A Soul Ensnared

Ten

July 19, 2013

Sonya stepped through the doors of Madison High School's band hall, having decided that Brent's social media habits had been sufficiently locked down. The room itself was silent, a testament to her tardiness. The attendees had moved into the cafeteria by now, intent on finding food.

Painted a muted white, the ceiling rose a dramatic 20 feet in height, allowing for a brilliant acoustic of sound. Glass showcases were inlaid into the far wall, displaying recent awards, rustic instruments, and upcoming events. Folding chairs, tightly arranged in an arched semi-circle, faced a podium, quiet soldiers awaiting direction from their leader.

Her step faltered. Ghosts of distant, familiar memories floated through her vision, reminding her off the world she had left behind. She stared across the linoleum floor. In the vacant, stagnant air, she could smell of nervousness that came with perfecting chord progressions. She closed her eyes, breathed in deep, and heard the whisper of a drum cadence. With the twist of her head, she coaxed the memory forward, listening to the beat of the snare, the boom of the timpani, and the vibrant crash of the symbols. Within the sound, a sweet, solitary wail issued forth, a saxophone rising in the wake of her memory. In response, clarinets, flutes, and trumpets flared to life, bringing melody, bringing harmony. The sound flourished, filling her head, bringing with it an ache of regret for the life she once knew.

"There you are, Sonya! I've been looking for you. Did you only just arrive? Was there a delay at work?"

The sounds were slow to fade, the melody haunting the corners of her mind. Brent's voice pulled her into the present, though—a present in which her success had been of her own making, not merely based on the desires of her mother. She pulled her eyes away from the sounds, the memories, and the room's haunting appeal, and turned to greet her boyfriend, a smile flashing across her face. "Sorry, I've been reminiscing. There's something about the smell of a band hall that transports me in time. I spent so long ensconced in rooms just like this. It's amazing how they change over the years, and yet nothing changes at all."

Brent frowned, quirking a brow as he glanced around the room. "It's a band hall, Sonya."

The blank expression on his face told her that he, himself, was underwhelmed with the space. If she were to use his eyes, she would see that this was a standard High School band hall. No perks, no frills, no prestige. She looked at the world through his expression, taking in the sound-proofed walls, fluorescent lighting, and cheap accoutrements. Nothing exciting, nothing noteworthy. His words flitted through her mind, reminding her that he felt deserved more, always more, after everything he'd been through, than an Assistant Band Director for a mediocre High School band.

She turned back to him, noting his eyes were on her. In contrast to the room, she was a sight to behold. She stood there, a beacon in an otherwise boring space, wearing a cream, full-sleeve dress. Black beading burst from the waist toward bodice, and trailed whimsically down the skirt. The same beading worked its way from the cinched wrist of the sleeves, edging its way along the soft, billowy fabric of the dress in paisley whorls. Her hair had been pulled to the side, delicate curls cascading over her shoulder. She had taken care that evening to wear the earrings he had purchased for their anniversary, which she remembered when he reached out to place a finger to her earlobe.

"Well," he said, dropping his hand to her waist, and pulling her into his arms, "I guess there isn't a need to fix what works. Band halls will be band halls, regardless of modern advancements. Plus, your memories are probably skewed. I'm sure you didn't spend that long in band halls like this, seeing as I've never heard you play an instrument." He laughed, teasing her. Grabbing her hand, he tugged it playfully. "Come on, were you last chair, every year running? Is that why you don't play anymore?"