The Best

“You! Chose! Trash!” His father's words still pricked the back of his neck, colder and sharper than the rain. Soaked through, his suit's silk lining was so warped, it would never set straight again. He kept walking. Another peal of thunder rolled overhead, louder this time, and lightning streaked across the sky in the distance. The last stragglers of the evening hurried for cover, leaving Sebastian Shwagenwagens—heir to the Shwagenwagens fortune, hereditary musician, wunderkind—dirty worm!—alone on the sidewalk. The violin case was in his right hand, a familiar presence that thudded against his thigh with every step like a muted heart. Get rid of it, he told himself. It's just dead weight. But no matter how much he wanted to let the damned thing go, his fingers refused to give. Instead, they curled tighter, a fist locked around the one thing lef—no, don't go there. Don't think about that now. The warning was swift, stamping out the line of thought before it could lure him down perilous trails. The precipice was too steep, he was already barely holding on by just his fingertips, and it was a long way down. One slip and he'd fall. In a second, the walls he'd constructed over the years were up again, cutting him off from his own feelings and cocooning him in a soothing fugue of nothingness. It was safe here. Quiet. He often went away here when things became too much at home, when the slap of the ruler was too loud, when the eyes of his family bore too deep, or when he was just too tired to think. And, fuck, if he wasn't tired. His eyes burned, and his limbs moved through molasses. His head was beginning to pound. But he'd kept up appearances long enough to know how to keep moving as if his life weren't falling apart: shoulders straight, head up. Never let them see you cry. On a pragmatic level, his body registered smooth concrete giving way to patchy gravel beneath his feet as he walked past familiar landmarks—the lightbulb bank, the plastic river—on into the industrial district. But he merely looked at his surroundings without actually seeing any of it, blissfully empty on the inside. A hollow puppet held up by strings. His legs carried him of their own accord beyond the zipper fastener and cylinder lock, past the sharpener and razor and the can tab, to the trailer park. Rainwater gathered in massive puddles on the uneven ground between the RVs and trailer homes. He'd never come here on his own, but memory and routine were his guides, and he navigated his way through the winding lanes without thought. By now, his gait had grown unsteady, each plodding step dragging long grooves in the mud behind him, and the lights from a string of naked bulbs left streaks in his vision as he passed. His brain was a smooth stone, tumbled to the point of frictionless, where nothing could catch hold. He felt like he was running on fumes. Running on the mere suggestion of fumes. When he'd finally reached his destination, he wavered for a moment in front of the beat-up trailer home with its deflated tires and patchwork siding. From the single window, he could make out the spastic flickering of blue and yellow lights. The television was on. He tried to focus on the door, but it doubled then tripled as vertigo struck him. Lifting one shaky hand, he smacked it flat against the aluminum, once. A faint tap swallowed up by a lightning crash overhead. How long had he been standing here? Had he just arrived? Time jittered rather than flowed, jumping back and skipping forward in a spastic pattern: home, here, dumpster, park. They were all the same. The pulsing in his head was deafening now, threaded through with a tinny mosquito's whine. Let go, it said. His eyelids drooped shut in exhaustion and refused to open again. Maybe nothing would come of this and he'd be left absolutely alone. The thought should have scared him, but it only hit like one more raindrop in a sea of indifference. And those waters ran cold and deep and dark… Consciousness was spiraling out of his grasp. Throttling the violin case's handle, his fist shook with the effort to keep himself together. There was a hint of movement somewhere inside. He thought he heard the turn of a lock, a door squealing open on rusty hinges, the chatter of late-night TV. Then there was a wash of artificial light across his eyelids. It shone like the sun. “Glam?” Though barely a murmur, the voice broke through the pounding of the rain and his head, clear as a bell, everything going still and quiet—snipped free. And for the first time in his life, Sebastian let himself fall.