A Life Foretold

Chapter 6: The Catastrophe of Us

6475 words.

From the balcony discussion to dancing with my face tucked into Gon's chest, I always wondered why. I wondered why I sought the idea of finding a dream career fatuous, but that's when I'd find myself in front of a metaphorical mirror, a long, piercing crack akin to a lightning strike as seen on movies, and me, disheveled hair, eyes puffy from a recent breakdown, and clothes tattered, revealing so many scars, each wielding a memory I fought so hard to forget. And how fruitless of a battle that was. In the end, you truly did turn into a broken vessel for your family.

I question when, and I will always question when. But why did I need to know when? Maybe because if I knew when it all started, only then would I know if this nightmare is finite, or if this horrific vision we call reality is inevitable, or if that even matters.

You know it's the end when you hit rock bottom, but what does it take to get there? And how many scars will it leave behind? My mentality, my goals, the things I hold dearest to me--everything changed because of oozing scars. All of the anger, guilt, and sadness that will haunt me forever.

What more can I lose?

I wouldn't find that answer until later.

Music meant everything to me before I even knew what music was.

As a baby-- a happy, innocent, chubby, blue-eyed baby--I would stare at the keyboard with keys of black and white for hours, not in fear, not in concern, but with an unfathomable curiosity like that singular object before me served as a preamble to every single occurrence in my life. Something about the pattern of sound always made sense to me. I didn't have to know the theory or the exact construction behind it because it made sense.

But everything made more sense with Gon.

Summer camp, at the break of dawn, the piano echoed a nostalgic melody. It didn't matter what I was currently doing or thinking because the moment Gon's fingers came intact with the keyboard, time itself adjourned. One night, I sat next to him on the piano bench, watching, listening. His fingers moved with ease, the glossy, black paint of the piano reflecting starlight atop amber eyes, and the melody, gods the melody: dark minors that would instantly bring you to a tragic mindset, and I couldn't help but relate it to a requiem--a requiem for himself.

His thighs every so often brushed against mine at the appliance of the sustain pedal, his breath hitched when he played a sforzando that emphasized the tonic of an Alberti bass, but the astonishing part, the one thing I couldn't begin to comprehend, and I could roll in bed all night thinking about it but would never get any closer to a breakthrough, the thing that came so naturally to Gon, and I just didn't understand how-- he always appeared happy, and even amidst a devastating requiem, he found the good, the happiness in it.

When he finished, it took me a solid minute to snap back into reality.

"So, whatcha think?"

I smiled, "It's..." --breathtaking, beautiful, keep playing for me always--but I didn't say any of that, of course. "Who wrote it?"

Gon presented a cheeky grin.

"No way."

"Mhm, I wrote it a few months back." He straddled the piano bench to face me, eyebrows suddenly knitting in all seriousness, "Did you spot anything I could fix? I'm in desperate need of some constructive feedback," he awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck.

Overwhelmed at the shocking discovery, I sat staring at him blankly for a moment too long. "Right," I fumbled around, trying to distract myself from Gon's eyes boring into me with a dark, intense glare. I knew I was blushing because a sudden rush of scorching heat circulated in my cheeks. He wanted feedback from me, were my thoughts. "Maybe change some of the Alberti basses in the left hand. Sometimes it can get a bit repetitive, but it sounded pretty good to me--the climactic point, the progression-"