"And now..."
The curtains are drawn back. The blindingly hot lights of the stage greet me like the hounds of hell.
"Introducing, the winner of the West Division Cantrelotte Cello Competition."
I still cannot hear.
"Jaemin Song!"
A thunderous applause from a crowd of faceless people. But I'm still behind the stage, gazing from beyond as I grip the neck of my cello in one hand and my bow in the other. My knuckles are white from the exerted strength. My entire body is tense.
Still, I must go. I have to go. It's what she wants me to do. It's what she would be telling me to do right this moment.
This is my punishment.
I take a step forward, onto that brightly lit stage. The tapping of my concert shoes against the wooden floor reverberates crisply throughout the hall.
And when I come to my seat, I turn to face that impossibly dark expanse and bow my head in it's direction. Their claps sound like television static. The air around me is in sepia.
The audience quiets as I take my seat and adjust. The moment of anticipation is here; the air is dense, the silence suffocating, the expectations impossibly heavy.
Remember what you've been taught. Follow the motions.
My arms are first at my sides, slack, then I slowly raise them into position. My left on the strings, my right on my bow. I have done this numerous times. I have succeeded numerous times. And as I begin to move the bow, I know I am producing the sound I want to make. I practiced enough for the entire song to become pure muscle memory, and my fingers and arms move autonomously.
As long as I play what is written in the score, the audience will hear what they came here to listen to.
However, the sound that greets my ears is not music—
It is the purest agony.
y=mx+b.
The equation of a straight line, called a linear equation. To any mathematician, this is an abstract concept used as a base to explore relationships between imaginary numbers and unseen solutions. To me, however, y=mx+b represents the career path of the classical musician. A line that extends from a point of origin and then upwards, upwards, and upwards, into a constant infinity and even further, further, and further above that. The point of origin is where you hone your craft - that is, you assimilate the fundamentals of playing your instrument, which you then move on to complete and total mastery of before proving your worth in certain displays of skill and technique - auditions, competitions, and performances. There is no "goal" however when it comes to your path as a musician; when people expect you to improve and yet further improve with every appearance, every concert and even every interview and public sighting, there is only "up."
Hence, y=mx+b.
Believe it or not, there exist people who look at that line and think that it's ceaseless pursuit of infinity is inspiring, like the line itself has a will, a method, a reason for existing. These are the same people who will tell you to shoot for the moon and land among the stars, not knowing that shooting yourself anywhere outside the stratosphere will cause you to burn up and die.
Then, there are others who believe more strongly in that line than anyone else - those who believe in it's tragic, piteous fate as a line that will always climb upwards, but never find resolution nor rest. If you can't match that pace— if you cannot surpass your own limits and soar to greater heights with each performance, honing your level of skill to the finest micro-tuning of muscle and memory— then you cannot hope to compete against others.
y=mx+b.
It's neither artistic nor romantic. That's what a musician is. If you find yourself on this path, some would say you're fated to suffer. Somewhere along the way, your mind will turn to steel, and music itself will transform into something beyond recognition. The sweetness of the music you once loved and thought you knew fades away, replaced by a slow and insidious killer.
But let's not get ahead of ourselves.
My name is Jaemin Song. I tell people to call me Jamie since I assume it's easier. Some have told me it's too feminine a nickname to go by, but hearing my birth name butchered multiples times by different people is a unique kind of torture and I've always felt bad when an teacher would reach my name on the attendance list and furrow their brow in confusion. Thus, Jamie is fine. I don't feel one way or the other about it, but what I always did like was my last name.
"Song." It's technically derived from an old Chinese surname which actually has more to do with the dynasty than the word we usually think of today, but meanings can change over time. When I was younger, I thought it was the coolest thing in the entire world that I felt such an affinity towards music, and I really owed it all to such a telling family name. People always remarked that me being a "song," would naturally lead me to such a conclusion. That made me feel… I dunno, important. Kids like that sort of thing. I certainly did.
And it wasn't just me riding the high either. I genuinely enjoyed classical music from the bottom of my heart. My mother started me on the piano at an early age, which I then transitioned from to my life long partner, the cello.
On the topic of mothers, mine was certainly one to behold. I seem to remember the most common thing she'd repeat to me was...
"Be better. At all times, think of ways to improve. There is no 'perfect,' there is only better."
If I ever asked challenged her stance on this and asked her why, she'd feed me something along the lines of:
"Foolish boy. Do you need to ask the sun why it rises, or the birds why they sing?"
She was ridiculous. Her exterior was cold and harsh like winter itself, though I can't deny there might have been maternal loved somewhere deeper within. I suppose that could also apply to me since apples don't fall too far from the tree. They called her an "ice queen" for her professional temperament and in turn I was known as a "ice cold" to my peers growing up for what others assumed to be my strict and unbending personality. Truth is, I was always more of a fan of spring. There was something so soft and comforting about the wind, the way you could feel the chill of the previous season's cold front being tempered by the slow and steady warmth of the oncoming summer. The passing of seasons was an event for me - often times there was very little else to look forward to in between long car drives to and from orchestra rehearsals, private lessons, practice sessions, going to school, so on and so forth.
