The Painter & The Pianist

xii.

CHAPTER TWELVE

"Jaron? Where are you?" A woman's voice called for the helpless little Jaron. He knew exactly who it was, it was her. He pulled his knees to his chest so that they would meet the ruffles that had decorated his ballet outfit.

The cupboard door swung open to reveal the birthday boy. "There's my son. Look, now that you're growing up Jaron, you can't keep hiding away like this." His mother's smile was warm and comforting, but he knew better than to trust it.

"Mama...I don't want to go!" Jaron climbed out of his hiding place and stomped his foot in protest. "I don't want to dance for those people. I want to play the music not dance to it!" He quickly shied away from his open protest when he saw his father walked in the room.

"Do you hear this, honey?" Jaron's mother quickly made her way to the grown man's side. "He's talking back to me! He's being so disrespectful."

The man looked over at Jaron, with a smirk. "I wonder where he got that from." His father whispered sarcastically under his breath before giving his real response. "Tatiana, he'll be out there. He'll be out there, and he'll dance. Let's see if you even taught the brat right. Oh, after the party, clean up. You and your family are such slobs." Tatiana winced at his comment.

Jaron quickly ran past his mother toward the door. Tatiana joined him, she led him by the hand to the open patch of bluegrass outside. "Now, let's watch the birthday boy perform his new routine for us!" Tatiana clapped her hands together and smiled enthusiastically.

As Jaron got into his starting position, he noticed his hands were shaking. Only, they weren't shaking because of any stage fright, they were shaking because he knew what she would do to him if he messed up. He kept repeating the same phrase in his head over and over: don't mess up.

He put on a performance that was good for his age. Everyone clapped and cheered for him, which made him turn red and turn away, with a shy smile that slowly spread across his face. Pride encased him, but it could not protect him from her.

Tatiana leaned down and whispered in his ear with a slow and harsh tone. "You changed the second position hold into a turn. That means more practice tonight." A chill went up Jaron's spine, and all he wanted to do was disappear. He grabbed his arm, letting the pangs from the previous night's 'practice' bruises envelope his arm.

He looked into the eyes of his mother and felt anger and sadness encircle him, like fuel which lit a fire deep down inside of him. He wanted to tell her how he felt. I don't want to be your son. I am not your son. I don't want to be a dancer. I am a pianist. I don't want to be Jaron. "Call me Amadeus!" Amadeus screamed.

*

TWO MONTHS LATER

APRIL

Amadeus woke up startled. His breaths were heavy and his hands were just as shaky as they were in his dream. Only he knew it wasn't a dream. It was real. It was a memory.

He glanced at his phone and at the time, which displayed 7:45 am. Amadeus arranged the shirts and blankets neatly before he grabbed his duffel bag and the sheet music he had procured from his house a few months back. He ran to the bathroom with a handful of dress clothes and shut the bathroom door abruptly which woke Monserrat from a surreal dream.

"Ame?" he said groggily. From the bed, he turned over haphazardly and had somehow expected to see Amadeus in bed, lying next to him. Bad mistake Monserrat, he told himself. He really needed to wake up. Monserrat's eyes drew heavy once more, and he pulled the sheets over his head.