop, but I know the next train station is where I want to – where I need – to be.
The newly written trumpet solo is still gripped within my hand. I can't bring myself to crumple it up; I can't bring myself to throw it on the ground. The best I manage is to shove it in my bag and zip it away with all the rest.
Outside the window, the sun is slowly creeping higher into the sky.
Inside my head, the sound of the door slamming as he leaves is imitated by a percussive flourish of a bass drum.
By the time the train finally pulls to a stop, the sun has officially risen.
The doors slide open and I'm greeted with a blast of air that's uncomfortably warm and sickly sweet smelling. My hesitation lasts for only a second before I step down from the high-tech train onto a wooden platform that seems to be held together by stubbornness alone. A few second later, I hear the hydraulics of the door closing behind me. It's only at this point that I turn around.
The sleek white body of the train begins to pull away slowly before it picks up speed. Soon all I can see is a streak of white and in a few short seconds, even that is gone.
Somehow I've ended up in what appears to be a small country community.
Having lived in the suburbs my whole life, seeing a small town is almost like something out of a fairytale. The houses are all different shapes and sizes and anyone's nearest neighbor is at least a ten minute walk. Not far away are hills and dense forests that stretch so far they melt into the horizon. Everything is green, vibrant, and popping with life. For a moment, all the sounds within my head are silenced as my brain absorbs the shock of the scene.
It makes me uncomfortable.
By the time I descend from what remains of the rickety platform, my mother's high woodwind voice has returned to my head. I can't be there to ascertain the truth of the situation, but having seen this scenario before, I've chosen to represent her with a clarinet. The husky sound of the clarinet matches her perfectly after she's spent the night drinking away her imagined troubles.
Maybe this is when she'll notice I'm gone.
No. She's going to crack open a beer, turn on the T.V., and down the whole can within a half-hour before she reaches for another one. Unlike dad, mom can handle her alcohol. I suppose it's the perk of being a highly-functioning alcoholic.
The same melody day after day after day.
I've ended up at a stream. It's probably on someone's property, but if they come asking, I'll just apologize and leave; if they don't then I suppose I just get a free pass. Even though it's hot at home, it feels even more stiflingly hot here. Maybe it's because the hills around here trap the heat?
My bag falls heavily to the ground as I settle underneath a tree next to the stream. My hands feel itchy and unsatisfied. If I were still at home, I would be composing the song of their divorce right now.
It's quiet.
In the suburbs there was always the sound of cars as people rushed to and fro; at home there was always the sound of either the T.V. or mom and dad arguing. Here there's simply nothing.
It's terrifying.
When there's silence, all I can hear in the music in my head. The notes seem to be crisper, louder, and more abrasive. Every note is like a siren wail in my ears – it's too loud to be ignored but too blatant and discordant to be enjoyed.
I can hear the delicate flurry of strings – the laugh track of mom's favorite sitcom.
I can hear the low rumble of drums – my mom downing another beer.
I can hear the human-like lilting of the clarinet – my mom talking to herself for company.
Every sound is pounding in my skull, right behind my eyes.
Pounding. Pounding. Pounding.
Why aren't you denoting this? Why aren't you keeping track of the sound of their divorce? Why aren't you there? Why are you running away when you know there's no escape?
The cold water of the stream is so shocking and surprising that my thoughts and the music scatter. I continue to stamp the water of the stream, causing droplets to fly into my face and sting my skin; my hair and arms fly around me, effectively blocking out the outside world. My feet pound out a heavy-handed beat that's ugly and inelegant but manages to drown out the feeble cries of every other instrument.
There's a word for this: a tantrum.
God does it feel good.
SLAM. splash. SLAM. splash. SLAM. splash.
I'm huffing and puffing by the time I finally gain control of myself. My hair and clothes are soaked. Everything's sticking to me as if I've gained a second skin. My feet hurt and I can see faint traces of red in the water.
