I sit alone on his bed never making a sound nor a movement. My hand on my chin, droopy eyed, with my bright pink hair tilting to the bedroom floor while staring at the little bits of ripped paper with words on them. I then look at myself bookshelf against the blue wall full of intense genres all piled up rather than neatly organized by name or author. I then take a gander at my dirty mirror with the pasted on words spelling ‘Rilke.’ That’s me alright. I look to the left to where my nightstand is and sees that it’s 6 A.M. in the morning. I black out once more, I have nothing really to wake up to.

I wake up later on in the day only to feel like exploring the things I´ve collected over the years. With a slight skip I pull the attic stairs open with a rope and walked onto the stairs with a slight bounce. Mountains of dust hit me right in the nose, and he feels an extreme coughing fit coming forth. My eyes watered with such intensity I almost thought I was crying. I wait patiently for the dust to settle, not for another tornado full of it in my eyes. I accidentally trip over a box labeled ´Old Toys.´

After the dust is cleared, I make out the shape of a medium sized box case. I know what it is. I open it and gently lift it up from the red velvet lined case, falling apart slightly from all the years of service it has given to me. The resin still smells throughout the case, the bow still intact despite all the years it's been grinded on the strings. The craftsmanship of its’ body still shocked me even to this day. The sleek build and the quality of the maple was absolutely gorgeous. I recalled how the bow would let loose tiny wisps of resin floating lazily above the wooden body as soft rich music came forth. How I enjoyed the professional aura the instrument gave. The thing was, I could never tell if the instrument was a friend or foe. It was my own mother that had pushed me to play it despite me wanting to do other things such as art or even writing. I don’t remember if it was mine or hers anyway. That's really what had started all this madness. My father had just sat in the background lazily reading the Sunday News, and how my older brother would mess with my younger brother´s toys.

I remember it all so well. A little too well. I just wanted it all to end.

It was a cold November day, with the cold wind slowly kissing my skin, becoming more aggressive with each one. The trees, pools of orange and red falling onto the ground making it sound like the crackle of fire every time they were stepped on. But I, I was carrying something strange to all the other kids, a felt case with something inside. Almost like a gift for someone. It was my violin waiting to be played.

I took a slow stroll to the class as I swung my violin case back and forth with no regard to the instrument inside whatsoever. I had disliked it after all. It was mainly my mother´s idea. Anyway, I make it to class safely with the case still intact.

¨Hello, hello class, I see that you are all new this year,¨ the teacher said with a wide bright smile, with a slight smudge of pink lipstick on her teeth.

¨Hello!¨ the class responded back in unison, ready to play their stringed instruments.

¨I see that most of you have your instruments in hand except for...  Zack, Trisha, and Noah,” she says adding, “you must have your instruments by Friday, now do you think that is possible?”

They all respond yes of course as teachers scared you when you did not give the correct response. Later on in the day I found out her name was Ms.Sandoval. She's a pretty chipper teacher with short hair and a pale face. I started to slowly like her. The was the beginning of a long school year.

We got acquainted with one another, and I had even made a new friend. We chatted in class for a bit and I think he said something rude, but I do not remember…

I never really talked to the other kids, they bothered me with their loud chatter, they were never really quite. I, however, had sunk into the wall, never really being talked to except for the teacher or the occasional student who rarely noticed me. I don't mind those days though, because all I needed was my violin.

“Rilke are you here today?¨ Ms.Sandoval asks, still with a smile on her face.

“Yes m´am; Present!” I softly say, but enough for her to hear.

“Alright class everyone is here so let's start learning!” she exclaims as she claps her hands together radiating an almost sickening happiness. She teaches us how to first tune out instrument. Heck, I was so scared of the string breaking that I have never tuned it myself. It was like a bomb, she even said it was painful to get hit. How the string lashed out and quickly stung a piece of skin, or how it would hit an eye and make you completely blind. Or so she said.

As the year progressed, we did more and more difficult pieces. Ones where the notes would practically be filling the paper in a pool of black or ones where the timing needed was key or else you'd stick out more than a sore thumb. Ms.Sandoval eventually became harder on us as well, mainly because some kids would not, for the life of the whole music group, practice. She’d test us everyday now, and to be honest, I didn't blame her. I’d do the same thing. We once had a concert she had devised and I still want to block the memory out, but for the sake of this, I will tell it.

Honestly, I had enjoyed playing the violin for a little while. There was a time when I had confidence in my ability. There were times where I would play incorrectly but I enjoyed it despite it not being what others wanted. After all, it was my violin.

