Unsung Requiem

by C. L. Stone

The music in his head was louder than ever. It seemed every time he woke up, he heard it.

  The requiem. No words. Not intended to be sung at all. He liked it like that. Simple. Slow.

  A weird thing, a requiem. A song for the souls of the dead, a music teacher had told him once.

  A song for the dead.

  A song for the soul.

  When he’d pieced it together, he just liked the style of it.

  He felt it suited him. Would he disappear soon? To some unknown location in Europe? Would this be the last time he was here?

  Could he get out?

  Getting out meant he likely faced being arrested. If he left...

  Suddenly, Brie stood in the doorway. She’d held a cup of water, but the moment she saw him sitting up, she dropped it. The water spilled across the carpet.

  She went to him.

  “Are you okay?” Brie asked him.

  He nodded slowly.

  “I can’t...” he said weakly.

  She tilted her head. “What?”

  “I can’t leave her.” He reached for Brie’s hand. “Sang. I can’t leave her.” Of all things, that’s all he could think of.

  He couldn’t go that far away from her.

  She squeezed his hand back and sat next to him. “We don’t have a choice.”

  “Always a choice,” he said. “You have one.”

  She started to shake her head.

  He wouldn’t listen. He didn’t know the answer. “Always.”

  He wasn’t even sure how. Maybe it was impossible.

  Was he choosing the wrong thing? Could he fight them?

  “Brie,” he hissed out her name, trying to fight off his clouded brain. “You have to try. You shouldn’t have to disappear.” He sniffed. “We shouldn’t have to die. I don’t want to die.”

  She seemed confused. He wondered if she could understand.

  The requiem’s main tune held strong in his mind.

  A song for the souls of the dead.

  If they were in Europe, coming back would be harder. His mother would figure out a way to control him again.

  He might live, but who he was would die. The real him.

  Brie sighed and released him, heading to the door. “I’m supposed to alert her when you’re awake.”

  “Brie...”

  She paused at the door of his room and didn’t turn around, but she waited.

  “It’s not over,” he said. “You help me. I’ll help you.”

  She didn’t answer him, but she went out into the hall.

  Victor wondered if he should lay down again and pretend to sleep.

  Was that the only reason he was here? Was he here if he was unconscious? The doctor said he couldn’t fly if he was asleep.

  He’d pretend to be unconscious. If they made him...

  ♥♥♥

  His mother materialized in the doorway of his room. She wore dark pants and a red sweater, smoothed and styled. Always perfect.

  She remained in the doorway, hovering. The light was off, just the light from the half-open windows lit the room.

  She crossed the room and closed the curtains. “Thought I told the nurse to keep these down,” she said.

  Victor swallowed, trying to find the words to tell her he couldn’t go to Europe. Not with Brie.

  Before he could figure it out, she turned to him, inspecting him. He hadn’t even realized he had been changed out of a hospital gown and into soft clothes, pajamas, but they could pass for street clothes.

  Ready for anything.

  “The helicopter should be here shortly,” his mother said.

  He frowned. “No.”

  “No what?”

  He glared at her. “I’m not going.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ve had enough,” she spat. He turned to him fully, the fury doubling until it escaped every part of her. “I’ve tried, Victor. I’ve tried everything. I give you what you want, and you take too much. I ask you to do simple things, and you screw it up.”

  He twitched. Her words stung. His mother hated him.

  “How could you do this to this family?” she continued. She kept her voice low, as if she feared, in her own house, someone might overhear her say so. “How could you tarnish our name? I should have never let you out of my sight.”

  “I’m not going,” he said again. He had nothing else to say.

  He wouldn’t go. If they made him, he’d find a way to escape.

  He hated that Mr. Buble wasn’t here. The others weren’t here.

  But he didn’t have to accept his mother pushing him.

  Even if they didn’t want him, he didn’t want to go.

  He’d go to jail.

  He’d rot there.