Although I can still hear the faint strains of their divorce, my mind decides to focus most of its attention on finding an instrument suitable to match the actions I just took. Percussion definitely, but which one will best capture the intensity? Is there some musical cue I can use to represent the fact that I've just bashed my feet open on the rocks of the riverbed?
"Are you done now?"
It's a boy.
No, looking again, 'boy' probably isn't the correct term to use. It's probably safer to say 'young man'. If nothing else, he looks to be older than I am by several years. He has blonde hair, blue eyes, and a slim build. He's the textbook definition of a 'pretty boy'.
His voice type doesn't fit with an orchestra at all.
"For now. If it gets too quiet again I may have to pick it up again."
"Is that so?"
As he speaks, a smile splits his features. It's tinged with bemusement, but it's honest. I don't know what to do with a smile like that. The notes I could use to capture it are many and varied, but they're pushed out of my head before they have any chance to take root.
"Yes."
"Then I should probably be expecting to hear from you again pretty soon because the only time there's any noise here is when the train stops in."
"How often does the train stop?"
"About every three weeks."
"So does that mean I'm stuck here for the next three weeks?"
"Unless you have some way of traveling other than the train."
"I don't."
"Then I'm sorry but you're stuck."
Just like that our conversation comes to an end. This boy has just told me that I'm stuck; he's told me that for three weeks, there's no escaping this sleepy valley. The orchestra in my head begins to crescendo in protest.
There's music to be written; you don't have the time or liberty to be gone for three weeks! Who's going to orchestrate everything? Who's going to ensure that the song goes on without a hitch? You're the conductor! You're the conductor!
Louder and louder. Crescendo…crescendo…
SLAM. splash. SLAM. splash. SLAM. splash. SLAM. splash.
There's pressure on my wrist. It's not terribly unpleasant, just different, very different. My feet stop their methodical rhythm as I look at the offending area. There's a hand wrapped around my waif thin wrist, applying light pressure.
When was the last time I had direct human contact with anyone?
"Stop. You're tearing up your feet."
My eyes find his face. His expression is stern but his eyes are gentle and concerned.
He's looking at me; he's looking at a slip of a girl slamming her feet over and over again into the water; he's looking at IA.
"I'll stop if you sit and talk with me. When there's talking the instruments aren't as loud."
He's clearly confused, but he gives a nod of his head as he releases my wrist. I walk out of the river and the dirt stings the multitude of cuts I have just given to myself. I opt to return to where I had been sitting before my tantrum began. Somehow my bag has managed to stay dry throughout the whole ordeal.
Of course it's not going to be that easy to escape. It's never that easy to escape.
My fingers find the zipper and it begins to cling lightly, rather like the tinny sound of a triangle. A few seconds later he's sitting next to me, my bag the only thing between the two of us.
"So when you said 'the instruments' you were talking about musical instruments, right?"
"Yes."
"Okay…well, there're no instruments playing right now."
"In the real world, you're right. But inside my head, I can always hear them. There's a full orchestra trapped up there and they're always playing."
"…What are you talking about?"
"I'm a prodigy – a wunderkind – and because of that an orchestra gets to live in my head."
Silence interrupted only the by zipper triangle. This is the point where he's going to say that I'm insane. This is the part where he's going to recommend some big name psychologist that he knows. This is the part where I completely lose him.
It was just another melody that I head over and over again.
"You've been given both a great blessing and a great curse."
A flub. A mistake. Someone missed their cue. A whole section came in when it wasn't supposed to. Was it because I had accidentally given some sort of motion that told them it was alright?
My hands stopped playing with the zipper and the world outside fell silent.
The world inside was silent as well.
For a moment, everything stopped.
Then came the clarinet, strong and loud. Her call is instantly answered by the trumpet.
I begin to play with the zipper again.
"Aren't you going to say that I'm insane? Aren't you going to suggest that I go to some big name psychiatrist to get help for the obvious problems that I have?"
"I could if you really wanted me to, but I don't think that's going to help much. Besides, I'm worried that if I leave you'll start pounding your feet into the stream again."
