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| He's at it again. Bad Luck's renowned vocalist, Shindou Shuichi, is moping around the studio with his patented look of misery, disrupting our rehearsal session and basically, ruining our whole day. One thing I've learned since joining this band is that wherever Shuichi's moods go, the moods of those around him tend to follow. Quite bothersome really when you consider how much work still needs to be done before our songs are ready for public scrutiny. Hence, here I am, stuck in the studio after everyone else had decided to call it a day after hours of fruitless labour, trying to make the perfect arrangement out of Shuichi's wild lyrics with the so-called lyricist himself. I fiddle with my keyboard, attempting to ignore the slumping figure sitting in the corner of the room, undoubtedly dwelling over some disagreement he'd had with his beloved Yuki. It was always the same old story: Yuki would put him down and he would be monumentally depressed until something just as trivial changes his mood one-eighty degrees. One honestly had to wonder how he does it, riding this emotional roller coaster that would have anyone's head spinning. Stupid kid. Kid? Yes, despite the fact that he is older than me, he acts so much my junior that I can't help but think of him as such. I find it irritating, these acts of immaturity and periods of mood-altering tantrums. How is anything to be accomplished with such a high-spirited member? In fact, when I think about it, I hate him for it. And yet, I envy him, envy his freedom of expression, his love for life, his capacity for feeling... You see, Fujisaki Suguru could never behave in such a manner, no, not the cousin of NG's Seguchi Touma, whose composure and decisions are impeccable and beyond reproach. For as long as I can remember, I have been striving to achieve the high standards set by my famous cousin, slowly building the perfect veneer with which to show the world. I had to be serene, calm, in control, regardless of what the situation may be ... because to be otherwise would, in short, destroy me all over again.
My earliest memories were of delicate notes of music floating through my head, lulling me and delighting me with a unique brand of melodic peace. It was a refuge when I was sad or angry, providing me with solace and comfort far from reality. I couldn't describe what I heard since it puzzled even myself with its contradiction of simplicity and intricacy. Suffice it to say that I was content with its presence in my life. My family was very well off financially, living in a comfortably sized house that accommodated my mother's desires. My father was rarely around, deferring all major decisions to my mother. Therefore, she decorated our home with extravagancies that screamed wealth, buying accessories for our abode that I found rather ornate. To be honest, it felt like living in a gilded cage. By the age of six, I took a decisive step and began putting the wonderful music I heard down on paper. When my mother discovered this pastime, she readily encouraged it, and hired tutor after tutor to hone my musical abilities. In fact, she made sure I attended my lessons and strictly ensured I finished any assignments I may have received. Being so young at the time, I didn't realize what she was truly attempting to do. I was happy to comply as long as I gained her approval. It wasn't until I reached the age of ten that I understood her demanding attitude towards me: she wanted to be surrounded by perfection, and would stop at nothing to make everything around her – including her son – meet her requirements. I remember being taken out during her social gatherings and paraded before her friends, enabling her to showcase how her perfect parenting had produced such a perfect child. I would smile and politely respond to question directed my way like a mannerly son. After I had stayed for a sufficient amount of time, I would be dismissed with a subtle motion of her head. No hugs, no kisses, just a brief nod accompanied with a glimmer of approval in her eyes, and I was once again relegated to my room, tucked away, only to be taken out the next time I was needed. And yet, I didn't mind, but found myself living for those moments when approval shone in her eyes. I didn't regret the lack of love in our relationship, because, when you think about it, how can one regret something one has never experienced? Thus, I continued with my musical studies, endeavouring to meet my mother's expectations in that arena. Her criterion for me was simple: meet and perhaps even surpass the heights reached by my famous cousin, Seguchi Touma. Not unattainable but still, difficult. And without question, I took up the challenge, hoping that once I reached her ideal of perfection, this goal she had set for me, I would gain another look of approval. Then, at the age of fourteen, Suzuki Eiji walked into my life, and with him came a whole world of possibilities that I had never known. He was the next in a long line of music teachers hired by my mother to perfect my skill, a man whose smile and presence could brighten a room the moment he entered. He was young, younger than any of the others that came before him - no more than twenty-three by my estimation. With his silky black hair, warm chocolate eyes, and delicate facial features, he was handsome to say the least, but it was his sunny personality that instantly endeared him to me. To put it simply, I fell in love with him. From the moment we were introduced, Suzuki-sensei had made himself the most approachable and trustworthy person in my life. In all our lessons, I subconsciously learned what it was to love, to feel a warmth seep through every fibre of my being every time he was near, and to feel clawing despair deep in my soul when he wasn't. He wholeheartedly encouraged me to compose my music and was genuinely appreciative of the pieces I created. Soon, I found myself confiding in him and telling him of the ethereal music that danced through my head. He smiled, placed a firm, reassuring hand on my shoulder, and told me to never lose that music, to hold it close and never let anyone take it away. It was then, at that moment, when we were both sitting at my piano bench in my sunlit music room, that I impulsively leaned up and kissed him shyly on the lips. I still don't know to this day what caused me to do it: perhaps it was his hand on my shoulder that sent shivers down my spine, or perhaps it was the look of compassion and understanding that glowed in his eyes. I didn't care. It only mattered that for the first time in my life, I actually 'felt'. His intense gaze held mine for what seemed like an eternity before he said anything. "Suguru," his voice came out softly. "You shouldn't have done that." There was no reprimand in his tone, only sympathy, which made me slightly uncomfortable. "It's not right." I knew it wasn't right. I