Before my fingers knew what to do—before I knew what chords were, understood the crescendo could make a heart race, or the legato could soothe a soul—I was hooked.
After a few passes over the keys, an idea struck me. I had no idea what I was doing, but my fingers began to move, one note at a time,until a simple song was formed. It was rudimentary and unrefined, but the look on my parents’ faces made me feel like I was Dimitris Sgouros when he debuted at Carnegie Hall.
Later that afternoon, my instructor was the first to toss around the word prodigy. It was a word I didn’t know but decided I would learn because whatever it meant, it made my parents happy.
Unfortunately, as proud as they were about the newfound talent, the excitement was short-lived because the music didn’t just have my interest. It was all I wanted to do. I didn’t think about anything else. I’d spend hours at that piano without moving.
It became a new source of consternation for my parents when I began to withdraw. My behavior at school plummeted because all I wanted to do was vanish into my world of sounds and chords. I stopped interacting with the other students. I became even more unruly and defiant. My dad tried to use it as a source of punishment, but that only triggered tantrums.
“He’s spoiled, Amanda,” I heard my father yell one afternoon when I was nine. They didn’t know I was sitting on the bottom step listening. “He throws fits to get his way. When that doesn’t work, he shuts down and ignores everything. It’s got to end.”
My shoulders slumped as I listened to them fight over me. Again. I hated it. Just like I hated that I was letting them down.
“I’ve had enough. Next year he is going to a school where he will be disciplined.”
“Trey, no. I won’t allow it. You’re not sending my baby away.” Momma sounded panicked and breathless.
“I don’t see any of choice. You say he’s just a boy, but boys grow into men. And he’s a Masters. He has got to learn control.”
“I told you a long time ago that he needs a professional. His mind doesn’t work the same way ours do. Ignoring that is the problem. That’s exactly what happened to Jewel.”
“Jewel was spoiled too. That’s why he needs this school. They’ll prepare him for the day he takes over Masters Corp.”
“Goddammit, Trey!” Momma yelled. I jumped at the sound. Momma never yelled, and she never said bad words. “That damn company is all you ever think about. If I hear that one more time. You are raising a human being, your son. Not the next CEO. Do you even care about him?”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing, Amanda. I’m raising the next CEO. He will represent the company and this family one day. But none of that means I do not love him. It’s because I love him that I want this for him. If I didn’t love him, I wouldn’t have taken him. Don’t ever question that again.”
“Then act like it, Trey. Do you realize most days you can’t even look at him?”
“You know why.”
My entire body went rigid when I heard my thoughts vocalized, and the first of my tears began to fall.
I didn’t hear anything else beyond that. I’d always felt this disconnect between my dad and me but hearing it out loud broke a piece of me.
Justified to waste away
Present Day
“Why did you start there?” Bryan asks, standing over me, reading my words.
My head snaps up as I glare at him. I don’t like people reading over my shoulder. “You said to start from the beginning.”
“They already know that stuff. I meant, start from the beginning with the stuff they don’t know. Some fucking genius you are.”
A low growl rumbles in my chest. I hate when anyone calls me that. I’m not a genius. A genius doesn’t do the shit I do. “I don’t know how else to tell the story. I can’t tell it any other way. It has to be in order.”
“You’re such a damn fucking freak,” he grumbles.
Another growl slips as I jump off the bed. My hand rips through my hair, gripping the roots tightly. “It has to be in order,” I yell as I begin to pace across the room to the door as the buzzing in my ears gets louder. “If it’s not in order, then I can’t write it.”
“Fine.” He throws his hands up as he takes in my borderline panic. “Then write it all. Keep us here that much longer.”
He doesn’t understand. They might know the short version, but they don’t understand it. I have to write it from the beginning. The noise gets louder, and I slap my hands over my ears, trying to drown it out.
“For fucks sake, Maddox, take another hit. You’re freaking out. Or just drink this.” He passes me a bottle of Jack. I try to remember if he had it earlier. I don’t recall it. Did he leave while I was writing?
I pour a few fingers into a glass he’s produced, turning up the contents, slugging it back in one go. I enjoy the burn as it slithers its way down my throat, but it doesn’t do anything to calm the sudden panic I feel—the panic from wondering if I’m telling the story wrong. From second-guessing if I should tell the story at all.