That was then. Now, I take great comfort in winter. The way snow covers everything like a blanket, calmly and serenely; that biting chill that makes you want to escape, to burrow into your den and only emerge periodically to breathe fresh air. That, to me, is true comfort. For what reason did I change my mind? I'm still not quite certain. However, perhaps it had something to do with the day it happened.
A perfect spring afternoon, sunny and with a steady breeze. My eleventh birthday was just the day prior, but with very little celebration— I spent most of it practicing for the competition after all. Vibrant flowers of various hues and the lush green of the tall, healthy trees painted the town so beautifully that the moment I stepped outside the concert hall, I could almost breathe in the color.
Then I saw her. My mother.
"What is she...?"
I remember how the concerned voices of other passerby leaving the hall tickled my ears, but I paid them no mind. No, more improtantly, she was at the bottom of the stairs, walking away. The back of her head stared back at me. Why was she leaving? Didn't she listen to my performance? I did the best I could, I didn't even make any mistakes!
"She's not...?"
"Hey lady, the light isn't green yet!"
"Somebody stop her!"
I took a deep breath, preparing to call out to her. My feet left the ground, ready to sprint if I had to—
"LOOK OUT!"
I'm not sure what was louder, the shrill scream of the adults standing next to me or the horn of that enormous truck, blaring with an intensity that made my eardrums burst.
And then there was my mother, in the middle of the road.
The world slowed down as she turned to face me. Was she saying something? But I can't hear her, I'm too far, let me come closer... there are arms around me, why are there arms around me? Let me go to my mom, I need to hear—
Is she smiling? Did she hear my music after all? Did I do well? Please— she's just a couple feet away now—
...
...
...
And the only color I could see through the green of the trees, and the blue of the orchids, and the brightness of the sun, was the unforgiving, cruel, crimson red of blood.
Mommy will be fine, right?
She's just sick. Just like when I got that boo-boo from riding my bike. She'll get better, I know she will!
I just need to wait. That's what the big people in the white coats told me. I trust them. I know what they are. They make you better no matter what you have! Like the time I woke up and my face was really hot, and this weird stuff came out of my mouth...
That's right! When she gets out, she'll want to hear my music again! So I'm gonna play extra well at today's recital!
I know I can do it! I won't make any mistakes this time! I can do better! Just watch me!
My young, childish hands were already moving before I could stop them. A deep, dark void swallowed me whole.
"This just doesn't make sense, Jaemin. You're getting worse by the day."
He clicked his tongue in annoyance, slamming the tape recorder down onto the desk as I jolted straight upwards from the loud and violent gesture.
"What exactly is the meaning of this?"
I looked down. My once kind-hearted instructor who had nothing but love and praise for me now stared at me with tangible disgust.
I held it close in my arms. My cello. A full-size, finely tuned instrument made from various types of wood. A true mastercraft, one that represented countless years of time and tradition.
Yet in that moment, I despised it more than anything.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you!"
I felt a blow across my cheek. For a moment I felt nothing, then a white hot pain streaked across my face.
"Do you understand me? Do you have ANY idea what this means for your future!?"
I didn't meet his eyes. I couldn't.
A powerful blow connected with me once more, causing my head to jerk to the opposite side.
"I'm talking to you, Song! If you still have ears, then play that measure for me again, and do it RIGHT this time."
He stomped back to his desk, grumbling to himself. My ears, though deaf to the notes of the cello and still ringing slightly from his slap, could pick up his words.
"Would've never invested in you if this is what was gonna happen..."
I raise my bow and place it on the string.
"You still can't hear the notes?"
I nodded in response while staring at the soles of my thoroughly worn sneakers. I can see a bit of my socks peeking through the sides. The sound of pen scribbling on paper reached my ears.
"You don't actually believe this do you, doctor? He's clearly just making it up. He's at that age now."
"I wouldn't be too sure about that. You know what he went through last year, and considering the rate of his rehabilitation, I wouldn't be surprised if this continued for a while. Especially with today being the anniversary of..."
Though I never lifted my head, I could feel their peircing gazes on me nonetheless. It puzzled me. It's not like they cared a lot about my feelings on anything else, but if there was one topic everyone was hesitant to mention in my presence, it was...
...my mother's death. The day of that incident came and passed me now around six years ago. And on the same day as that tragedy, I stopped being able to hear the notes of my cello.
No, I didn't go deaf. I still walk and talk and listen just fine. It isn't something that affects my daily life on a major level. Make no mistake about it— the only thing I can no longer hear is the sound of the cello.
No one understands why. Not even me. It's not the kind of condition that can be treated, it can't even truly be diagnosed or assessed by any kind of standard except through a lens of psychological trauma— even then, it's abnormal. But it is what it is. My hands still know how to play, but my mind cannot process the notes. When I place my fingers in first position and play a scale in C minor, I hear one note... then another... then, when I'm truly focused—
Nothing. Everything is reduced to dull, muted vibrations. Like television static. No matter how hard I try, no matter how well I play, the sound won't reach my ears.
The notes float away and vanish like the balloons of a child who was never told to not let go.