Instant

~~~~

without my conse

anda

~~~~

too much about my

too little abou

at a piano recital, practicing in the little music room offstage. I was so scared of screwing up, even though I'd been practicing the piece for at

rfect

ared about the lessons when I'd started at eight years old, but the music that f

age. My fellow classmates had each played their pieces effortlessly, fi

g to play

a good start, and an eleven year old version of myself blinked back tears because the moment was supposed to be perfect. I looked to the crowd - to the two seats I'd saved for my parents -

ing bitterly, "A work call

did I

my left cheek - the one facing away from the audience. "Smile, " I remembered my teacher saying in her pep talk before the sho

screech of metal against tile as my mother shoved her cha

ork. I thought my father miss

and fled the stage. My teacher was waiting for me backstage when I rus

uthoritative way she said everything

oman off, and stared into her eyes - eyes so full of p

r da

Racing through the door, out into the hallway, and d

cried. "Adira

of my arms, forcing me to look into her face. She was strangely ca

uth, she paused, but couldn't get the words

all at once. Things were going in slow motion. It was as if time itself had stopped, leaving me b

ly said. "Honey, your d-

over the steps to run away. Blood rushed through my ears, drowning out the sound of m

practice room, crawling under the piano bench and hiding

long I'd been crying before I knocked mys

d. My mother was sprawled across an uncomfortable lo

say. Where's my fath

already knew what ha

wondering what'd I'd

after work. And I was in the hospital because I'd had something of a panic attack, stopped breathing, and passed out. It was PTSD, they said. "Po

ation didn

l over again that he wasn't coming back. That can be hard for an

ed out the tubes feeding into my arms, and walked out. And "walked" is a loose term. My legs didn't work right - the anxiety was

wanted to leave, a

e tears out of me too. Everyone came with large, overpowering, ink-black umbrellas, and I

dangled off the end, making it look like one of those little umbrellas in a cocktail drink. It was heinous, and I hated it, but at

f the hardest things to do in life. You know what's inside - who's inside - but you know that you can never, ever

. I decided I didn't want one. I didn't want the people I

a businesswoman, like herself, would have. I still tried to play piano, although quit lessons immediately after the accident. S

o go back to normal. Well, as normal as life could get whe

's the brain's ability to forget. Forget just how important somebody was to you. The brain makes

anded on the letter stuck to my mirror. Suddenly my li

oing to pass out. Anticipating the moment when your

e

o

~

reatened to burst my eyes into flames. I couldn't mov

happened, but the almost unbearable weight ho

was still white because the mud overtook the paper like a brown plague. Under the letter, partially morp

outh as a terrified sob threa

clawing through my brain were enough to make me moan. The pain was so

s were falling down my face before I even recognized that I was crying. Curiosity wa

ing had changed on the mirror even though I kept feeling like it was all goin

k's rim. It was cold under my hand and suddenly everything felt so m

to the sink. The light from my bedroom was pouring in through the open door, contrasting how dark my head felt

etter had my name on it. In tiny cursive that I had to squi

e was flying around in my stomach. I was hit wi

at whoever had sent me the letter was probably not who stuck it to my

me a mysterious letter, or that someone had found it where

otten in my house to do s

as funny even though the whole thing was scaring me in a way I couldn't explain.On the other hand, I was also waiting for the ligh

were a bit

yes searched the bedroom, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. My bed was unmade, clothes were

big joke played by one of my friends, but everything was adding up to be a huge, confusing mess. Th

becoming

hands. I knew they were red from crying, a

her, Adira, "

and snapped my eyes back to the bathroom. Looking down, I realized

he screen. Behind a crack that sliced up the glass – damage that had no doubt happened whe

uldn't star-sixty-seven a text. Unless my friends were

ing me. I began to feel lightheaded again. Grabbing the rim of the sink again fo

fter a few deep breaths, my heart

le, folded sheet of plain paper. Unlike the envelope, the letter was untouched by mud and rai

n the same swirling cursive, excep

I'm coming

d the last word, my phone

number, was the messag