  The headlines would rejoice at the downfall of Victor Morgan: once the prodigy, now the tragedy.

  But nothing, nothing could make him go with her.

  She ruined everything.

  Even if Sang didn’t want him anymore after this, or she couldn’t be around him because she’d be caught in his downfall...

  That’s the only time he reconsidered the idea.

  It was like she could read his mind. “She can’t go, Victor. You told me she couldn’t be involved in any press. I took your word.” His mother paced the room, examining every fine detail of it. “I tried my best. I tried everything.”

  “I didn’t want this.”

  “A million other children would have,” she said. “And you did want this. You wanted to play piano.”

  He frowned. He had... but stopped wanting to play for them a long time ago.

  “We encouraged it,” she said. “We just asked for obedience. I expected at some point there would be a screw-up.” She sighed and tilted her head back. “We all do, Victor. We all do. I was your age when I was engaged to your father.”

  He didn’t answer her, only glared.

  She stopped her pacing and turned to face him. “Don’t you see? Don’t marry so young. You don’t know what you want yet. I’ll protect you. Do you think Sang will be your only girlfriend ever?”

  He wanted to say yes, but again, he hesitated. He didn’t want to answer her.

  She’d married young, and she regretted it. And she often told him not to.

  Even now, he felt the medallion at his neck, the heart shield. Protect your heart.

  She continued, “There will be other girls. Plenty of them. And there will be other opportunities. But we have to go away now. The people here, the media, they’ll forget you eventually. In Europe, they won’t even know you or your face. You could do whatever you wanted.” She came a step closer, and her tone softened. “Are you tired of the piano? You don’t have to play anymore. We can start over. You tell me what you want, and we’ll do it. Together.”

  His lip quivered. The promise she was making, wanting to hear him out, to give up all this.

  To let him make the choice now.

  She was trying, wasn’t she? Could he blame her? She was doing her best to protect her only child. His head, filled with the times when she seemed almost human, asking him his opinion and looking out for him. Maybe he was being a brat, like she often said when he complained. Was it her fault she risked his chance with the Academy if she didn’t know it existed?

  The Academy, his friends, and Sang. The only things that stopped him, but would they want him to go?

  Memories were so foggy. They gave him everything they could.

  Doubt crept in again. Why was this so hard?

  How did she do this to him?

  She came closer again, reaching out, holding his face at his cheeks. “Victor. I can make everything right.”

  She did this to him when she wanted something very much, usually when he wanted something else.

  It hurt so much to want to tell her no. He still didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to upset her. He was struggling with his reasons.

  When he didn’t answer, she turned away from him. She went over to the nurse’s bag, and pilfered through it. “It’s ok
ay, darling,” she cooed, a tone that was familiar to him.

  Often when she encouraged his father to drink.

  When she came back, she was holding a syringe. She sniffed and she showed it to him. “You’re supposed to get a half of this.”

  He imagined it was pain medicine.

  “Just trust me,” she said, and she turned, heading toward the IV. “I’ll fix everything.”

  His heart raced, his brain making the connection. She wanted to drug him. So he was compliant.

  “No!” he screamed.

  And he reached to his arm, and he ripped the IV right out. The tube still hung in, but the rest of it tore away, drips coming out of the tip.

  He covered his hand. It had hurt. And the piece still inserted in him stung to touch it. He might have damaged it.

  His mother gasped and seethed. “Stop it.” She went to the door, calling the nurse.

  He tried to get out of bed but the nurse was there in an instant.

  “He accidentally broke the line,” his mother told her.

  Behind the nurse, Brie appeared, followed by her mother, Mrs. Turner.

  Mrs. Turner, face caked in makeup and wearing a flower print dress, shook her head and looked sorrowful. “My goodness, the poor thing.”

  “I don’t want it,” Victor said, still clutching his hand. He didn’t want to give them another chance to drug him.

