Fantasia

6

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

That plane ride was the worst of my life. The pilot never mentioned much turbulence, but I felt sick and dizzy the whole way. Screw this concert. But I can't screw it. That's the whole point of my months of practice. So much pressure! A sob rises in my throat. What am I doing here? 

In Singapore, the air feels hotter. Thicker. Heavier. It was like walking through treacle. What a good time to choose: the middle of Singaporean summer. What a genius I am.

I've found my hotel room. It's small, but it's functional. And most importantly, it's low budget. I just hope the walls are sound proof, or the whole hotel will be serenaded to sleep. If you could call it a serenade. 

I set my case down, the badge of Mozart smiling up at me, overwhelmingly cheerful. "It's alright for you Wolfie, you can smile. You're long dead. Haven't had to play a concerto in hundreds of years."

I placed my first note, set my bow on the e string. Took a deep breath, felt the tropical air rattle in my lungs. You can do this Brett. Remember all the times you've done this before. But can I?

To my horror, I can't remember. Not for the life of me. It's never happened before; I've always been good at memorising music, surely? When I was at con, I was too lazy to get out sheet music, so I just memorised it. But now the notes have just flown out of my heat-tormented brain. Shoot. I'm doomed.

I'm suddenly overcome with a wave of nausea, and the whole room, lamp, desk, bed and all, begins to drunkenly sway in front of my eyes. The spots come back to my vision, and I stagger over to the sink, drinking water straight from the tap. I sigh as the lukewarm water slides down my throat, my vision clearing up.

It's only dehydration Brett. You're ok. I tell myself. Well, I hope so.

I think I'll sleep on it. Sleep does wonders for you, aparently.

So I lurch over to the bed, hand on my forehead, and drop down onto the rock-hard mattress, still in my clothes. Pyjamas are overrated. I need sleep.