I liked my music teacher; she was nice; friendly. And I liked my violin; playing it.
When I was feeling sad or had been arguing with my parents, I went upstairs and practiced for hours. 1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3. Trying to keep the music in time. My music teacher said I was improving.
At school I saw me mate, he was a good friend. It was just us. The others left us alone for the most part, sometimes they would come and say spiteful things that hurt but there was always us two.
We'd sit in the corner of the yard, talking while I kicked up the dust. I loved to watch the way the dirt sprayed up in a puffy cloud before settling back down to the ground. Me mate hated it though, the dust I mean. He never told me but when I'd do it but he'd frown.
I told him how the violin bow moved up and down like the dust particles, floating up and down.
He said, "Don't let's talk about violins or music, ever," and I agreed. He changed the subject.
"When I've finished school, I'm gonna get out of here. Go somewhere else, down near the beach maybe," me mate would say and I'd just nod. It didn't matter where I was, to me, as long as I could play the violin.
I practiced hard. 1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3.
One day I found my mate in our corner. He was crying.
"You ok," I asked.
"I'm fine," he said, "Go away, leave me alone." He tried to stop crying and when he failed, he only cried harder. In the distance I saw the others walking away.
"One day they're gonna feel it too," me mate said, "one day they'll pay." I looked at him and blinked.
Then I went home and practiced hard. 1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3.
The next day at school me mate was calm again, but it felt different; cold.
"Have you ever wondered what it would be like to die?" he asked. I shrugged my shoulders.
"Get away from it all. I think if there was any one way I could choose to die, it'd be drowning. Longer, slower, suffocating. The burning sensation in your lungs and then, when you scream, the icy chills of water rushing down your throat. You feel more before you go down. Then you could just float away." I watched him concernedly but I didn't have time to think about it. There was a concert soon. I had to practice.
At home I practiced for hours. My teacher joked and said I was better than she was but I knew she was just being nice. I had to keep practicing. 1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3. It wasn't good enough.
For weeks I practiced, I hardly saw me mate. Except at school, in the corner of the yard, kicking up dust. I told him about the upcoming concert and how hard I was practicing the violin. Me mate said nothing. I told him how difficult the piece was and how I practiced every night for hours. He was silent. I explained how everyone was going to be there including my family and how they'd be expecting me to play so well. He sat still and never replied and I went back to kicking up the dust.
Then one day I came to school and saw people crowding around the pool. I went to see but even before I reached the pool, I knew what had happened.
There he was, me mate, floating lifelessly. I stared and didn't blink. The others were crying; they couldn't believe he'd done it.
A hand rested on my shoulder; it was my music teacher.
"You ok?" she asked and I nodded.
"Good," she said, "we've decided to continue the concert tonight. We'll dedicate it too him. The show must go on." I agreed and felt a knot tighten in my stomach.
We were given the day off school so I went home and practiced. 1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3.
At the concert I played and the people clapped but I knew they were just being nice. So at home I practiced some more. I practiced until my mum came up and asked me hadn't I done enough practice. I bit my teeth to stop the tears and kept on playing until she left, turning the light off as she went.
1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3. I practiced in the dark until my fingers went red and sore from playing and then I kept practicing. The darkness surrounded me, crowding in on me until finally, when I could practice no more, I sat on my chair, in the dark, and cried.