  The nurse seemed sympathetic. “Please let me get the rest out, okay? Let’s not cause more problems.” She went to the windows and opened all the curtains. “I just need some light.”

  “Let me turn the room light on,” Jasmine said.

  “No, natural light on this side. Don’t worry. I’ll be quick.”

  He hated that they were there, that he felt he had to squander what he’d been trying to do, but he also allowed the nurse to look at his hand and try to pull the tubing out. “I don’t want more medicine. And I don’t want to go to Europe. I want to stay.”

  His mother turned to Mrs. Turner. “See what I put up with?”

  Mrs. Turner smirked. “Brie was the same way. She’s different now. It took some therapy. We told them we needed her to be more compliant. They helped a lot. They could help him, too.”

  Brie didn’t say anything. She held her phone in her hands. After a minute, she used it, like sending text messages or something.

  He had no support in the room. He was all alone.

  He didn’t know how to get out of this.

  “Maybe he does need some help,” his mother said. “If they can be trusted.”

  “Absolutely,” Mrs. Turner said. “A little more expensive, but always trustworthy.”

  The nurse got the piece out of Victor and inspected the area. “I’ll have to try the other arm. You might want to turn in the bed, sleep the other way.”

  Victor didn’t know what to do. He was still too weak to just get up and walk out. Could he fight them all? How could he get out?

  Suddenly, Mrs. Turner’s cell phone, somewhere in her dress, rang. She pulled it out of her dress pocket and answered. “Hello, dear,” she said. “I’ll be back soo—” She paused. “What?” Another pause. Followed by a stronger, more shocked tone. “What? When?”

  She turned, facing Brie.

  Brie was dead-faced. Her phone was in her hand, but it hung at her hip.

  Brie didn’t really respond to her. She just dazed out.

  “What’s happening?” Jasmine asked her.

  Mrs. Turner pulled the phone away from her face, pale.

  The nurse looked between the two of them, unsure.

  Jasmine was about to say something else when her own phone rang, a message was coming through. She checked on it. She puzzled over it. “Why are people asking if Victor and Brie are broken up?”

  Mrs. Turner’s voice squeaked as she responded. “Because she just posted to her Instagram telling everyone she’s gay, with a picture showing that girl. And her. Kissing.”

  Jasmine gasped. “Well? Grab her. Make her delete it. Make her say it was a joke.”

  Mrs. Turner started to go to her.

  At this, the only time Brie reacted to their talking, Brie lifted the phone, holding it back.

  And threw it.

  At the window near Victor’s bed.

  It broke through and shattered the glass, disappearing beyond, down into the backyard.

  Time froze. Everyone seemed in utter shock.

  “Fuck both of you,” Brie said. She turned and started to leave. In a minute she came back and she pointed a finger at her mother and then at Jasmine. “And if you put him on that fucking helicopter, I swear every newspaper, every social media site, will know. Where he is. What he’s doing. Even if I have to lie about it.”

  She turned again and hurried out, her footsteps heard going down the stairs.

  Mrs. Turner and Jasmine took a moment, and then followed her, calling her name.

  At that, the nurse breathed out slow in a heavy sigh. “Thank the Lord,” she said, and crossed herself.

  Victor, still stunned at what just happened, blinked at her.

  She winked at him. “If I couldn’t put them off any longer, I was going to attempt to get you to pretend to have a heart attack or something so you had to go back to the hospital.”

  His mouth popped open in surprise.

  He should have known.

  In the Academy, you’re never alone.

  Sempre

  (Always)

  Victor

  It was two hours before he heard anything else. The nurse didn’t make him put the IV back in, but she asked if he needed pain medicine.

  “Don’t worry. You’re not going anywhere,” she said.

  He would have to trust that. And he did. His mother was just sneaky.

  However, Brie and Mrs. Turner didn’t return. He tried to relax for a while.

  When his mother reappeared, she seemed flustered and upset.

  “Here he is,” she said, waving to Victor in the bed.

