Sisters at Heart

by Lunatone

Chapter Three: The Fault in Our Doubts

Sisters at Heart

Lunatone

Chapter Three

The Fault in Our Doubts

Folklore has it that my father won the Equestrian Classical Music Contest on his very first attempt. If the story had been about a random contestant, it would have been dismissed as nothing special. If ponies bragged about having their fillies competing in the contest, chances were they competed in a paltry music contest at their fillies’ middle school, since this contest only selected the best musicians in Equestria to participate.

Bon Bon, a loyal friend of my father, whom he had met at Manehattan University, always called him “The Magical Stringed Musician” since he had a miraculous gift to play most stringed instruments. Specifically, the cello. My father was a force of nature, with a small beard, a cutie mark of a music note with a glowing fissure in the middle, a simple black mane, and an ivory coat.

Jazzmere was nearly impossible to ignore, even in his sleep. When he slept, his snoring sounded like an angry hydra. I used to bury myself under my wool blanket, and still the sounds of his snoring resonated through the thick walls of our house. I wondered how my mother managed to sleep with his chronic snoring. That was one thing of the many things I would’ve asked her if she was still alive.

When I was about three years old, Jazzmere had contested in the ECMC for the first time, so he could prove that music comes from the heart, and not from anywhere else. I heard this story through Bon Bon. She told me Jazzmere had written a two and a half minute lament that expressed his sorrow for the loss of his dear wife—my mother—through the use of musical form.

When he submitted his own written music piece for the competition, everypony laughed at him because he wasn’t a “professional composer”; they told him to use a piece of music that was already well-known since his piece wouldn’t catch the audience’s attention.

But, of course, Jazzmere refused to use anything but his lament. And he did. When he got on stage, everypony shook their head in doubt at his supercilious ways. Then, through all the doubt, he succeeded, winning the contest with flying music notes, and everypony in the audience sat there stunned, speechless.

I remember, precisely, the day before the contest started. Jazzmere took me, Vinyl, and Dusty to the Manehattan lake for a picnic, so he could play his lament with his cello for us while we ate. What I heard was heartwarming. And it wasn’t until that day, at the age of three, when I took a serious interest in music and the cello.

The euphonic melody had attracted what looked like outsiders, and other ponies of the Manehattan community. They all stood around us, in awe, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I would ever become a successful musician like my father.

On the day of the contest, at Manehattan City Music Hall, they, for the first time in years, ran out of seats. Many ponies were forced to stand to watch the contestants play. Luckily for us, Jazzmere had managed to get us front row seats. We didn’t see Jazzmere up on the stage until near the end. And when he got on stage, he turned the entire hall into something impossible to explain: I saw ponies began to cry because of how stirring it was; others sat there with their jaws dropped in silence.

When he finished his lament, ponies stood up and cheered for him in admiration. He was declared winner of the ECMC that year, and his name was put on a plaque, along with the other past winning contestants.

Yet—despite Jazzmere’s success, ponies were always doubting him. They had told him that musical talent wasn’t in his blood, or in his family’s heritage. That, instead, he should go to medical school and study biology—and become a doctor, like his parents were. Yet, he proved them wrong by winning one of the hardest music contests in all of Equestria. Even then, ponies still doubted his abilities.

When I started the fifth grade, we had a teacher who taught us about the history of music. His name was Crazy Strings, a short and stubby stallion with a pencil thin mustache, a quaver for a cutie mark, and a deep, raspy voice. He lectured us about the fundamentals of music, and how it came about in the first ages of Equestria. Then he made us memorize notes used in musical notation, telling us that we could only become a successful musician by creating something everypony would love.

“I want you to remember this, fillies: You can’t be a passionate musician, and be a successful one at the same time,” he said to us before the bell rang. “You cannot, and I’ll say it again, you cannot be a passionate musician and be successful!”

On my way home that day, I thought about what I had learned in class. I didn’t quite understand that statement he made: “You can’t be a passionate musician, and be a successful one at the same time.” Why couldn’t one be successful and passionate at the same time?

