Jesus Christ, my head hurts.

Funny I should use that expression. I’m not religious. I worship the devil.

That’s a joke. Probably a joke in bad taste. That’s why I don’t goof off—because I inevitably mess up anything that involves me leaving my comfort zone.

My comfort zone consists of me lying on my bed, in dreamless sleep.

The music in my mind has been too damn loud since The Incident.  That’s why I never do anything right.

“Atlantic.”

It takes a moment for me to recognize my name over Vivaldi’s Four Seasons blaring in my head. The violin soloist is extremely out of tune.

Atlantic. Right, that’s me. I don’t mind being named after an ocean. I never did. I’ve met a thousand “Michaels” and “Emilys.” Actually, I’ve met three Michaels and five Emilys. Having a common name seems like another headache.

And I’ve had more than my fair share of headaches.

Mr. Sebastian is glaring at me. Everyone else in the classroom is obviously waiting for him to tell me off. They’re all trying to make it seem like they’re engaged in some other activity, while they’re actually watching the teacher. I can’t really blame them. I know that watching someone get yelled at is probably the highlight of their day. My days are vastly uninteresting. Always were.

Time doesn’t really mean much to me. I know that it passes. Or at least, I think that it passes. Maybe the entire world is just a delusion, a creation of my mind. It’s a very real possibility. Especially since recently, reality took on a new meaning. If my life can do a 180 degree turn at the drop of a feather, what makes me think there’s any stability in the world?

I think humans take solace in identifying and labeling every given moment. It helps them feel more important and think that something is constant. I don’t see the point.

Silly me, talking about humans as if I’m not one of them. I guess I am. Well, I know I am. I look like a human, I act like a human, my body works like a human’s. But I don’t really feel like one anymore.

“Atlantic, I think you know why I’m calling you out,” Mr. Sebastian says tiredly. I know that I test his limits every day. He probably doesn’t want me in his class. I don’t think there’s a single teacher who does. I can’t blame them. I don’t want anything to do with me. It’s no wonder they don’t want anything to do with me either.

I can’t really concentrate. My brain feels like it’s doing pushups in my skull. I thought that humans could adapt to any situation, but I had never really adjusted to the headaches and the music. If time is legitimate, a year and four months have passed since The Incident. A year and four months should be enough time for a human to begin to heal, or at least get used to the weird tricks my mind pulls on me.

I suppose that’s just more evidence that I’ve somehow lost my status as a human.

I think I should reply to Mr. Sebastian. Talking is another thing that humans do nonstop, if the constant babble of my peers applies to the rest of the species. I hate talking now. Words don’t express me.

“I’m sorry,” I reply. I’m unsure what he thinks I did wrong, so I figure I’m apologizing for not being an active participant in life anymore, though it’s his job to treat me like I am.

Mr. Sebastian pauses, glaring at me.

“If you’re sorry, why are you still humming?” he snaps. I can practically see the patience evaporating out of him.

The teachers were told what happened a year and four months ago, but they don’t take pity on me anymore. I think they figure it’s about time I’ve recovered.

I also figure it’s about time I’ve recovered. For starters, I’d like the music to shut up.

I can’t even remember what it’s like to be able to focus. Having an orchestra playing fortissimo in my skull is rather distracting. My mental ensemble doesn’t know how to play different dynamics, so I’m stuck with perpetual “very loud.” And my head hurts most of the time now.

Wait a second, back to reality. I remember Mr. Sebastian was telling me off for humming. But I’m not humming!

I lightly set my finger on my neck to verify to myself that I’m not.

What? My neck is vibrating slightly—I am humming! Why don’t I hear it?

I really am going insane. I guess the music inside my mind is jealous of music outside my mind so it blocks it out somehow.

I realize that I’m leaving the classroom. While my body stays at my desk, my mind stands up and walks out. I recognize the sensation right away. I become completely unaware of my surroundings. I try to corral my brain so I can focus on class, but resistance is futile. I’m gone. Another flashback. As if living the experience wasn’t painful enough.

And then I’m back to the site of The Incident. If my mind keeps bringing me back to that day, how am I ever going to move on and be a well-adjusted human?

I was never very well-adjusted, but I was a human before. Now I just exist in an empty shell, a slave to a single memory, chained up in the nonstop music. I don’t eat or sleep very much. I’ve basically given up. I don’t know how my body has dragged itself through the past year and four months. I figure it can’t hold on for much longer.

The memory begins. I try to prepare myself, but there’s nothing I can do to brace myself for something like this. It overwhelms me and I’m in the moment.

