The Best

He stood on the stage, a solitary figure haloed in a pool of light. Before him sat his audience, faceless and obscured by darkness but roaring with applause. The sound echoed off the concert hall's high vaulted ceiling, thunderous. It was the night of the obligatory collective rehearsal at the conservatory, the one he had been practicing for all summer. And they were playing Bach. Sebastian had spent his days just as Father had instructed, and now it was finally his moment to showcase the fruits of his labor. Somewhere in the corner of his mind, a voice told him this didn't make sense, but it was quickly hushed. To argue with a dream was an exercise in futility, and soon he was caught up in the narrative. There in the front row he could see his family—Lydia, Mother, and Father—watching him with their usual cold disinterest. But Sebastian's heart thrummed in anticipation all the same. Not out of nerves; he'd long since conquered his fear of the stage. In fact, he often felt safer in front of a congregation of strangers than in the privacy of his own home. Tonight, however, was the night he would do his family proud. He would show them that he was good enough. No, not just good enough. The best. Silence fell as the audience's applause died down, and the air was electric with expectation. This was his moment. Sebastian lifted his left hand elegantly into the air, fingers lightly curled around the end of a bow. A communal gasp at this anomaly echoed around the hall. In his right hand, he held nothing but the invisible shape of a violin, his forearm facing up in the first position, sleeve rolled back. There was something wrong about this too, something clearly off, but the dream convinced him to go along with it. And when he lowered the bow into place, it slid not against traditional strings but instead across the scars on his arm. He bit his lip as the skin burned with a familiar sting. However, the vibrato that came forth was more beautiful than anything he had ever managed before. It was Bach's Gavotte en Rondeau, but never had it sounded so full, so complete. So natural. The song permeated the concert hall, taking on a richness that had eluded Sebastian in all his days of practice. The bow cut into him as he played, but for once, the pain only added to his performance, and he expressed himself fully in each soulful note. He swung the bow luxuriously through the legatos, made it dance like a sprite across the spiccatos. And every note was true and clean. This was playing as it was meant to be, and with the exquisite agony came a clarity so keen, his eyes watered. The instrument had only been a restraint, but now there was nothing to come between himself and his craft. This was music in its rawest, purest form, and Sebastian was its maestro. He'd been playing wrong all these years, but now everything had been set right. Who would imagine that his ravaged arm would be the key to his awakening? What his father had given him wasn't just a reminder of his shortcomings, but a gift to unlock his true potential. Now he understood what he had been telling him all along: To be hurt was to be loved, and to be loved was to suffer. As the bow slid gracefully across his father's legacy, each raised line of abused flesh a string from which the purest rhapsody could be coaxed, he looked through the tears in his eyes out into the crowd. Now they would know his worth. His father would know. The audience stood as one, and another swell of applause erupted—a thunderclap of adoration—their cheers urging Sebastian on. He started into a new song, not transitioning but simply laying it atop the first. If one song could be so sweet, then why not two? Concerto in G Minor dovetailed seamlessly with its brother, the two melodies occupying the same space, as he swept the bow across his arm twice as fast to catch every overlapping note. Sweat began to bead at his hairline. His arm burned as he cut deeper with the bowstring, old wounds threatening to give way beneath the relentless music. It burned, but oh, it was divine! This was what he was capable of, a testament to his hard work, his genius, his loyalty. Finally to be heard in all his glory. Father, do you hear me? Two more songs joined the medley. They clashed like waves in a storm, crescendo chasing crescendo, and the tempo just kept building. It was all Sebastian could do to keep up with the frantic pace. A cacophony by any other measure, the audience instead cheered in a wordless clamor, demanding an encore from the little boy on stage with the mangled arm. He was only too happy to oblige them, grimacing with pain but smiling on the inside. It was what he had always been good at, after all. His left hand raced as he sawed madly back and forth across his arm, slashing with a vengeance—until at last skin tore, blood spilled, and string hit naked muscle. The entire underside of his forearm split open from wrist to inner elbow, the bow now like a blade where it sliced into him. As he drew it across tendons and striations of meat, Sebastian played with a passion that rivaled that of the great masters. He was ascending. He was perfect. He was... The best. With an upward swing that reached the highest quivering note, blood arched elegantly from his wrist to spatter in the shape of a treble clef on the floor. A series of rapid sautille flung out more notes, painting spastic lines across the stage. He glowed beneath the spotlights, feeling hot and dizzy and losing focus. His father's face wavered into his periphery, that stony mask twisted in disgust. No! Sebastian's vision was beginning to blur, his fingers wobbled on the bow grip, and he found he couldn't quite hold himself upright anymore. His posture slipped, sinking down and down, one knee hitting the stage and then the other. Still, his left hand moved as if possessed, desperately wringing every last drop of music from him. But it was all falling apart. The notes faltered, faded, then stopped entirely, as his arms, heavy as lead weights, went slack at his sides. Still, some other form of music seemed to go on without him, hanging in the air and meshing with the indistinct roar of the crowd—like rainfall on a tin roof. Were they cheering him or cursing him? He couldn't tell anymore. It didn't matter. All he knew was that it had grown too loud, a buzzing drone in his ears that blotted out all tangible thought. He curled over, a pathetic ball in the eye of the spotlight, having given of himself until there was nothing left but the music. And he could hear it now. He could hear it now. His ears were ringing. One cheek pressed against the floorboards, he gazed blearily ahead. Just before darkness enveloped him, he thought he could make out the first stanza to a song unwittingly written in his own blood. His life's work.