(1) Adagio

"And now..."

The curtains are drawn back. The blindingly hot lights of the stage greet me like the hounds of hell.

I can't hear.

"Introducing, the winner of the West Division Cantrelotte Cello Competition."

I can't hear. I can't hear. I can't hear.

"Asher Winterfield!"

A thunderous applause from a crowd of faceless people.

But I'm still behind the stage, gazing from beyond as I grip the neck of my cello in one hand and my bow in the other.

My knuckles turn white from the nervous strength I exert through them.

Still, I must go.

I have to go.

It's what she wants me to do. It's what she would be telling me to do right this moment.

This is my punishment.

This is my hell.

I take a step forward, into that brightly lit stage.

I bow my head as I stand before them. Their claps sound like television static. The air around me is in sepia.

The audience quiets as I take my seat and adjust. The moment of anticipation.

My body follows the motions. My arms are slack at first, then I slowly raise them into position. My left on the strings, my right on my bow.

I have done this numerous times.

I have succeeded numerous times.

And as I begin to move the bow, I know I am producing the sound I want to make. I practiced enough for the entire song to become pure muscle memory, and my fingers and arms move autonomously.

As long as I play what is written in the score, the audience will hear what they came here to listen to.

However, the sound that greets my ears is not music—

It is the sound of agony.

My instrument, my cello, is crying.

In this world, the path of the ideal classical musician can be measured by one of humanity's simplest mathematical equations.

y=mx+b.

The expression of a straight line, extending from a point of origin and then upwards, upwards, and upwards, into a constant infinity and even further, further, and further above that.

There exist people look at that line and think that it's ceaseless pursuit of endlessness is inspiring, like the line itself has a will, a method, a reason for existing in the way, shape, and form that it does. Like it enjoys it's existence.

Then, there are others who believe more strongly in that line than anyone else - those who believe in it's tragic, piteous fate as a line that will always climb upwards, but never find resolution nor rest.

If you can't match that pace — that is, if you cannot surpass your own limits and soar to greater heights with each performance, honing your level of skill to the finest micro-tuning of muscle and memory, then you cannot hope to compete.

y=mx+b.

It is not artistic nor romantic. That is a musician. If you find yourself on this path, some would say you're fated to suffer. Somewhere along the way, your mind will turn to steel, and music itself will transform into something unrecognizable, incognizant, alien.

For me, this is how the world used to be.

Kids often poked fun at my name when I was younger. "Asher Winterfield" - a name so comically fictitious that many were surprised to hear I wasn't just parroting the name of a comic book hero instead of my real one when I introduced myself. When the room got cold, all eyes were on Winterfield. Well, you can't really expect any more or less from children, can you?

I didn't need the company of other children, however. Nothing mattered to me more than classical music. And even if they poked and prodded at me, making even more fun when they began to realize I would never retaliate, I simply practiced harder.

Truth is, I used to love spring. There was something so soft and comforting about the wind, a sort of chill tempered by the lingering tones of the past season's cold front while slowly introducing some colorful elements of summer. I always anticipated the passing of seasons - often times there was very little else to look forward to.

When I was younger, my mother would often say this to me:

"Be better. At all times, think of ways to improve. Why is that, you ask?"

"Foolish boy. Do you ask the sun why it rises, or the birds why they sing?"

Yes, that was my mother.

Cold, unforgiving, unrelenting. Winter itself, if I were to make a relevant comparison. Then again, that would apply to me as well since we're family.

We were family.

Now I take great comfort in winter. The way snow covers everything like a blanket, calmly and serenely. The biting chill that makes you want to escape, to burrow into your den and only emerge periodically to breathe fresh air.

For what reason did I change my mind? To this day, I remain unsure.

However, perhaps it had something to do with the day it happened. A perfect spring afternoon, sunny and with a steady breeze. Vibrant flowers of various hues and the lush green of the tall, healthy trees painted the town so beautifully that the moment I stepped outside the concert hall, I could almost breathe in the color.

Then I saw her. My mother.

"What is she...?"

The concerned voices of other passerby leaving the hall tickled my ears, but I paid them no mind.

She was at the bottom of the stairs, walking away. Why was she leaving? Didn't she listen to my performance? I did the best I could, even if I made a few mistakes...

