CHAPTER THREE
MATTEO
I wasn’t sure what day it was, or where I was. All I knew was the fire in my throat and the wet, sticky feeling in my chest and sinuses.
Everything was sloshing around, and I was moving across the snow-covered alley, except, I wasn’t walking. I was vaguely aware someone was with me, but all I could focus on was breathing, and not swallowing, because every swallow was painful.
Leandre Salvatore, I tried to say, but nothing came out of my sand-dry throat other than a painful rasp. Whoever was with me was talking about something, but my ears were ringing, making their words indecipherable. I focused on the snowy ground moving below me.
I was floating. Maybe I’d died and left my body. Except, I really didn’t believe in that kind of stuff anymore. Wouldn’t it be a big fuck you of cosmic proportions if there really was an afterlife?
“We’re almost there,” the man said, his tone rough and deep. His voice was familiar, but I couldn't think about anything except how miserable I was.
The sound of keys jingled, and a hard beat throbbed in tune with the one in my head. The creak of stairs… More keys. I was floating again, the world spinning, and I fell onto something soft and pillowy. Warmth surrounded me, making my face sting.
“I need you to put this on,” the guy said. “Brat? This is important.”
I tried to focus my eyes, the image of the man over me blurry. He was holding something in his hand. I grabbed onto it, realizing it was a mask. I slipped it onto my numb face and checked out.
Time wound on, just how long I couldn’t be sure. The air was warm around me, but I couldn’t stop shivering and it was becoming harder to breathe, something gurgling inside my lungs. I searched for the music that played on repeat inside, needing the comfort it always offered.
“Brat?”
I rolled my head, wanting to respond, but unable to do so. When he tried to take my backpack from me again, I jerked and clutched it to my chest. Somewhere along the way, I’d lost my duffle bag of clothing and toiletries, but I refused to lose my most precious belongings.
I had a brief moment of lucidity and gaped at the red hair trailing down into a neat beard, and playful green eyes that reminded me of “Reverie”.
“Pooh Bear?” I whispered and winced as the flame in my throat burned.
“Drink this tea. It has honey and chamomile in it,” he said, holding a clay cup in his big hand.
I shook my head and clutched my throat to let him know it would hurt too much.
“It will help,” he insisted and pushed the cup into my frozen fingers.
The heat was nice against my cold skin, and I brought the cup to my lips, the curl of steam warming my nose.
I sipped, swallowed the tea, tasting very little, and ignited my throat.
I shook my head, and tried to set the cup on a table, but misjudged the distance and dropped it.
It clattered on the floor, sending liquid scattering across the wooden planks.
He whispered a curse, and I mouthed an apology.
I checked out again, aware he was moving around me, likely cleaning the mess.
I tried to focus on the chords of “Reverie”, the motions of playing at Nana’s grand piano with the early morning sun streaming through the window, and the pure joy that playing brought me.
The notes and melodies were clear in my mind, originating not from memory, but from the music in my soul.
Of all the stuff I’d had to go through in my young life, that internal symphony had always been my rock. I trusted it to get me through this.
I slept in short fits, my chest squeezing, the stickiness sloshing around in my lungs and making it hard to breathe. I pulled the mask from my mouth, needing fresh, cool air. I gulped at it desperately, unable to get enough.
“I’m taking you to the hospital,” Pooh Bear’s disembodied voice floated around me.
The words got my system online and I summoned the best refute I could, which was very little.
“You’re not dying on my couch,” he said, his tone suggesting he was truly worried. “You sound terrible and need more help than tea and chicken soup.”
I shook my head, searching for a way to explain why that was not a good idea.
For one, it would make it easy for my parents to track me down and two, they’d find a way to use a hospital stay against me.
See? He can’t even take care of himself.
How can we trust him to be responsible with that amount of money?
I was suddenly floating again, faint images of a run-down little apartment flickering in front of my eyes, before I was carried down creaky stairs and put into the backseat of an idling car.
I tried to focus on the music inside of me, but it was as if it were underwater, being pulled down to the depths and strangled by a monstrous kraken.
For the first time in a very long while, I was terrified because I didn’t know how I could survive without my music. Dying seemed preferable to losing my gift.
It occurred to me suddenly that I might actually be expiring.