Fantasia

2

Brett -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I want to practise. I really do. But today I'm just not feeling it. I drop my hands to my sides, feeling my heart thump in my chest and in my temples. The sheet music leers at me from across the room, note-clustered pages gaping open like a wide all-consuming mouth. My violin case lurks maliciously on the desk. 

I need to practice though. The concert is creeping closer like ivy up a tree, strangling me slowly until I can no longer play a note. 

But don't think I'm a slacker. Not for one moment. I've worked hard to get where I am today. Countless hours spent in the practise room, all through junior, then middle, then high school, and then at the con. Relentless practice; it must be thousands of hours by now. It's been a tough journey, a long haul. I musn't stop now. I can't.

Suddenly I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. I hold my breath, my heart starts beating wildly. I stare at the door, almost frantic, waiting for the crack of light to expand and flood my practice room.

Sure enough, my mother is entering the room. "Don't look so worried Brett, you're doing great. I know you've been working so hard recently, I've brought you a snack and a drink. Though don't stop for too long, your flight to Singapore is tomorrow! Good luck!"

I sigh, letting my breath out slowly, feeling it rattle in my chest. But then she pops her head round the door again. I start.

"Oh and one more thing" her face suddenly softens, and her eyes glow. "I am so proud of you, son. Always remember that. No matter what happens, know that I love you." She smiles, and disappears behind the doorway and I hear her walk back down the steps. The sound feels distant, muffled, sort of canned.

I let myself just drop back against the wall, my shaking hands meeting solid plaster. There's a ringing in my ears, a throbbing in my temples. I know what's coming. Soon, the whole room is spinning, my vision is blurry and my throat is dry as sandpaper. My heartbeat bangs in my ears. I stagger over to the tray my mother left on top of the upright piano, and sip some of the cold ice tea, slowly feeling the cool liquid slide down my parched throat. My vision begins to clear.

I look up, catching my reflection in the shiny frames that proudly display every single grade certificate, and my diploma. A year ago, it would raise my spirits to look at them. Now, they just make my heart sink. Looking more at my slightly distorted reflection, I realise that I really look rough. Dark circles accentuate my eyes, my cheeks are sunken, my skin is pale as a ghost, and my hair is a mess. The practice bruise stands out starkly on my jaw line.

Just one more day, I tell myself, just two more weeks in Singapore, then I can rest. Just keep practising, you'll be fine.

"Brett, I can't hear any Mendelssohn!" Sighing, I pick up my case, unzip it and lift up my violin for one last practice before the flight. Usually a violin is feather light, being hollow and made of wood, but today, it feels like an anvil in my stiff fingers. Another sigh. Here we go.