Strings of Illusion

The notes vibrated through Isabel’s teeth, intervals hopped, and strings caressed. She envisioned the melody through clinched lids, the notes radiating their own simplicity in a range of vivid colors she couldn’t quite explain.

 She preferred the darker hum of cat guts to synthetic strings, knowing full well her potential would not be met otherwise. She only asked for the best. She was the best.

She reeled at an incessant ringing that interrupted her chorus. “Marshall? Answer the door, will you?”

No reply. He was always away, hammering his nails, sawing his oak. The screech of metal on metal was a harsh deterrent to entering his studio, and the smell of sawdust made her cringe. Thinking about the lose tendrils of wood scattered haphazardly across the cold cement floor made her lower the violin bow erroneously, causing a sound to shriek coldly from the veins of the instrument. She called out in anguish.

Back straight, fingers poised. One, two, three. She would not be made a fool, not by a ringing of the door or by Marshall’s ridiculous habits. Her concentration was now a missing person- a search party of neurons trying to gather back what the distraction had lost her. She soon realized that luck was not on her side.

“Marshall!” She would not get up from her chair. The cushion was perfect, placed on the arch of her back impeccably and not a piece of gold fringe out of place. What a waste it would be, to both pillow and person, should she move an inch. Her chin upturned at this thought. No, she would not lose this moment. She would regain her concentration and the colors would flow like Noah’s flood- only notes hovered in her mind instead of a steady series of beasts. The geometric imagery of animals standing placidly in their two-by-twos calmed her spirit. She sighed, inhaled the feeling of balance and order and lifted her bow. She rubbed the ivory tip and grinned, ever so slightly, at the pleasing tactile sensation this awarded her.

A beat. One eye sprung half open- the concept of a madwoman. The moment was lost, the instrument felt dead in her hands.

Who was at the door? The dinging ceased to conclude its one note monstrosity, a dangerous distraction to her genius. Much like a telephone wire, what felt like a murder of crows decided to settle ruthlessly on the channels of her brain, a headache on the brink of explosion as she debated rising from her perch to hush the outrage.

Or perhaps, not. A man’s voice rang, hollow and far from her grasp following the doorbells assault. The tone seemed to echo closer, alone. Was it her Marsh? He knew this was her time for isolation and to be at peace with her tool.

Or was it? It appeared that night was encroaching as the sun made its final descent, the tip of her field maple now tinged in a fiery gold. She could have sworn she just lunched.

Music seemed to abide by a different set of rules. She surmised that Hawking would have been apt to have studied the rhythms of a musician to discover the true magic behind relativity. Following this thought, she struggled to pinpoint not only the time of day, but the day of the week. Was it January?

The voice halted and appeared to take the doorbell with it, so she thought little more on the matter. She would continue, whether it be day or night, spring or fall. It’s what you did when you were the best. Music would stop for no one.

As she became lost in the rhythm, she started to feel drowsy, a snake following his master in a trance. The notes tumbled down, down, down. The voices from afar began to speak, the clarity questionable. Yet, she remained in her seat, frozen.

“How is she doing today?” The man shifted in his white coat, appearing anxious.

“As the sedation wore off, she began shouting again. Her blood pressure mounted, either the beeping from the machine or a change in the room set her off.” The nurse’s glasses skewed to the right, too many adjustments favoring her dominant hand. She corrected them unknowingly and raised an eye towards the doctor.

He sighed, “the students are coming in for rounds, let me know if anything changes.”

“Of course. And Marshall?”

“What is it?”

“Her hands were moving, as if in motion with her bow.”

He nodded. Turning towards his class, he said, “alright, anyone want to start?”

Five hands raised in the air, eager. He pointed to a woman by the name of Dominica.

She said, “here we have a twenty-eight-year-old female by the name of Isabel Lanchester. Resident of the Field Maple psychiatric hospital for ten years, she maintains in a propofol induced coma, as has been her state five days shy of when she first entered in January of 2010.”

He said, “and why is her case significant?”

“She suffers from Lennox-Gastaut syndrome, a rare form of epilepsy. Her case is even more unique, however, in what occurs prior to the seizures occurrence.”

He said, “Stan, tell me what happens during her aura.”

“She becomes rather proficient with the violin, but only during that short window of time. Prior to her hospitalization, she was what many have called a child prodigy.”

“Yes, good, and what do we believe led to the harsh nature of the seizures?”

Dominica spoke. “At her request, her parents withheld treatment so she could play. While taking her medications, she became merely a novice.”

Marshall said, “in a case like this, we continue our search for answers, environmental cues, explanations for every phase of her actions. Why not the cello, or the piano? Why care?”

“As we researched further, it was discovered that her grandparents were Luthiers, or Violin makers. They had a large studio, carving the bodies from wood by hand. Their studio was next to her room growing up. It was as if every step of her life molded the genius that lays before us, a child prodigy in the body of a twenty-eight-year-old woman, her talent trapped until science can unhinge her.”

Marshall nodded in satisfaction as the group filed out of the room. He shut the glass door, leaving the room a yellow hue, the suns shining departure gleaning its last breath across the white and silent hospital bed.