The last time Jiwon was seen was in the storage room, alone with her victory, grasping her trophy as if it were an anvil, not a prize that was to be cherished. The bright lights beamed down, fluorescent against her skin. A shiver itched up her spine, her lungs were empty of oxygen, her willowy fingers were intricately positioned against her Stradivarius violin. The auditorium was never-ending, as rows and rows of seats were filled with audience members. An elderly couple here and a family of four there, anyone who could be anybody was there. All of whom were gazing into her meager soul, the gaze of Medusa perhaps. It was the finals of the most prestigious violin competition. Winning was the top priority; no careless mistakes could be made. Perhaps their raptorial stares were appropriate for this occasion. Jiwon’s chest heaved, her vision blurred momentarily. She could still hear their cackles, her classmates from high school, the ones who didn’t let her forget how puny and insignificant she was. “Violin girl,” they hissed. “Little freak, you’re not special.” Their voices were branded into her memories and had never left her. But that is not all they did. Her arms bore this evidence, this heinous and vicious atrocity. Faint, circular scars caused by a curling iron were etched into her skin, as smooth patches where her hair had originally been were singed and ripped out. They’d trapped her against the bathroom stall, searing her all over her body with the heated iron while giggling hysterically at her cries. None of the teachers even rescued her or reprimanded the perpetrators. The burns, now scars, were scattered across her skin, hidden under long sleeves. The scars itched every so often and left behind the traumatic memory of what they did to her. Vicissitude of a Violinist BY JAKE MAURO
Made with FlippingBook Digital Publishing Software