The Cellist We Used To Know
“You’re not going anywhere!”
“And who’s going to stop me?”
“Who do you think will?”
“I know full well you can’t and won’t deter me from leaving!”
That was the last conversation I had with my parents, I left shortly afterwards and haven’t spoken to them since. I left to go to the big city, and try my hand at becoming a famous orchestral musician…what I hadn’t anticipated was the lack of demand for cellists at the time. That was six years ago.
I lived in a small apartment in a rundown suburb, on the edge of Neigh York, rats found their way into my bedroom every five seconds, and the nights were filled with sirens and gunshots…but for me, it was home, or at least that’s what I called it, in reality it was a nightmare, I couldn’t sleep and that affected my playing. In order to pay my rent I played music on the streets. That was two years ago.
After living in the suburbs for four years (I had spent a year travelling and earning enough money to put a roof over my head) I was approached by someone while playing, we started talking and eventually they asked me to join their orchestra as an understudy. Without even thinking I had said yes, and started going to practices with them. At first it had been unnerving, the ensemble was incredible, but after a while I got used to it. I still wasn’t earning enough to enable me to move up in life, but it was more than enough to live on. That was a year ago.
A few months ago I got my first big break, one of the cellists had unfortunately died after falling down a flight of stairs, the whole ordeal shook the group, and we’d had to postpone the next performance by three weeks. We paid our respects at the funeral, both verbally and with a song specifically written as a tribute to them. After the period of mourning, we arranged, with the owner of the Concert Hall we were performing in, to mourn the loss of a member of our ensemble by playing the song that had been written for the funeral. Thankfully, the owner had accepted our proposal and had changed the programmes to incorporate our wishes. That was nine months ago.
When the performance came, I was chosen to stand in for the missing member and had graciously accepted this. That night, before the concert, my nerves got to me, I was shaking horribly, and my last meal had escaped and thus resided in the depths of the American sewage system (Delightful right?). In order to calm me down, the other cellists had approached me and assured me that everything would be fine, and that I was too good to blow it and ruin the performance, and while I told them I was fine when they’d finished, I didn’t believe them. It wasn’t until we had set everything up, moved to our positions and the curtains had risen that I regained my confidence, and that was only because the Concert Hall was dark in comparison to the stage. The conductor tapped his baton on his lectern and the concert began. My cue came three bars in, nervous, I drew my bow across my strings, slowed my breathing and played my heart out. At the end of the song, we performed our tribute to the deceased cellist, and spent a moment in silence. When the concert had finished, the crowd gave a standing ovation. The other members of the orchestra congratulated me, apparently I’d done well enough to be given the slot I was filling permanently. That was eight months ago.
Since my first concert, I’d been playing every week, the pay had become considerably better as well, I could finally afford to move out of ‘Gunshot Hollow’ and the nightmares it contained. I had found my place in life and everything was looking up, our ensemble had started to appear everywhere, we performed at A-List parties, for organisations, and near enough anyone else who had requested, after all, who were we to refuse the prestige of playing for these people. Our fame kept growing until we were the most sought after orchestra in Neigh York, so we decided to broaden our reaches, we toured the country, on a classical tour to play before all who wished to see. That was last month.
After we returned to Neigh York from the tour, we spent a week relaxing before a long week of practices and concerts. I had decided to call a friend from my past to catch up, we had lost communication four years ago.
“Hi, can’t talk, not now, busy making a new song, leave a message” was all I heard from my phone. Crestfallen, I walked through the streets of Neigh York, visiting bars along the way, growing more and more downtrodden as I continued. That was an hour ago.
Now I stand atop the Statue of Harmony, drunk and depressed, and as I look over the edge of the building, I feel compelled to jump, drawn in by l’appel du vide. People stand either side, looking at me, whispering about something, I catch brief glimpses of conversation, phrases like “What do you think happened,” and “Do you think they’re ok?”. I haphazardly turn to the railing surrounding the building, climb on top of it, and say “I’ll play the world a lullaby to send you all to sleep,” and with that final sentiment, I lean back and allow the nothingness of death to embrace me.
Three Hours Later
A phone rings, resounding around the building, but goes to the answering machine. A friendly voice comes through, distorted by the speaker, “Hi, sorry I couldn’t talk earlier, we all miss you here back home. We wanted to know why you left. How about you come back home and show us all what became of the cellist we used to know?”