“I DON’T WANNA GO TO AUNT JANE’S! LET ME SLEEP!” I yell into my pillow. I had gone to sleep at four AM last night. The Internet had beckoned. And now Mom is trying to drag me out of bed at eight to go visit family? I don’t think so.

God, I’m so irritated.

I’m a hormonal adolescent who lives for sleep. Depriving me of my beloved rest is akin to starving a dragon. However, I’m sure it’s a lot easier to control an enraged dragon then a sleep-deprived teenager. While we don’t have claws or wings or fire-breathing capabilities, I assure you that my kind are dangerous foes who will wear down your strength with our unparalleled sarcasm and sass.

Mom looks at me severely, revealing that she’s not in the mood to put up with my s*** today. She usually doesn’t put up with my s***. I know she loves me, but she doesn’t have a lot of tolerance for this kind of thing. She likes to tell us kids that her tough philosophy prepares us for the real world. No one cares about our problems. People are going to set certain standards for us, regardless of whatever is happening in our personal lives.

“Fine, Atlantic. You can stay home, but if all of the chores on the chores list aren’t complete when I get back, you’re losing your phone, computer, and dessert privileges for a week.”

My mom drives a hard bargain. Her no-nonsense attitude sticks around when she gets home from her job as a high school administrator. She is a woman of her word—she makes no empty threats, but she also makes no false promises.

At that moment, sleep is so appealing to me that I don’t have the strength to resist. I don’t have my mom’s unconquerable willpower.

“I only have to do my chores, right?” I clarify.

“I said all of the chores on the chores list. That includes Tara’s and Hart’s.”

I realize that completing all of those tasks will probably take four hours, if I’m rushing, but I decide that I really don’t care. I will climb Mt. Everest if that means I can have my precious rest.

And then the family leaves for the hour-long trip to Aunt Jane’s. Mom, Dad, Tara and Hart all pile into the car while I remain snuggled in my warm blankets. I welcome sleep back with open arms.

Suddenly, I’m rudely interrupted by my phone ringing. I realize that I have seven missed calls and two voicemails from Aunt Jane. Why would she bother try to reach me so many times?

I answer my own question. They’re all probably having a debate over the details of some family story. Everyone I’m related to always feels the need to be right all the time. They all enjoy a nice debate, no matter how trivial. Oftentimes the arguments spiral into family feuds, but that is just the way we roll.

I call back my aunt. She picks up almost immediately.

“What’s up, Aunt Jane?” I ask, stifling a yawn.

“Atlantic…there was a terrible car accident…” There’s unexpected pain in her voice.

My stomach suddenly plummets. I swing my legs onto the floor. “Uh oh. Is anyone in the hospital?”

Immediately I’m inundated with concern. I try to find comfort in the fact that my aunt is a drama queen, but I can’t shake a growing feeling of panic within me. My instincts tell me something is horribly wrong.

“I’m so sorry I have to tell you this, and over the phone too, but think you need to know. I can’t come pick you up, and I, I, I—“

“Yes?” I ask warily. There is such raw emotion in Jane’s voice that I know something awful must have happened. Fear smacks me like a basketball to the face. I reach out wildly and clutch my nightstand for support.

“So, your mom lost control of the car, the breaks weren’t working, they skidded across a few lanes of traffic and…and…they hit, they hit a truck head on.”

I take a few rapid deep breaths. Hitting a truck head on? Well, aren’t cars designed to be safe? Don’t they have airbags to protect them? Don’t they have seatbelts?

“Everyone but Tara is DOA,” Aunt Jane says in a voice so quiet I have to strain to hear her.

“What does DOA mean?” I don’t want to know the answer. Maybe if I hang up the phone that instant, everything will go back to normal. But I know that that’s not true. It’s just not possible.

“Dead on arrival. It was—it was awful,” she whispers, and then starts to cry.

Pain. Stemming from my heart, shooting like lightning to my extremities.

Pain. All I feel is pain. Pain stifles everything else, makes you forget your thoughts, your hopes, your dreams, but most of all, your reasons for living.

The only thing I know is pain. Agony. Suffering. Pain.

After a moment, I realize that I’m on the floor in the fetal position, though I can’t remember going there. My entire body is trembling violently, though my hand is still clutching the phone to my ear.

“As for Tara…I got the call a few hours ago that she was hospitalized. I’m here now, and the surgeons say…they did their best, but…”

Aunt Jane can’t finish her sentence; her crying has turned to sobbing. I hang up the phone.

The silence is deafening.

Music suddenly starts blaring in my mind.

And then I feel myself being yanked away from the floor of my bedroom and thrust abruptly back into the present. The memory has finally ended. I’m back in the classroom, with everyone openly staring at me.

