Anacrusis

By Emily Hutnyak

I can’t escape the song. It winds through the air in snatches, filling my head with memories. The melody cuts the half-healed wounds on my heart open again, but I deserve the pain.

I chase the elusive notes through the busy city streets, narrowly avoiding collisions with ladies carrying parasols, children wearing tiny sailor suits, and a man selling ice cream.

I keep expecting to turn and see my brother by my side with his violin in one hand, brushing his dark hair out of his face with the other.

I swear he’s haunting me, getting his revenge. As he should.

Why did he have to die on my birthday?

Why did it have to be my fault?

The faint strains start up again, and I nearly trip over my own feet as I abruptly stop short.

They spin in dizzying circles through my mind–a whirlpool, just like the one that swallowed our ship whole. That swallowed him whole.

I should’ve been the one to go down, not him. I should have insisted on it. Shouldn’t have let the crowds tear us apart before I made sure he got on a lifeboat.

I’d give anything to change that day.

The way I know exactly what comes next in the music and how it accidentally fits that night only makes the pain worse.

I shudder, listening to the high vibrato on the E-sharp that echoes the last screams of the lost, the quick descent of notes that matches my sobbing, and the momentary break of silence I always doubted putting in.

I hate that the song is a mirror of my life now. But I wrote it before everything went wrong–and with no brother to play it, what’s the point of changing it now?

This violinist is no beginner—he’s playing it nearly exactly how I intended it to be played. But he shouldn’t be playing it at all. I wrote that song for my brother to play.

I never should have agreed to make the sheet music available for the public.

I can’t undo that mistake, but I can stop this infuriating violinist from torturing me, if only temporarily.

He has no right to bring my brother’s song to life on this day of all days, sheet music or no.

Fury lights my blood on fire as my fingers curl into fists. I stomp toward the source of the music.

Just as I get close to it, the last few taunting notes die away, fading like a wisp of mist.

I don’t stop walking and give up, though. No, I press on.

A dirty street corner greets me several moments later, a young newsboy its only constant occupant as the rest of the crowd flows around him. He doesn’t seem bothered by the glaring sun–admirable, as the others in his trade are all in the shade.

“Seen a violinist around here?” I feel for a coin in my pocket to reward any helpful answers.

He flashes me a gap-toothed grin. “He went that way, Miss.” His grubby finger points toward the harbor. “I asked ‘im if I could take his spot and if he’d be back and he said I was free to take it ‘cause he was goin’ to the pier.”

Yes, definitely worth a reward. I flip the coin at him, nodding my thanks.

“Oi, wait, Miss, you gotta take a paper!” He thrusts one at me, apparently under the impression that I want it.

One glance at the printed headlines is enough for me to back away, shaking my head. “No thanks.”

My stomach lurches on seeing the date printed in bold, accusing font. July 17… As if I needed any reminders of the fact that this is the second least happy birthday I’ve ever had.

And it just keeps getting worse, too. Today is the last day I want to lay eyes on the ocean, but I can’t let that mysterious violinist get away with stealing from me.

***

Stepping onto the pier, I catch my first glimpse of the likely song thief. The violin he holds so easily all but confirms it. He’s dressed in a simple suit and his dark hair whips in the wind as he looks out over the ocean’s glittering waves.

The day might be called beautiful, inviting sunlight ablaze on the water and lapping waves a peaceful lullaby. But it’s a lie.

Get in the water, and it turns into a monster, always hungry. Always destructive.

This violinist—he knows it too. His posture is one I know by heart—that of a person who’s pleading for a ship to appear on the horizon just one more time.

An ache pulses in my gut. I never should have let my brother talk me into boarding the lifeboats first. Never should have let him play the hero. Never should have let go of his hand.

Maybe I should let the violinist play the song he shouldn’t know. Maybe I should let him multiply the guilt in my chest until that’s all I feel.

Maybe that’s what I deserve.

My heart breaks to see him raise his violin and bow in the same way I watched my brother do countless times before I let him down.

The first notes ring out strong and clear, but they’re all wrong, simple and bent with a melancholy they aren’t supposed to hold.

He’s not playing my song. He’s playing “Happy Birthday.”

I can’t breathe as a new dangerous ocean swallows me alive—the waves of impossible hope.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Emily Hutnyak is a young writer with dreams that touch the sky and an overactive imagination. She spins stories about teens like herself finding their place in the world and tales of the light and hope that can be found even in the darkest of places. When she’s not writing, you can generally find her hanging out with friends and family, reading, or, on rare occasions, venturing outside to get some fresh air and sunshine.

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