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A Final Performance
“Welcome. Please make your way to room 312 on the third floor. They are awaiting your arrival,” Nodding, he stepped past the youthful, petite woman perched behind a desk, quite probably double her height.
Her attire consisted of a simple, sky blue dress. Beaming, she waved him off. Striding towards the double doors, his heartbeat pounded relentlessly in his chest. His reluctant family lingered by the doors, their faces blurring and fading with each passing second. The slight ringing in his head gradually grew from a bare existence to an overpowering, deafening pitch. With each thump, step after step he made his way to the third floor.
Room 312. Staring at those numbers before him, he pushed open the heavy, ivory doors. He peered through the window at the large array of men and women dressed in blue, and his heart stopped in its tracks. Hands hanging at his side, balled in painfully tight fists. His breath caught in his throat. It was time.
He sat down and closed his eyes. Letting the music flow from the melodies in his head to the black and white keys that emerged from the blinding white light before him. With each cadence, he felt his adrenaline grow, faster, and faster, the race against the clock continued.
The first movement came to a close, the final chord still echoing in the performance hall. As swift as a rabbit, he continued, barely leaving any time to process the intensity of the first movement. With delicate precision only comparable to that of a feather, he played the hopeful melody. Each note like a ray of sunlight striking through the dimmed audience, and through that light he saw faces. Smiling faces of his family, teachers and friends as he played his first performance. His fingers slowed to a finish, barely able to keep up with his frantic, desperate desire to play more. Just one more, one final piece.
Barely able to see his shaking hands, he felt an excruciating pain, like a hundred needles pierced his body simultaneously. The dull ache from his hands continued to grow and expand, from his fingertips stretching to his elbows in shooting streaks of intolerable pain. Until, like a brief flash lightning, it was gone. He could no longer feel his hands that were playing as if controlled by the strings of a puppet master. His fingers skimmed over the keys on his final fantom wish; to keep playing.
As if submerged water, he felt himself rising up, gasping for air as his senses gradually returned. The surgeon’s worried faces filled his view, their masks stained by blood and the vile stench of chemicals overwhelmed his senses. A thought suddenly arose; what about his hands.
“I’m sorry sir, we were unable to remove the cancerous cells… our sincerest condolences,” The surgeon’s words fell on deaf ears.
Still unable to feel anything beyond his elbows, he shakely peered over the many layers of blankets and gear that was spread over his body he saw the results of the surgery...
© Bifen
Her attire consisted of a simple, sky blue dress. Beaming, she waved him off. Striding towards the double doors, his heartbeat pounded relentlessly in his chest. His reluctant family lingered by the doors, their faces blurring and fading with each passing second. The slight ringing in his head gradually grew from a bare existence to an overpowering, deafening pitch. With each thump, step after step he made his way to the third floor.
Room 312. Staring at those numbers before him, he pushed open the heavy, ivory doors. He peered through the window at the large array of men and women dressed in blue, and his heart stopped in its tracks. Hands hanging at his side, balled in painfully tight fists. His breath caught in his throat. It was time.
He sat down and closed his eyes. Letting the music flow from the melodies in his head to the black and white keys that emerged from the blinding white light before him. With each cadence, he felt his adrenaline grow, faster, and faster, the race against the clock continued.
The first movement came to a close, the final chord still echoing in the performance hall. As swift as a rabbit, he continued, barely leaving any time to process the intensity of the first movement. With delicate precision only comparable to that of a feather, he played the hopeful melody. Each note like a ray of sunlight striking through the dimmed audience, and through that light he saw faces. Smiling faces of his family, teachers and friends as he played his first performance. His fingers slowed to a finish, barely able to keep up with his frantic, desperate desire to play more. Just one more, one final piece.
Barely able to see his shaking hands, he felt an excruciating pain, like a hundred needles pierced his body simultaneously. The dull ache from his hands continued to grow and expand, from his fingertips stretching to his elbows in shooting streaks of intolerable pain. Until, like a brief flash lightning, it was gone. He could no longer feel his hands that were playing as if controlled by the strings of a puppet master. His fingers skimmed over the keys on his final fantom wish; to keep playing.
As if submerged water, he felt himself rising up, gasping for air as his senses gradually returned. The surgeon’s worried faces filled his view, their masks stained by blood and the vile stench of chemicals overwhelmed his senses. A thought suddenly arose; what about his hands.
“I’m sorry sir, we were unable to remove the cancerous cells… our sincerest condolences,” The surgeon’s words fell on deaf ears.
Still unable to feel anything beyond his elbows, he shakely peered over the many layers of blankets and gear that was spread over his body he saw the results of the surgery...
© Bifen
