Shipping Game

The broken window

Axel
Two and a half years ago

"I can't, it's painful... I'm sorry."

I know Amanda has no reason to apologize. In fact, I should have been the first to say it was best to end things; however, I suppose I wasn't... I'm not strong enough to let her go.

A part of me wanted her to say she would stay with me, and that everything would be fine.

Can one be more selfish?

And the day after tomorrow, my parents plan to admit me... "he'll stay in his thoughts."

I am tired of spinning around and around so much... and that funeral music?

I head towards the window, but it's locked, and that mournful melody continues to sound like a damn premonition.

"It will remain a premonition!"

I strike the glass in anger, and yes, panic.

Whoever it is? How dare they show such cruelty?

"Shut up, idiot!" I shout at my neighbor because that's where the melody is coming from. How did we move to this neighborhood? How could my father stoop so low? How have we fallen so low? How the hell does he expect to pay for the treatment? "Damn scum! Are you such a coward that you won't come out? Play something, do society a favor, and bury your garbage guitar."

There's no response except the continuation of that mournful sound that foretold my death.

Now it's not just a guitar, he just added a violin.

If he wants to play rough, I will because I prefer to face things head-on.

I will not hide like that cowardly neighbor who touched me to hasten my death, to predict it; to drive me crazy.

I won't give destiny, the universe, or whoever runs this world the satisfaction.

I have nothing to do with it after that diagnosis.

I descend the stairs, and my mother finds me, looking so weary and worn from worry.

I used to be an elite hunter, and now I am nothing more than a burden to my family.

"My love, where are you going?" my mother asks at the foot of the stairs.

She tries to approach, but I step back.

"Please, I can't go out now as I will be admitted in a couple of days," I remind her.

My mother looks at me with sadness and nods; I hate making her suffer, but it doesn't matter as long as I do things right.

I am going to die, even with the chemotherapy.

No one is spared from that.

I leave the house and take a deep breath; the closer I get, the more I perceive the disease gnawing away inside me, and I can do nothing to stop it.

That melody disturbs me in an unfathomable way. I run and scan the cloudy sky, and I believe only the sky understands me.

I climb the fire escape stairs, trying not to make too much noise, which leads me directly to her room.

"Do you find a fire more common than a robbery?"

No doubt, he is insane; but more dangerous than a madman is someone who has nothing to lose.

Now I am in front of her window, and the music starts again. I crouch under the sill and raise my gaze slightly.

I see a girl, with a black bandage over her eyes, playing the violin; meanwhile, the guitar is on a pouf.

She has her back to me, so I can see her long jet-black hair and her pink pajamas with fuchsia dots.

"I am sorry to disappoint you, but I won't stop playing," she retorts, as she turns around and stops playing. "If you want to hit me, hit me," she says, shrugging, "but nobody tells me what to do in my room, my private space."

"You should practice in a separate room with a teacher to guide you," I scold her.

"Get out," she says bluntly and sits on the edge of her bed. "I couldn't care less if my music disturbs you or makes you afraid..."

I leap through the window and land on the butterfly-shaped carpet covering her floor.

She places her violin on the bed, and I grab her shoulders to make her face me, my face against hers; my disdain against her indifference to others' pain.

"Your music is a damn racket," I point out, in case she didn't know. "You have no heart or no living one, being able to..." I tell her with a hushed voice, clenching my jaw, and tear the bandage from her eyes; however, she insists on continuing with her eyes closed. "I won't waste my time on an ingrate with her own life."

I push her aside and step back, determined to endure that melody, even if it shook me to my core.

My whole being is dying inside.

"You see, no one forces me to do anything," she says.

"For what?" I ask condescendingly. "If your life is worth nothing."

I swing my legs and exit through the window; I descend the fire escape stairs and hear the sound of a storm only a few meters away.

I prefer the lightning and thunder; anything.

Any note, rather than listening to the music of my own funeral.