My eyes find his face yet again. He's smiling.
Why is it different? Why is it not exactly as everything was before? I'm supposed to be insane. I'm supposed to be crazy. I'm supposed to hear the instruments in my head because of some sickness I have. It's not a blessing. It's not a curse.
It's a disease.
"…What would you do if I started pounding my feet into the water again?"
"I would stop you of course."
"Why?"
"Because we don't have cars here and if you're stuck here for three weeks, you're going to have to do a lot of walking. Besides, I may look strong, but if I had to carry you all the way to the nearest house, it would be a lot of work."
A joke. He's making a joke.
Laugh. I'm supposed to laugh.
Don't be diseased, don't be diseased, don't be diseased.
The tingling of the zipper plays lightly over the sound of the full orchestra. They have recovered from their earlier shock and have picked up right from where they left off. It's as if nothing has happened at all.
"Just point me to the nearest hotel. I can walk."
"The problem with that is we don't have any hotels in this town."
"Then where am I supposed to stay for three weeks?"
"Everyone that needs a place to stay is allowed to rent out a room at Ann's place. I can show you the way if you'd like."
"Yes."
"Alright, then hop on."
Suddenly he's kneeling in front of me, his back presented to me. The position is strange and unfamiliar to me and all I can do is stare blankly. Some part of my brain that's not beholden to the orchestra is trying to tell me something, but the noise of the instruments easily drowns the message out. All I can do is stand and clutch my bag to my chest; anything to put distance between myself and this anomaly of an individual.
He's looking back at me again, blue eyes halting the sounds of the orchestra.
"What's wrong?"
"What…do you want me to do?"
"I'm going to carry you."
He says it as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. He says it as if we have known each other for years rather than just minutes.
I don't know what to do.
"But I'll be heavy."
"From looking at you, I seriously doubt that."
"But I have my bag. It's heavy."
"I'll be fine. If I can't carry both of you all the way, you can try walking for a little bit and I'll carry the bag, deal?"
"No. No you can't carry me or the bag."
Why am I saying that? Why won't I give it up? This is the opportunity I've been waiting for! This is the easy out that I've been searching for!
"You're rather stubborn, aren't you? Fine then. I'll just walk beside you and help in any way that I can, how does that sound?"
"That will do."
He begins to lead me then, his steps strong and sure. I lag behind; my feet burn with each step that I take and my bag weighs me down. He continues to speak amicably to me, but I'm no longer listening.
The orchestra inside my head is in complete disarray. All the instruments play at once in a hodge-podge of messy sounds.
But despite this, I can still hear the easily recognizable melody that has governed my life for so long.
By the time we reach the house where I'll be staying, the clarinet has managed to begin its nagging tune.
Mom has just woken from her daily nap and is going to search me out of tell me to get started on my summer homework.
By the time I make it to my room, the clarinet part grows more frenetic and erratic.
Mom has discovered I've run away.
By the time I'm bidding goodbye to the young man, the trumpet and clarinet are engaging in a loud, bombastic duet, each trying to drown out the other.
Mom has called dad and the fighting has begun.
Yes, this is the frenzy I'm used to.
It's so loud and bombastic, I barely hear as the young man bids me farewell. Before he had even disappeared from sight, I rush back to my room and tear open my bag. I grab the sheet of music I wrote this morning and quickly begin to scribble down notes.
The notation is crude, but within minutes I've managed to capture all the sounds that played in my head today. Within minutes, there's several more pages added to the song of my parent's divorce.
But this time when I sit back, allow the pencil to roll from my grasp, and look at the pages I've just created, there's something different. There's something that has never been present in the song before.
A saxophone line.
The orchestra within my head screams in protest, but all I can do is stare at that one line.
That one, singular difference.
A/N: I changed the name of the story. When I was originally deciding on a name, I wavered between "Escapism" and "Trapped in a Song" for quite some time. As I've continued to write this story, I've realized that the second title probably fits better, so I'm using that now.