Tears are streaking down my face, and I’m covered in sweat. That’s usually what happens when I return from a flashback, but they were rarely in the middle of class.

My head is throbbing more now than ever. My mental orchestra has reached my favorite part of the song Winter, but I can’t enjoy it. I haven’t appreciated any music at all since it started blaring unceasingly in my head after The Incident.

I rise from my seat, my physical body moving this time. All eyes stay on me as I shakily stand and cross to the door.

I don’t have a destination. I merely need to move. Walking off my flashbacks is the only thing that makes me feel remotely better.

Walking is basically my only hobby now. I used to have a nice group of friends. They had always claimed they would never leave by my side. I made the same promise to them. To their credit, they did try to help me through The Incident.

I just pushed them away. And I haven’t regretted that decision. Spending time with people only reminds me of how inhuman I have become. I moved in with Aunt Jane. She mourned for ten months or so, but she recovered. So did the rest of the family.

But I am trapped.

Suddenly, a solo viola piece “takes the stage” in my mind. I recognize the tune but I don’t know its name.

I had wanted to play the viola professionally. I’m extremely talented. And it’s not bragging, since it’s simple fact. My teacher, a very strict woman who didn’t believe in praise, told me once that I could pick up a specific skill in almost half the time it took anyone else. I had started playing when I was five and practiced for three hours every school day and four hours every day off.

Now, I don’t want to touch a viola. I hear it in my head constantly. I’m sick of music in general. I hate it. I want it to leave me alone.

Suddenly, I can’t take it anymore. Hearing the viola song depresses the hell out of me. My grades have plummeted beyond repair, and I can’t bear the thought of my previously beloved instrument any more. Essentially, I had zero prospects in life. All I had was an aunt who didn’t know how to raise a teenager, and a perpetual random soundtrack running through my brain.

I collapse onto the nearest staircase. And I cry and I cry and I cry. I was wrong earlier when I said walking was my only hobby—I also do plenty of crying.

“Atlantic?” I hear a voice call to me, hestitantly. I perceive that someone is standing in front of me, trying to get my attention. I don’t even bother.

But the intruder persists, sitting down next to me. I give in and look up. It’s a girl from Mr. Sebastian’s class who I don’t know the name of. She looks concerned and a little bit frightened of me. I’m obviously mentally unstable and probably mental in general.

“I was hoping we could talk,” she said, clearly attempting to warm up to me. I realize that Mr. Sebastian probably sent her to check on me.

I know I’m not exactly a very welcoming person. I’m often humming, rarely listening, and constantly living with my head in the clouds. It's hard to connect with someone who's not present.

I really don’t care.

I still haven’t replied to the girl sitting next to me. I glance over at her. She’s looking at me closely. I haven’t stopped crying. She lightly sets her hand on my knee. She wants to comfort me, I can tell.

 
“What’s your name?” I finally ask. I decide that’s a fairly normal thing to do.

“Wendy,” she replies, a faint smile forming on her face. I can tell she’s relieved I actually spoke to her. Otherwise it would be pretty awkward for her to just sit there while I weep.

“Do you do play any instruments or do any sports, Wendy?” I ask, wiping my eyes with the back of my hands. I feel uncomfortable talking to her. I feel like a member of a different species. I figure that that setting was about as low pressure as I was going to get—sitting on a stairwell and talking one-on-one while class is going on. I try to roll with it.

“I play ice hockey,” she tells me. “What about you?”

“How long have you been playing ice hockey?” I ask, pressing on as if I hadn’t heard her question. I don’t want to discuss me. My least favorite conversation topic is myself.

“Since I was eight.”

“Does our school have an ice hockey team?”

“I wish. There’s a league outside of school.”

I continue to ask Wendy questions about the sport. She tells me how difficult and competitive it is, how often they have practices and games, and how much she loves her teammates and coach. She then explains to me the rules, at my request.

I don’t know how much time passes. Maybe fifteen minutes? I would gladly spend eternity there, chatting with Wendy about ice hockey until I die.

Eventually the bell rings. I don’t want the bell to ring. I used to relish the sound. It indicated that I was one class closer to going home for the day, where I could relax and enjoy my evening. Since The Incident, it didn’t have meaning for me, like the rest of the signals that time is passing.

Now the bell dictated that Wendy and I have to part, along with the only sense of normalcy I have felt in the last year and four months.

Wendy gives me a hug before returning to our classroom to retrieve her books. I stand up on the stairway, and then freeze in place.

My head isn’t hurting anymore.

And the music has stopped.