Failure

Dear readers,

Contrary to expectations, theokwek stuns all with this introspective and regretful piece - failure. Inspired too by a very true story of himself.

The Straight Times Editor

FAILURE

Weariness. Exhaustion. Shock. Regret.

A maelstrom of emotions flooded his empty heart as he stood, stock still, in the centre of the competition hall. Shoulders hunched, bow arm drooping to a side, violin swinging listlessly in the careless grip of his other hand.

His mind was anything but still as he replayed every action of the past ten minutes. He saw, clear as day, the brilliant introductory passage that had quelled the audience and stifled astonished gasps. He saw his fingers tapping the ebony in such pristine accuracy that he once imagined even the great master Heifetz would be proud of. He saw his bow flickering precisely across the strings, sending waves of sound and emotion scurrying across those lifeless metal wires.

But then, something had happened. He wasn’t sure what. Maybe his thousand-dollar carbon-fiber bow had skipped a crucial beat. Maybe his weathered, leathery fingers had slipped on the sweaty wood, flinging that climatic high G into oblivion. Maybe the lucky chain he wore around his neck had lost its power and sent his skill down the drain, into the realms of the unfortunate.

Whichever it was, he had made a mistake. And the selfish perfectionist that he had built himself up to be over the past three months revealed its ugly side, biting down on that accidental glitch with the vehemence of a double-crossed python.

How could he forgive himself, for after those months of sweat, work and tears he was giving up his one chance at glory by making a hitch in what he had dreamt was to be a flawless recital. Anger, hate and malevolent revenge spilled out through his fingers and flew from his relentless fingers like pebbles from David’s slingshot, wounding both the audience’s auditory faculties and his own self-image with a flurry of harsh tones.

Now, even as he stood in the stunned silence of the hall, in front of an audience that didn’t know whether to marvel at his technique or to despise his hot-tempered rendition of the most delicate piece in the history of violin repertoire, those angry sounds that he had made himself haunted him, inflicting on his already throbbing heart the pain and tears of failure, of loss and of tragedy.

The footsteps of his accompanist echoed flatly in the hall as the older man paced austerely off the stage. He recoiled inwardly at the last words that the angered pianist had hissed: “You didn’t play to your full potential. Totally. All that hard work. Gone with the wind.” Those bitter, bitter words; words that sliced deep wounds in his bleeding heart, words that whittled away the last miserable shreds of his self-esteem.

The remnants of his broken heart fell a thousand miles, flung downwards through the valley of depression and longing, and left behind a trembling violinist on-stage, cursing himself for his inability to forgive a very special person for the tiniest of mistakes.

Himself.