I’ve lost me.
“Anna, are you out here?” I hear Faith call out behind me.
I can’t find it in me to move or tell her where I am. I don’t want to be found. It’s quiet out here, and I want to be alone.
But footsteps come my way, and soon she says, “Here you are. Are you okay?”
Feeling tired to the marrow of my bones, I look at her over my shoulder and nod.
“Priscilla said it’s time for you to play,” she says hesitantly.
My throat is almost too swollen to speak, but I manage to say, “Okay.”
“You look so sad, Anna. Did something happen?”
I don’t have the energy to answer her question, so I shake my head and walk quietly to the house. As I’m opening the front door, I say, “Getting my violin.”
She flashes an uncertain smile at me and heads back to the party.
My feet feel impossibly heavy as I make my way up the stairs to my room, where my violin case is resting on the floor underneath a pile of dirty laundry. I kneel on the floor, brush everything off the instrument case, and after a small pause, open it. There’s my violin.
It’s not a Stradivarius and isn’t worth millions of dollars, but it’s mine. It’s good. I know its sound, the feel of it, the weight of it, even the smell. It’s a part of me. Running my fingers over the strings, I remember all the trials and triumphs that we’ve gone through together. Auditions, opening nights, my introduction to Max Richter’s recomposition of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, my obsession with his recomposition, the performance that put me on YouTube, the circular hell of the piece that I can’t finish …
It’s a shame I have to break this violin tonight.
But I don’t see that I have a choice. I can’t play. If I try, I’ll just humiliate myself in front of my harshest critics—my family. The mental problems that I’m facing aren’t worthy of their respect or even a cursory attempt at understanding. In their minds, I need to identify the problem, find a solution, and get on with it. It should be that easy.
So I’m doing that now, just not in the way they’d prefer.
I take my violin from its case, relishing the familiar way its curves fit into my hands, and I hug it. I’m sorry, my friend, I whisper in the safety of my mind. I’ll fix you afterward.
After tightening the bow, I apply rosin. There’s no need. I won’t be playing tonight. But that’s part of the ritual. It has to be done.
Then I walk from my childhood bedroom, down the hall, to the top of the staircase. Gripping my violin tightly by its neck, steeling my heart, I prepare to throw it down the stairs with as much strength as I can muster. It’s a hardy instrument, and I can’t just dent it. It must be injured to the point where it’s unplayable. That’s the entire point of this.
I count to three in my head, throw it, and watch as it sails through the air. There’s a moment when I think it’ll bounce down the stairs and land on the ground without a dent and I’ll have to throw it again and again, maybe jump on it a few times like it’s a trampoline before it sustains suitable damage. But my violin does the unexpected upon contact with the marble floor.
It shatters into tiny pieces.
Gasping, I drop my bow, run down the stairs, and frantically sweep up the fragments with my fingers. The neck broke clear in half, and the body of the violin is nothing but splintered bits of wood. It no longer resembles an instrument. One of the strings snapped. The others lie limp and lifeless on the marble at the base of the stairs along with the pegs and bridge and unidentifiable debris.
There is no way I can fix this.
This violin will never sing again.
Uncontrollable sobs spill from my mouth. I can’t stop them. I can’t silence them. The hurting inside me will be heard now. It won’t stay quiet.
“Anna, Priscilla says you should—”
I look up to see Faith taking in the scene with her mouth hanging open. I don’t try to tell her the lie that I prepared in advance, that I “accidentally” dropped it.
My violin is dead. I killed it with my own hands.
I took a beautiful innocent thing, and I murdered it. Because I couldn’t bring myself to say no.
I’ve destroyed everything good in my life.
Because I can’t say no.
Because I’m still trying to be something I’m not.
“I’ll be right back,” Faith says before hurrying out.
I’m almost hysterical with tears and trying to piece my violin together like a 3D puzzle when Faith returns with Priscilla in tow.