  Mr. Buble appeared, wearing his usual crisp black suit and carrying a clipboard with a folder on top of it. He smiled. “So, you’re finally awake, yes? Feeling okay? Your delightful mother was telling me all about what happened. It seems I’m here at just the right time.”

  He had no idea what was going on. Mr. Buble being here threw him off.

  Victor tried to sit up, but his mother came over, pushing gently at his shoulder.

  “Don’t sit up,” she said.

  “I want to,” Victor grumbled out and coughed.

  His mother rolled her eyes and looked to Mr. Buble. “As you can see, he’s very resistant.”

  Mr. Buble flashed a smile at her. “Resilience can be a great trait, as long as it’s honed.”

  “Mr. Buble has been sent by the local judge to evaluate the situation,” she said to Victor in the tone that told him to behave appropriately.

  Victor, in an attempt to play along with Mr. Buble and whatever he had planned, nodded.

  “We’re waiting for Mr. Perkins to get here,” she said.

  “Thought we’d come up and see how you were doing,” Mr. Buble said with a strange smile, something that was a little too big, a bit too much for the Mr. Buble he knew, who was much more composed.

  Victor was told to get dressed, and after some medication, and a stern talking to by his mother to allow Mr. Perkins to do his job, Victor was sent downstairs, back to the parlor.

  Victor, this time, sat next to his mother, across from Mr. Buble, where Mitch had sat not too long ago.

  But this time, Victor was ready. Mr. Buble wouldn’t be here unless he had something planned.

  When Mr. Perkins arrived, dressed in his usual tweed and glasses, he stood aside, having greeted everyone, and directed his questions to Mr. Buble. “So the judge sent you?”

  “Matt was very interested in this case that came up, at your request to get it resolved quietly of course.”

  The old family lawyer seemed surprised, for once. “You know him so p
ersonally?”

  “Yes. A friend of mine goes surfing with him regularly. Just off Folly Beach. We’ve gotten acquainted over time.”

  Someone within the Academy likely knew the judge, Victor imagined.

  “Victor’s much too vulnerable, after what happened,” his mother said. “Maybe we can postpone this.”

  “I’m fine,” Victor said. Apart from his nose and a headache, the rest of him seemed not too bad. Just sore. Maybe it was the medication that helped, but he was awake and ready now.

  Ready to get out of here.

  His mother, however, flashed her eyes at him, a direct, even if silent, request to let her talk.

  Victor ignored it. “What did the judge want?” he asked Mr. Buble directly.

  “He usually handles a lot of the juvenile cases,” Mr. Buble said. “And he’s agreed that he can take care of the matter... as fit to your liking.” He said this to Victor’s mother.

  She beamed. “For us?”

  “Under the condition...”

  “Here it comes,” Mr. Perkins said. “The conditions.”

  Mr. Buble did that bigger smile, the one that looked so strange to Victor. He was trying to win them over. “Just a little one. I think you might appreciate it. He’d like Victor to attend a... facility of sorts.”

  His mother’s face tightened. “What’s the difference if he’s in jail or this? It seems the same.”

  Mr. Buble held up a single finger. “No, not what you’re thinking.” He turned to Victor. “Under normal circumstances, most underage DUI offenders are presented this single chance to eradicate their crime by attending classes for substance abuse, a course on driving—although your license will be suspended for six months.”

  Victor coughed to cover up his groan. Six months!

  “Not to mention some community service, if not jail time.”

  Victor’s mother sighed heavily. She glanced at Mr. Perkins.

  “He’s right,” he said solemnly.

  She redirected to Mr. Buble. “And you’re offering better, I assume?”

  “The facility will allow your son the same requirements, but alone, and without having to take him back and forth in the public eye or risk any exposure. Instead, he’d stay at a secure, undisclosed location for the duration.”

  It was the Academy speech all over again, just rearranged. An elite boarding school, an Academy. Now it was a redemption.