My Beautiful Mind

1.

The applause is absolutely deafening. The hoots and hollers accumulate into a turbulent wave that travels past row after row of velvet-lined seats until it crashes at my feet. A bead of sweat makes its way down the side of my face, washing away the carefully applied makeup in its wake. If it weren't for the vast stage that commandeered most of my vision, I could've easily mistaken the lights illuminating my tiny, frail figure as the unforgivable rays of the sun, a warmth that has comforted me throughout the years.

There was once a time when I was absolutely terrified of performing all by myself. Right before my first solo concert, my mother held me as I had a panic attack. "What if I mess up? What if they laugh at me?" I sobbed as she smoothed my hair back and kissed both my cheeks. I was twelve years old. That night I didn't mess up. The audience didn't laugh at me. And that's when I knew I could learn to love the spotlight. After all, even for a few hours, I could be anyone I wanted–I could escape from my mundane, average body.

The high of the performance pumps through my bloodstream. With hundreds of eyes on me watching my every move, I stand onstage with such poise, grace, and triumph. My bald head is covered with a decorative scarf to match the forest green chiffon of the dress I spent months saving up for–a dress that brings out the sepia of my eyes and ripples smoothly down my body. But what the audience doesn't see is the subtle indication of relief that the performance went according to plan. I clutch my violin and bow in my damp, sweaty hands so tightly, I'm afraid I'll snap the feeble wood in two.

Smile and curtsy, smile and curtsy, smile and curtsy.

As flower bouquets litter the floor of the stage, my heart swells with every gesture of love and support. My violin instructor from the Manhattan School of Music beams from her seat in the front row with unbridled joy, while a professor at The Juilliard School takes note of my name in a small blue notebook. My heart jumps as my ambitious dream of someday transferring to Juilliard gets even closer within reach. Auditions are in a few weeks and I can only hope that my performance tonight would get my name out there. Also in the front row, my parents clutch each other's hands and are the first of many to give me a standing ovation, their pride for their only child evident from my mother's tear stained face and the familiar twinkling of my father's chocolate brown eyes.

These are the moments that I cherish the most. These are the moments that I live for, crave desperately with every inch of my being. Every sixteenth note run, slur, sharp, flat, quarter rest, crescendo, and decrescendo contains more fear, joy, hope, and sadness than a mere spoken conversation of mine ever will. I lay out everything I have to hundreds of strangers in the hopes that maybe just one person can hear me.

I'm the violin. The violin is me. I'm the music. The music is me.

After relishing in the high of the performance, the rich burgundy velvet curtain closes in front of me and smothers the almost blinding light. I linger around in the sudden darkness in the hopes that I could somehow do it all over again, to feel so alive again–to hear my thudding heartbeat, my quickened breaths, my shaking arms. I indulge myself for several minutes, then I glance at a clock on the side of the stage. I blink in surprise. It's nearing midnight. I reluctantly head backstage to gather my belongings. As I gently place my instrument into its case, a few traitorous tears escape from my closed eyelids. As quickly as the sense of euphoria rushed through me on stage, dread now takes its place.

It's much too silent here. Not even the faint murmur of a stagehand exists to fill the emptiness that has gradually grown in my chest since the diagnosis about a year ago.

I jump in alarm when the sound of my phone rips through the heavy wall of quiet from its place inside my bag. Before checking my phone, I know it must be my father letting me know where he'll be waiting with my mother in the lobby. Sure enough, my father's text is the first of two notifications on my phone. The second message was sent a few hours ago from a number I know very well and hate with everything I have. I stare dully at it for a few moments, already knowing what the message is. I reach for it with trembling fingers and unlock it.