Solo

PHOEBE DONOVAN

Beep. Beep. Beep. The microwave yells at me to come and collect my supper. I pick up a fork from the drawer and peel away the rest of the plastic covering the container. I eat slowly. And silently. I use my fork to scrape the inside of the plastic container. I savor the last drops of the microwave curry before I throw it away. I put my fork in the dishwasher. Then I start it. I watch the solid red light that shines on the floor for a minute. Listening to the rumbling of the machine.

In my bedroom, I throw all my clothes in the hamper by the door. Then I get in the shower, turning the water much hotter than is necessary. It feels good. This is my favourite part of the day. Winding down with a scorching hot shower. I turn off the water and grab my towel, shivering at the chilly air that hits me when I open the shower door. I wrap my towel more tightly around myself and walk over to the sink to start brushing my teeth. I spit the minty foam into the sink and rinse my mouth with water.

I plait my hair and pull on some nice warm Star Wars pajama bottoms and a vest. Then I slide into my bed, turning on my light and grabbing my book. It’s not very well written. It’s a cheap murder mystery with a very predictable plot. But I don’t mind.

I wake up very early, outside my room everything is pitch black. My book has fallen to the floor and I’ve lost my page. I don’t remember falling asleep. Now I am up though; I feel wide awake. My apartment feels dark and lonely. I get up and make myself a cup of nice warm tea.

I go and sit on my balcony. As it is almost three in the morning, everyone else on my street is in a deep slumber. The street itself is asleep. There is no sound but the gentle breeze rustling in the bushes down below. I wonder if it is looking for something.

As if from a long way off, the sound of a flute gently playing becomes audible on the wind. It is beautiful music, I would know. I used to play the flute, well too. I even dreamed of playing professionally. But it was just that, a dream. A dream for which I gave everything and everyone. But I wasn’t good enough. So my dream left me as well. The sound of the flute gets louder, and it is joined by the voices of so many other instruments.

I close my eyes and I feel the music. Dancing past me with the wind, playing with my hair and flowing around my baggy pajama bottoms. It goes through me too, touching my soul. The music gets louder and more intense. Rushing past me and whipping my face. I keep my eyes closed, as if I am blocking out it’s harshness. Savouring its gentle beauty. The music continues to get louder and louder. More and more instruments join its path and intertwine with its harmony. It is almost deafening now.

I open my eyes and I can see it thundering. It crashes all around my quiet street. It flows up and down, in and out, uncontrollably, as if it were a monstrous river. And though it is overwhelming, it is still gorgeous. And incredibly powerful, so much so that it almost lifts me off my feet. The music makes me feel small, defenseless. But I am one with it. It is a part of me and I of it. It bangs and hammers in the beautiful way that only music can. And I love it. Tears stream down my cheeks and the wind brushes them away. But more and more continue to coat my cheeks. Adding to the hurricane.

All of a sudden, the music stops. Only the flute is left, playing soft notes with beautiful melody. It gets quieter and quieter, until it is swept away by the breeze.

I take a sip of my tea.

The wind is no longer rustling around in the bushes. It has found what it was looking for. As have I, though I did not know until now that I was looking for anything at all. I step back into my apartment. Which is just as empty as before.