Broken String

VI

Eddy could have known this was a bad idea. In fact, Brett tried to tell him yesterday, didn't he? Why the fuck didn't he listen to his best friend? 
Brett knows what he can, and what he can't do, right? 
His teacher's smile has long since faded and she's asked him to try the run of thirds again, this time with less bow, and a little more weight. 
Not that it'll help. He knows that, already. And his hand hurts again, it really fucking hurts. And why are there tears, pricking behind his eyes? 
He takes a deep breath and tries again. 
"Okay, so the transition from first finger to second keeps being a little off." she says. "And then your second third comes out a bit out of tune. Can you play first the top line, then the bottom?"
"Okay." he says. 
I mean, what is he going to say? I tried that fifteen times yesterday but the second I put them back together they're out of tune again? 
Somehow he doesn't think that's quite what she wants to hear. So he grits his teeth and does as she asks. 
To no avail, of course. 
"Okay, thank you, Eddy, good effort." she says. "Please practise it like this and I'll see you on Friday."
"Thank you." he mumbles, the hot tears pressing, and he knows now he won't be able to keep them away for long. "I'll try."
"And if it doesn't work there are other caprices we can look at too." she says.
Yeah. That's the last dagger he needed to the heart. 
He hastily says his goodbyes, all but runs to the end of the hall, stumbles into the toilet, locks it and sinks down on the toilet seat, hot angry tears running over his cheeks. 
"Fuck it!" he hisses as sobs he's powerless to stop wrack his chest. "Why do I suck this bad?"
It doesn't help, to say it, it only makes him sob harder. 

He sits there for the longest time in his misery. And for a moment he wishes Brett were here, because he can't remember ever feeling more alone in his life.  Brett would know what to do. What a weird thought, though, wanting Brett here. I mean, he could call him, of course he could. But he won't. Why the hell would he? He's fucking twenty years old. Old enough to sort out his own shit. And even if Brett's his best friend there's no reason to show himself to anyone when he's this weak. This pathetic. 
With determination he gets up from the toilet seat and takes a deep breath. 
He'll be facing Anna, soon enough. She expects him down there for coffee.
Well. At least the coffee may wake him up some more. The others should be in rehearsal by now, with the orchestra that's going to accompany him in the not too distant future. 
He splashes water into his face and tries to be as excited about that idea as he was a few months ago, when he first won the competition, when he first learned he would be a soloist. 

Somehow it's hard, though. His enthusiasm button seems to be missing. Or broken. 
He shrugs at the guy in the mirror, still haggard looking, but now with red eyes. He hopes they'll clear by the time he gets downstairs. He nods at himself, then unlocks the door and walks calmly down the corridor. At the lifts he decides: no. He needs the time. So he half jogs down ten flights of stairs, two per floor, and walks into the cafeteria like - he hopes- nothing is wrong. 
At all.