It was the next year of November, us fledglings as musicians had become proficient at it. We were proud of ourselves and frankly, excited for the concert to finally showcase how much we had grown. It was finally the big day, kids in nice clothes, and me in a small black suit with a blue bowtie I had picked for myself. I was the most nervous, almost eating myself because it was gut wrenching. I was the one to start it along with percussion, and if I messed it up, they would never forgive me. I’d be the one who ‘ruined everything’. I certainly, was not told the concert would be outside, but I learned it the hard way when Ms.Sandoval had said it. She had told us, but I was too busy working on my fingering.

She waved her baton with such grace I almost paused to stare, but as soon as I saw the up motion, I began. It was utter chaos. The wind was too strong so people weren’t able to pick up on the sound. The percussion were going much too fast and I was grinding the resin coating off my bow like no tomorrow. The clarinets came in way too late, they could not hear the cue. It was terrible. I wanted to sink into the floor and become the concrete to not suffer and hear this anymore. She waved her baton down and that was the end.

After that, I became a little more nervous about playing the violin. I did not have the confidence I used to have anymore.

My mother had undergone some unspoken change. Her attitude becoming more somber, more aggressive. It had created a new fear for me and my siblings. I, however, was the most at risk, because I played for her every afternoon. She just looked off with an unimpressed gaze. She dismissed me, and I had suddenly started hating my violin once more. It was just a piece of wood that made sound, nothing more. It just created sorrow for me, it was my greatest physical and mental conflict.

It was like some sort of muck that had taken ahold of me. I truly did believe I could not play the instrument, because of my fingers, or the way I moved the bow. Maybe it was the way I sat, or maybe it was the way my feet were positioned. I never forgave the instrument. I never forgave myself.

Eventually I had a new teacher, her name was Mrs.Enriquez. She was a kind woman with curly brown hair, only longer. The way she played the violin with such ease and precision made me hate it a little less. It was like I was in a completely different level of experience. However, I attacked the notes with a newfound courage to show him what I was made of.

Later on in life I had become a young teacher at 21 years. I regretted it heavily because I had believed I had no talent. I was responsible for these kids to get a good education, it was my job. But for some reason they accepted me. Parents always came up to me and this is how most conversations went:

“Does she have some sort of talent?” a mother asked.

“I’m sure she has it within her,” as I smile, the usual answer I would give to the parents.

They didn’t want any less of an answer. I slowly pan back to the small girl who absolutely had no sense of rhythm. However, she was as happy as can be. Always moving her bow, always attentive. I couldn’t tell her the truth. I couldn’t break that passion in her eyes that I lacked. I’d kill for that. The way she carefully handled it, even the case, the thing I swung around on a daily basis. My intent was to break it, but it never was a reality. My only choice was to flee the scene and never come back.

I had told my friend once about how I never could play the violin right.

“Hey, why don’t you play it much anymore?” she asked.

“It’s because it has a slew of sad memories, along with few good,” I replied, adding “plus my fingers never hit the right note.”

“I thought you were an e-,”

“No I’m not, my fingers don’t hold the bow properly nor can my fingers properly.” I interrupted her, but she didn’t seem to mind too much. I notice how she now looks closely at how people hold their bows.

All the time I sat there recalling my memories involving this one instrument. How many it carried, just as I had carried it. The way I carried it almost reflected the way it had carried the memories. Bad ones.

The violin ready to attack me, ready to make me look bad when all I wanted was to be a good player, if not amazing. I hold up my sword, but I'm too weak to raise it. It looms over me, shadowing my entire body in the process. I feel extremely weak and defeated, but under it´s shadow, I felt warm.

I suddenly pan into the real world with hot tears coming onto my face. All because of this stupid violin. I raise it above my head, my sweat falling down on the hard wooden floor making the dust settled on it wet. I think about all those things it's done to me. But I can’t bring myself to harm it. However, the world doesn’t think so and a large object falls on it. I violently screech immediately removing it, with the violin having the bridge broken, and the neck dangling by a piece of the metal string. It was all ruined.

I quickly ran into my house looking for the wooden glue I had in case I needed it. I found it and with shaking hands I pick up the body. With the most utter care, I place it down onto the table and get to work. It was almost as risky as heart surgery. A piece could chip off, making it evident that someone did not care for this object. The glue is carefully laid down in the grooves where the crack is and then pushed back into place. My forehead sweats large droplets, some of it almost hitting the violin. My hands shake making the process more difficult. I pop the bridge back in place and set the violin to dry. About 2 hours had passed, I was astonished.

To test it out once more, I played the violin. Honestly, I never thought I´d hold its sleek neck in my hand again, or caress the strings with my fingers.

Later on I put a garage sale for all the items in the attic such as a phonograph along with some oldschool records, the kind that are large with grooves in them. I sat there looking at the empty space with a rectangular shape still in the grass. I smile slightly. Memories are not for sale.