Nothing But Bones

47: Variations On An Original Theme

Melvin J. Berrycloth continues his ascent, daring to do no more than peek at any of these. It all carries a risk, he knows. They can't let her wander.

The memories laid out here are all variations on a theme: a girl with plaited hair, sitting in Sunday School, thinking long and hard about why the story of marriage doesn't seem right; a girl sitting in front of her mother while she does her hair and the air is thick with radon hostility; a girl in scouting green and beige lingering by the edge of the trees, wondering what she's supposed to be doing when she doesn't really belong here; Sunday dinners at her grandparents', refuge at her uncle's, enforced friendlessness at the hands of those who seem to despise her more than they should.

The newer ones are happier, to an extent. More tolerant. Flicking bits of shredded cardboard at her friends in the basement while campy violence plays out on-screen; laying on the floor in someone else's room, swapping notes and laughing like nothing ever changed between shades of purple and green; wide canvases with neon colors, grease-stained fingers tapping a kitchen table while watching someone else cook, forcing siblings through homework until everyone's frustrated.

Of course there's all the guilt. Her finger on the trigger behind one door; tinnitus where screams for mercy should be behind another. Those are things he could predict, though. Those are things she mentioned off-hand, like everybody already knew, or perhaps knew better than to ask. It's more present than he anticipated— doors painted blue, spiraling up and up. They're more numerous than one every seventeen tiles.

He simply passes most of them by. He opens one, though. It tastes bitter; it feels like giving up.

It opens to beige carpet and clear glass. A practice room, maybe; he can see a band room beyond it. A treble clef, passive-aggressive thoughts on staccato, and reminders about practice times are scrawled out on a whiteboard behind the window. It's two memories in one, almost. She's remembering some other time, some other feeling— rising from a chair painted performance black at the age of fourteen, applause in her chest like sitting by a passing parade.

She's taller now. Seventeen. A little less excited. The hand in the bell has become as routine as the spit rag on the floor at her feet. It rages in the back of her mind, a question unending, fueling staccato and double-tongue through a piece she doesn't want to play anymore; it's something she doesn't entertain until she gets to a twenty-measure rest: what's the point?

So much has gone wrong. She isn't a child anymore. There's no joy to this. Her parents are across the country, pretending she doesn't exist; her best friend hasn't spoken to her since November. In a few months, she's going to graduate and it will have meant nothing. It will all have meant just as much as she does.

It's the day before winter break. What better time than now? It's all festival prep from here on out, isn't it? And the money saved from a semester of not renting a horn isn't ignorable, even if it isn't much. Maybe she's tired of being alone. Maybe she just wants to lean into it. It's the way her life is supposed to go anyway, isn't it? Nothing special, nothing bright. Just some asshole who won't stop talking about Bigfoot and won't stop smacking her head on things. Just that weird AV kid who tagged along and yelled about the meaning of it all when they were trying to kill Oneiron. What-the-fuck-ever. No wonder nobody wants to be around her.

She flips the horn and empties out the spit from the slide, supposing the decision has already been made. This doesn't matter, anyway. It never did.

Melvin shuts the door gently. He isn't quite sure what to make of that. Brass players certainly are gross, he supposes— and perhaps tragic, given it was never about the French horn anyway. He pats the door, leaves it be. That was months before he came back from living with the elves and realized he would have to answer questions about where he was for six years.