The Iconoclast

Chapter 3

one hundred fifteen days before

THE DAY OF the concert finally came.

My eyes furiously searched my poorly-stocked closet that was full of plenty of dark flannels and 80's band t-shirts. I sighed, scratching my head. Curse myself for stubbornly sticking to my own style and never listening to my dads when they insisted on buying me formal clothes.

It was already 5:30, and I needed to be there by 6:00 to take pictures of the students before the concert even fucking starts. I was in a rush, frustrated with myself because I couldn't find the right outfit. I felt like a crazy, desperate woman being all indecisive about what she should wear to an important interview.

Except, this isn't an interview and nobody is going to give a single fuck about how you look. Besides, you always look like shit, why even try?

I clenched my jaw, pushing my subconscious to the side. Ninety percent of my damned clothes was either black, or some kind of dark color. This was a serious problem. I have to look sort of fancy, I mentally chanted to myself over and over again. "Fuck it." I snatched my black linen shirt from it's hanger and buttoned it up. I somewhat fixed the wrinkly collar, making myself a bit more presentable.

They wanted all black, well they were gonna get it. I slipped on my dirty black converse, knowing well that Ivan would scold at me for "not being tidy." I could give two shits about what my dad thought.

Finally, I swung my expensive camera over my neck and exited my room.

Curtis was already waiting for me in his crappy, rust bucket of a car. At least that's what I thought it was. As I left the house, I walked across our yard, spotting Ivan working on the garden. He looked so silly, with his dorky yellow garden gloves. The sun was already beginning to set on the horizon, giving the sky a warm, auburn glow.

"Have fun, Mitch! What are those? We agreed that you wouldn't wear those junky shoes when you're supposed to be dressing nice!" He was planting morning glories, digging up holes with a trowel.

I rolled my eyes. "They're shoes, Dad." He waved at me, smiling as I got into Curtis' car. "Let's go." I mumbled. "Yes, sirrr!" My brother bit down on a cigarette from their open box, taking it between his lips and sparking it up. The stench of tobacco filled the car within seconds.

"Want one?" He mumbled, taking a long swig. I ignored him, looking out the window and pretending to not mind the smell. He chuckled, shoving my arm. Curtis knew I loathed the smell of cigarettes. "Alright, if you say so." He said before pulling out of the drive way.

* * *

"PICK ME UP at 7:30." I said, getting out of the car.

"Nope, you're walking your ass home." He argued. I gave him a blank stare.

"Okay, okay!" His hands came up in defense.

"Thanks," I gave him a small smile before shutting the door.

As soon as I entered through the band/orchestra side of the building, I heard the velvety sound of a variety of instruments being played in no particular rhythm. This is good, I thought. The students were still practicing on their own.

I reached for the handle of the orchestra room, but a faint melody stopped me in my tracks. The sound was coming from a different direction. It was a very soft, sorrowful ring. Instantly, I knew the sound being produced unlike anything else came from a big instrument. It must've been a bass. The bow's friction against the strings gave birth to a bittersweet music piece that I couldn't quite recognize.