When I got home, I went to the living room to lie down and relax for a little while, but I noticed Vinyl, sitting on the couch, scrawling something on a piece of paper. She quickly concealed the piece of paper with her hooves when she saw me, and hid it under the couch.

“Um..h-hey, Octavia...how was school?” she asked me, her voice choking midway in her sentence.

I took a seat next to her before telling her what was on my mind. Vinyl was always the one I turned to for advice when I was unsure about something.

“It was...well, I’m not really sure,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“Mr. Strings, my music teacher, had told us that we couldn’t be a successful musician and a passionate one at the same time. Everypony in the class seemed to agree with him, but I didn’t. Now I’m not so sure if I’ll ever be a successful musician.”

“You not being successful? C’mon, Octy, don’t be crazy! You’re the most talented pony I know,” she said, getting up from her seat to stand in front of me. “Although I don’t go to school like you, I know what your teacher taught you today is totally stupid.”

“You really think so?”

“I know so. You’ll be a very successful musician! And you shouldn’t doubt that for a second,” Vinyl said with confidence. The way she spoke was unlike anything I had heard from her before. Never had I thought that she would be this persistent to help me.

“That means an awful lot to me, Vinyl,” I said, getting up to give her a warm hug. I just didn’t want to let her go. It felt like I was melting right into her hooves. Not wanting to let go, I slowly withdrew from the hug before we continued our conversation. “Perhaps I should go talk to my father about this. I’m sure he’d like to hear about my day.”

“I’m sure he’d like that. I’ll catch ya later for dinner,” Vinyl said as she went back to do what she was doing before I interrupted her.

I went upstairs to Jazzmere’s study and stood in front of the candle lit fireplace when I told him what Mr. Strings had taught us in class. Jazzmere was pouring himself a cup of tea from the tea-bar he had made at the corner of his study. He listened to me intuitively, bobbed his head, absorbing everything I was telling him about today, and took small sips from his teacup.

Sometimes when I told him things, I wondered if he was actually listening to me.

Then he took a seat with me standing in front of him, on his reholpulsered sofa made from synthetic material. He put his teacup on the side table, then propped me up on his lap.

“I noticed, from what you’ve told me, that you’re obviously confused with what you’re learning in school from actual education,” Jazzmere said, his voice deep.

“But if what Mr. Strings said is true, does that mean I won’t be a successful musician?”

“Hmm.” Jazzmere picked up his cup of tea, took a small sip. “Do you want to know what I think about this?”

“Yes, of course, father.”

“I’ll tell you then,” Jazzmere said, “but I need you to understand this, and understand it now, Octavia: You’ll never learn anything from those senseless idiots, we call teachers.”

“You mean, Mr. Strings?”

“I mean all of them. I would set their university degrees on fire to have them dismissed as teachers,” Jazzmere said, before taking another quick sip. “I’ll have you know, they do nothing but fill your minds with absolute nonsense that you’ll never use in day-to-day life.”

“Then why do I go to school if I don’t learn anything that I’ll ever use?” I asked in between Jazzmere’s periodic sips. “I mean, I thought school was a place to learn.”

“Octavia, my dear, you asked me about being a successful musician, are you listening or not?”

“Yes, father. I’m sorry.”

“Good, now listen up. These buffoons who we call teachers nowadays aren’t doing their job correctly. If they were, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now, would we?”

I kept my lips sealed, not saying a single word since he asked me to listen. But then I noticed that Jazzmere was heaving a sigh of impatience. If I had known he wanted me to answer his question, I would’ve. But he answered it for me.

“The answer is no to that question, Octavia. Anypony who thinks that you can’t be a successful musician because you have too much passion for playing music, should go back to kindergarten school. When somepony says music doesn’t come from the heart, they’re lying.

“And when you lie to ponies, you steal their right from the truth. And in this case, this idiotic Mr. Strings has done exactly that to you. Don’t believe anything he tells you from now on, all right?”

