Page 52 of What Goes Around

Whenever I thought about her violin, about all the recitals, the standing ovations, the scholarships people whispered about when she was only fourteen, a sharp twist pressed under my ribs.

Not jealousy.

Something older. Deeper.

Ghost pain.

As I walked, I glanced down at my left hand, flexing fingers that never quite obeyed the way they used to. They never moved fast enough, never with the precision they once had. The thin white scars across my palm caught the early light.

I had been a prodigy too, once.

Piano.

That part of my life felt distant now, like a story someone else had lived, but the memory always came sharp when I allowed it.

I’d been eleven. Washing dishes as punishment. I couldn’t even remember what Apple had done to cause the argument, just that I ended up blamed for it, as always.

I stood at the sink, hands buried in warm suds, steam fogging the window, when the crash came behind me.

I spun around, startled.

Apple stood by the counter, staring down at the remains of a plate scattered across the tiles. Her eyes were wide and filled with tears.

“Sorry!” she squeaked.

I only sighed and set the dish I’d been rinsing aside. “I’ll get it.”

She didn’t move. Just nodded, small and pitiful. So I fetched the broom, swept the shards into the dustpan, and dumped the pieces into the trash.

It took barely a minute.

When I turned back, the bubbles in the sink had settled, the water a murky white film hiding everything underneath.

Without thinking, I plunged my hand back in.

The pain was immediate and blinding. A deep, slicing agony ripped through my palm, up my wrist.

I screamed and jerked my hand out, blood already spilling down my arm in streams.

Apple shrieked even louder.

Then she rushed to me with a dishtowel, her face pale, eyes huge, the perfect image of a horrified sister. She pressed the towel over my wound. So hard it felt like something tore deeper under her grip. But the pain fogged my mind, and all I could do was choke on sharp breaths while she cried for our parents.

I actually remember feeling guilty for bleeding on her favourite shirt.

At the hospital, no one asked what actually happened.

My father only leaned forward, impatience etched into every line of his face as he looked at the doctor.

“Will she still be able to play? She’s gifted.”

The surgeon gave him a look that was somehow both clinical and regretful.

“The flexor tendons in her palm are severed. That’s why she can’t bend her fingers. We need to operate tonight if we want to preserve function.”

My father cut him off.

“She has the Youth Showcase audition next month. Important instructors will be there.”