knew it was almost blasphemous for a student to fall in love with his teacher - and a male teacher, too - but I couldn't stop it. I loved him, plain and simple. "I know," I said shakily, feeling an odd prickling behind my eyes when I tried to maintain his soft gaze. "But I can't help it." My vision blurred and a single tear made a lonely path down my cheek. He was fighting with himself as well, I could see, and after a brief moment of indecision, he took me into his arms and held me tightly. In his embrace, I found a sense of completion I had never known, comforting, warm, ... and perfect. When he left that day, I didn't feel the usual despair I normally experienced at the end of our lesson. I saw him out and closed the door with a content smile, eagerly awaiting tomorrow's lesson. I can't describe exactly what happened next, but I recall turning around and hearing a resounding slap echo through the empty hall. A few seconds passed before the stinging sensation on my cheek told me that I was the one who had just been slapped. Turning bewildered eyes toward my attacker, I unconsciously took a step back when I met the accusing look of my mother. She had seen. She had seen and she knew. "You're a disgrace." Undisguised venom dripped from her words. "I will not have you destroy everything I've struggled to build with your foolishness. When that man comes back tomorrow, he will be fired and you will never see him again." Each syllable tore at the fledgling emotions that I had painstakingly cultivated, but I somehow knew that these new feelings were strong, stronger than this damned cage of perfection into which she had forced me. For the first time since I could remember, I didn't care about her approval or her wants. I didn't care about what would happen to me or what tomorrow would bring. Without answering or meeting her eyes, I walked calmly to my room. The next day, I sat in the music room and waited anxiously for Suzuki-sensei to arrive, unsure of what my mother would do when he did. I was worried, but for some reason, maybe childish naiveté, I had confidence that everything would work out. He was late, I thought distractedly as I glanced briefly at my watch. This waiting was slowly driving me crazy. So caught up was I in my thoughts that I jumped when a knock reverberated through the room. Rushing over to open the door, I paused when I met the stone glare of my mother on the other side. "He's dead," she said flatly, a look of vindication on her face. I blinked owlishly at her, not fully comprehending what she had just said. "He was in a car accident last night. His family just called to tell us," she continued. "It's sad, but it's for the better." I couldn't stand looking at her any longer, and just slammed the door in her face. Leaning back against the newly closed door, I slid to the ground, feeling the world crumble around me. He's dead, she had said. No, it wasn't true. It wasn't! My mother was lying. She had to be. But deep down, I knew. I knew she wouldn't lie about something like this, not when it could be so easy to disprove. Slowly, as reality set in, the room blurred as red-hot tears burned trails down my face. I hugged my knees to my chest, hoping in vain to stop the pain that had consumed my whole body. I felt everything inside me constricted as I was wracked in heart-wrenching sobs. God, so this was what it was like to feel, to love... Through my tears, I looked up at the fuzzy image of the piano that sat tauntingly in the center of the room, ghost images of happy days past dancing before me. I didn't like it ... I didn't want to have this feeling ever again. That night, I sat on the music room floor by the door and slept. That night, I cried myself to sleep while losing the new person I had just discovered. That night, I realized that I would never hear my music again ... (***) Giving up on trying to properly arrange the music, I look up at the sulking figure that was Shuichi. "Shindou-san, would you stop it please?" My voice echoes in the acoustically enhanced room as it travels to the only other occupant. "We can't get any work done when you're like this." He looks up at me with watery eyes. "You wouldn't understand ..." "Well, I'm trying to arrange your lyrics into some semblance of a song and I can't do it with you moping around." I gesture toward his lyrics that lay atop my keyboard. This is one thing about him that I admire - his ability to put so much passion, so much feeling, so much of himself into his music. The best I can do now is work on arrangements, I think resignedly. Rising from his sitting position, Shuichi walks over to me with an uncharacteristic look of seriousness on his face. "Do you even think of anything else but work? I mean, if you want to get it done so badly, why don't you just compose something yourself?" His words are not accusing and do not hold any malice. They are just simple, serious words meant to inquire about a person. I look away, unable to answer. It is not as if I don't know the answer, but it is merely that I can't answer. Apparently, and surprisingly, he sees this, and smiles sadly. Silently, he nods in understanding and leaves the room with a soft goodbye. I watch his departure discreetly, amazed at the personality of that boy. I hate him and yet, I admire him, all for the same reasons: he has no inhibitions, and lives his life freely and without worry of what the future may bring. He lives the gamut of emotions put before him without any qualms and manages to bounce right back into a norm. He is, in essence, perfect in his imperfection. And my ideal foil, I think. He is what I could have been if circumstance had dictated differently. I tap a key on my keyboard, the single note resonating in the still air and filling the room with its subtle vibration. ... why don't you just compose something yourself, he had asked. I tap another key, its lonely sound making its way through my empty soul. I try tapping out a few more notes, but each one is hollow, emotionless, and without passion. Because I can't, Shuichi. Because my ability to compose died with my ability to love, died the night my music stopped. "Don't ever lose that music, Suguru. Hold it close and never let anyone take it away," I hear a distant voice say. Smothering a sob at the recollection of painful memories, I fall limply to the ground. Are you happy now, Mother? I have attained a level of near perfection for a price that I think is way too dear. I am trapped in this empty mold praised by a society to which you subscribe. Does that meet your approval, Mother? I am a prisoner in the ideals and dreams built by her, and have been thus trapped for so long that to live a life outside of those confines holds no appeal for me now. It frightens me to no end because I wouldn't know how to live it. Because when all is said and done, I wouldn't know how to be free.
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