The Concert

Untitled Part 3

  I am dragged up the stairs by my father. It happens at least once a week, more if I do more concerts. I think my father makes my set list a bitch just to make me screw up. He has put songs that I haven't played in seven years on there before. He doesn't want me to be perfect, because he gets pleasure out of my pain. He grabs the ropes, wrapping me, immobilizing me. I fall into a sort of trance. It don't know what happens, and I don't care to, so I block it. The next six hours are spent in light, I don't see or hear anything. I come back to my mother in front of me. The ropes are gone. My father is nowhere to be seen.

"Slut," slapping me across my face, she is very careful not to put marks in visible places. She takes out her knife. I lay down on the ground, I know what is about to happen, and I bring myself to  the light again. I come back to her talking.

"You have an interview at 7:30 to explain those boys. The press is going to have a fucking field day with this and it is all your fault." She walks out of the room and I go into the bathroom to shower. I wash the blood off my back. It is the same punishment every time, my back is a checkerboard, patchy with new and regrowing skin. 

     I go to bed. I have my first day of school tomorrow, an interview right before. I am going to Ashley Waters. My father is being accused of something or other in the media and needs a distraction. That is how my life works, I am the distraction. I think my sole purpose in life is to take the heat off of Marie and my parents. If I go to sleep now I can get a solid hour and a half before I have to get up.

Mr. Blackbourne's POV

     That performance was spectacular. The technique she has is stunning, not once was she off beat, she seemed to play in her sleep. Most people have some sort of expression on their face while they play, but hers was blank, she was just going through the motions. She seemed extremely disappointed with herself after the performance. Why, I don't know, she played an hour of near perfection.

     My team and I go to the ballroom. We are investigating Mr. Sorenson for suspicious behavior. He was caught in an alley with an under aged girl a few days ago. He bought himself out of police investigation, so the Academy is picking up the slack. 

     Standing off to the side is the young Miss Sorenson. She is alone, sipping from her water glass, looking around the room. She is terrified, it is evident on her face. I have Mr. Morgan lead us over, he says he has met her before. She notices our approach and watches with apprehension as we get closer. Mr. Morgan exchanges greetings with her, and while her voice is smooth and confident, her eyes say that she wants us to go away. That she doesn't want to be here. He introduces her to us and she drops the formality, I keep it, it is my thing. She continues to glance across the room as I complement her on her set list. It was very difficult, I know from experience. She doesn't respond, but her expression says it all. She hated it, every second of those songs she despised. It is a shame that someone with that much talent dislikes the very music she plays.

     Mr. Lee begins to ask her basic questions and her father comes over. He tells us she needs to leaves and brings her wrist into a very painful posistion. She doesn't even flinch. The fear in her eyes is evident as she tells us goodbye and leaves.