"She's not...?"

"Hey lady, the light isn't green yet!"

"Somebody stop her!"

I took a deep breath, preparing to call out to her. My feet left the ground, ready to sprint if I had to—

"LOOK OUT!"

I'm not sure what was louder — the shrill scream of the adults standing next to me, or the horn of that enormous truck, blaring with an intensity that made my eardrums burst.

And then there was my mother, in the middle of the road.

The world slowed down as she turned to face me. Was she saying something? I can't hear you, I'm too far, let me come closer— there are arms around me, why are there arms around me? Let me go to my mom, I need to hear—

Is she smiling? Did she hear my music after all? Did I do well? Please— she's just a couple feet away now—

Then,

the only color I could see,

through the green of the trees,

and the blue of the orchids,

and the brightness of the sun,

was the unforgiving,

cruel,

crimson red

of blood.

Mommy will be fine, right?

She's just sick. Just like when I got that boo-boo from riding my bike. She'll get better, I know she will!

I just need to wait. That's what the big people in the white coats told me. I trust them. I know what they are. They make you better no matter what you have! Like the time I woke up and my face was really hot, and this weird stuff came out of my mouth...

That's right! When she gets out, she'll want to hear my music again! So I'm gonna play extra well at today's recital!

I know I can do it! I won't make any mistakes this time! I can do better! Just watch me!

But my hands were already moving before I could stop them.

And a deep, dark void swallowed me whole.

"You're getting worse, Asher."

He clicked his tongue in annoyance, slamming the tape recorder down onto the desk as I jolted straight upwards from the loud, violent gesture.

"What's the meaning of this?"

I looked down.

I held it close in my arms. My cello. A full-size, finely tuned instrument made from various types of wood.

Yet in that moment, I despised it more than anything.

"Hey, I'm talking to you!"

Suddenly my shoulders were being shaken.

"Do you understand?! Do you have ANY idea what this means for your future?"

I didn't meet his eyes. I couldn't.

A powerful blow connected with my left cheek, causing my head to jerk to one side.

"I'm talking to you, Winterfield! If you still have ears, then play that measure for me again, and do it right this time or there WILL be hell to pay, do you understand me?!"

He walked back to his desk, grumbling to himself. My ears, though deaf to the notes of the cello and still ringing slightly from his slap, could pick up his words.

"Would've never invested in you if this was what was gonna happen..."

I raise my bow and place it on the string.

"You still can't hear the notes?"

I nodded in response. The sound of pen scribbling onto paper reaches my ears.

"You don't actually believe this, do you doctor? He's clearly just making it up. He's at that age now."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that, Director. You know what he went through last year, and considering the rate of his rehabilitation, I wouldn't be surprised if this continued for a while. Especially with today being the anniversary of..."

"You're that Winterfield, huh?"

A set of hands pushes me down. An unknown leg drives itself into my side. Another hand makes a fist with my collar in it.

"Not so hot now, huh?"

"Outshining us in every audition, every competition, every concert..."

A blow to my stomach makes me heave.

"Now WE take center stage, you hear?! You sit in 12th seat from now on, got it? And if you even TRY to put up a fight..."

A laugh from outside the circle.

"Or what? His mommy's gonna come save him?"

Six years since it happened.

Six year since I last was able to hear.

Don't get it wrong though. I didn't go deaf. I still walk and talk and listen just fine. It isn't something that affects my daily life on a major level.

No, the only thing I can no longer hear is...

The sound of the cello.

No one understands why. Not even me. It's not the kind of condition that can be treated, much less quantified by any kind of standard except possible psychological trauma— because it's not normal, even in my abnormal circumstances.

It is what it is. My hands still know how to play, but my mind cannot process the notes. When I place my fingers in first position and play a scale in C minor, I hear one note... then another... then, when I'm truly focused—

Nothing. Everything is reduced to dull, muted vibrations.

No matter how hard I try.

No matter how well I play.

It won't reach my ears.

The notes float away and vanish like the balloons of a child who was never told to not let go.

Author's Note

Adagio: Meaning a slow tempo or slow speed. Sometimes it is the name of a work like Mozart's Adagio for Violin and Orchestra.