The Things I'm Forced to See
By Gabby Green-Nickerson
The darkness envelops around me--that consistent night that never quits. We stop moving. Keys jingle and two doors slam simultaneously. I hear footsteps, these are my own, and then another pair that squeak. Tremors chase up and down my spine as I make my way across the rough gravel of the parking lot. I have a friend to guide the way, for when I cannot. This was one of those times. Her feet made no noise, for she glided across, lightly grazing the tough ground as she felt her way before me, to let me know it’s safe. I hear my dad whisper close to my ear, “Nervous?” I nod my head but cannot speak, for fear butterflies may fly out of my mouth. We ascend a flight of stairs, my hand on the rail and my friend at my side. I squeezed her thin, bony hand for reassurance, but I only become more agitated. There are voices becoming more distinct. I begin to make out conversations, but ignore them, lest I get too distracted. My dad opens another door, which are more stairs. I knew they were stairs because my friend went up next and led me along. I stood at the top, petrified. I stroked the cold hand of my companion and kept close to my dad. There was the sound of a flute duo just ending, followed by a stunning round of applause. They were rather talented. What if I’m not that good? I thought to myself. The announcer’s feminine voice came loud and clear through the microphone. “And up next is Miss Erin Manwell, playing Ludwig Van Beethoven’s ’Moonlight Sonata’.” Shortly after her words followed a polite applause. I drew out a shaky breath. I let go of my friend, for I needed not her assistance any longer. My dad took care of her. Just fifteen steps to the piano bench, I thought to myself as I walked. I felt around to find where I was. I hit the bench with a noticeable thump, and felt the heat rise up in my cheeks. I sat down. My fingers danced over the ivory and ebony keys, as I knew them to be, which I could picture perfectly in my head. I hit a key, hoping I had found the right one. Perfect. I smiled and, by memory, carried on my solo. My solo. My solo.
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