“Yes, father,” I mumbled, trembling with my speech. “But may, I ask you something?”

“You may,” Jazzmere replied, finishing his cup of tea.

“What if I don’t become a successful musician? I mean, there’s always the chance of failure, and I don’t know if I can do it,” I said, my voice hasty and nearly indecipherable. I looked down at the beige carpet that had a diamond pattern.

“You will be. Never doubt yourself, Octavia,” Jazzmere said simply. Then he propped me down from his lap and went back to his tea-bar again.

I watched him refill his teacup and wondered when we would talk again. For some reason, I always felt that my own father disliked me a little, but I never understood why.

Then Jazzmere turned around. “I think dinner is ready. Why don’t you go back downstairs and eat dinner with Vinyl while I have some alone time up here?”

“Yes, father,” I said, leaving quietly, my ears drooping down.

§

After I had dinner with Vinyl, we lay in front of the fireplace. It was a rainy night, and it was quite cold. Vinyl nuzzled into my chest as I softly held her by the fire. She was still a little rattled from the other night, and I promised that I would be her protector when Dusty wasn’t around. And I intended to keep that promise.

Eventually, Dusty called Vinyl up for bed. I gave her a quick kiss goodnight and told her I’d see her in the morning. Then I went to bed myself. But before I went to bed, I noticed Jazzmere’s door was slightly ajar. I saw him sitting behind his desk, on his wool chair, talking to somepony on the speakerphone. When I heard the voice on the other end, I knew who it was: Bon Bon. She was talking to Jazzmere in a really serious tone.

“So what’s really the problem, Jazzmere?”

“I-I don’t think I have a lot of faith in my daughter. She’s a very smart pony, don’t get me wrong, but I feel like she’s going to make a poor decision later on in life.”

“What? What got you to believe such rubbish? She’s a young filly for buck sake! How can you expect so much from her?” Bon Bon said. It sounded like her voice was starting to cut out from the rain.

I heard Jazzmere’s chair creak as he shifted on it. “I don’t know, Bon Bon. She told me earlier tonight that she doesn’t have much faith in herself to be a successful musician. If she doesn’t have faith in herself, why should I?” Jazzmere said, his voice thick and stern.

“Because you’re her father!”

“I don’t know, Bon Bon. Not to mention, she’s way too polite in social situations. She doesn’t seem to have any guts to stand up for what she believes in. I mean, she’s smart enough to tell the difference between a truth and a lie, yet she couldn’t tell that her teacher was lying to her today.”

“So what if she comes off as naïve. It’s expected with young fillies such as herself,” Bon Bon said. Her voice started to sound staticky, yet clear enough to be decipherable. “There’s nothing wrong with not having a mean side, especially for a pony such as herself. I can’t picture Octavia being mean to another pony. You’re overthinking this too much.”

“No, I don’t think I am.” Jazzmere sounded frustrated, almost angry.

“Do you have to always be this stubborn?”

“Arrgh! There’s just something missing in her. I know it,” Jazzmere said.

“Yes, a mean streak.”

“Stop playing with me, Bon Bon please.” Jazzmere inhaled deeply. Then he exhaled afterwards. “I just feel like a failure as a parent. I promised my wife, before she passed away right in front of me, I would do my absolute best to parent our dear Octavia.”

I didn’t want to hear anymore of their conversation, so I withdrew myself and went to bed. I heard the rain tapping against the roof. I couldn’t help but sob into my pillow remembering their conversation, every word of it. Eventually, I fell asleep.

§

The next morning, I went downstairs to make myself some toast and marmalade, my favourite breakfast. Vinyl usually woke up earlier than I did, so she was already at the table eating her breakfast. She saw the despondent look I had on my face and asked me if something was bothering me. I didn’t answer her, though.

So we ate our breakfast in silence.

Comments

[Lazydrill]

So far I like it! So have a thumb up!