How To Save A Life Read Online Free
Author: Lauren K. McKellar
gorgeous fingers of a different kind, ready to create. To release.
And then I let go.
In a flurry of movement, I play fast, dynamic notes that express all of the tension I'm feeling inside, all of the worry that Kat inspired with her simple last words to me earlier today. I play away my feelings of shame, of betrayal for running away from Duke when he so clearly wants me to stay, to be with him and prioritise him over all of this. Of loss, because who am I without him by my side except for the girl who—
The girl who they all look at.
My chords become more complex, my notes more staccato, and now I'm playing for my desperate need to get out of this small town and leave the looks, the whispers and the history I have here behind.
It heats up once more, and I'm playing for my father.
Music swirls around me, combinations become discordant and it's no longer a work of art, something I'm proud of, but unorganised chaos, bleeding straight from my veins into the aged instrument before me.
And then I break.
I cry.
And I leave.
Just like I've done three times a week for the past twelve months.
***
I walk out to my car, my canvas bag in hand. The lone streetlight gives me just enough light to make my way to the vehicle without encountering Death by Pothole. As I'm turning the key in the lock, I notice something odd. The unused bar next door has a golden glow coming from the front window.
"Strange," I mutter, jerking open my door and throwing my bag over the driver's seat to the passenger one. That bar has been empty for as long as I can remember. I asked Mum about it once, but she said she didn't know if it had ever been opened either.
Made sense.
She's really only been drinking for eighteen months.
I settle in the seat that sags beneath my weight, and I'm just about to turn the key over in the engine when I see it. A folded up piece of paper, no bigger than a Post-it note, underneath the wiper.
Frowning, I open the car door again and reach around to grab it, settling myself back inside and this time locking the door behind me. I dart my gaze around the parking lot, searching for any sign of life, but there's nothing.
The hairs on my arms rise as I open the folded piece of paper. It's white, A4, and quite thick in texture.
Messily scrawled across it, in thick black marker, are the words:
I AM ANGRY. I AM UNSURE.
I AM LOST
THAT’S HOW YOUR MUSIC MAKES ME FEEL.
CHAPTER THREE
It's always the same kind of dream.
"Sweetie, you're going to be fine." Mum places a cool hand against my forehead, then jerks it back. "Once we get you some ibuprofen."
My eyelids are heavy and my limbs weak. It happened out of nowhere. One moment I was in class, answering a question on the second concerto in Vivaldi's The Four Seasons —the next, a wave of dizziness washed over me, and I woke up in sick bay, a washcloth on my forehead.
"Bring it back." I grab Mum's cool hand again and place it against my forehead, let it try and soothe the burning fire raging inside my skull. "S'hot."
"I know, sweetheart." Mum strokes my sweat-dampened hair back from my forehead, letting me hold that first arm hostage as it cools my face.
"And she's had some Panadol?" Mum asks the nurse. Nurse Taylor nods sagely, and utters off a list of the drugs they’ve given me, motioning to the cold washcloth on my head as further indication of her display of care.
"I'm sorry to call you out of work, Mrs Stanton," Nurse Taylor says.
Mum shakes her head and takes my arm, looping it over her shoulder. "It's fine." She smiles. She always smiles, my mum. She's always so ... smiley. "Lia's the most important thing to me."
"They all say that." The nurse nods, and opens the door so we can hobble through.
The whole walk to the car Mum smiles, telling me about the first time she'd fainted. I might have a fever, too, Mum says, and once we get to the car, we book an appointment with our doctor this afternoon using Mum's cell.
We drive home, and the houses and
And then I let go.
In a flurry of movement, I play fast, dynamic notes that express all of the tension I'm feeling inside, all of the worry that Kat inspired with her simple last words to me earlier today. I play away my feelings of shame, of betrayal for running away from Duke when he so clearly wants me to stay, to be with him and prioritise him over all of this. Of loss, because who am I without him by my side except for the girl who—
The girl who they all look at.
My chords become more complex, my notes more staccato, and now I'm playing for my desperate need to get out of this small town and leave the looks, the whispers and the history I have here behind.
It heats up once more, and I'm playing for my father.
Music swirls around me, combinations become discordant and it's no longer a work of art, something I'm proud of, but unorganised chaos, bleeding straight from my veins into the aged instrument before me.
And then I break.
I cry.
And I leave.
Just like I've done three times a week for the past twelve months.
***
I walk out to my car, my canvas bag in hand. The lone streetlight gives me just enough light to make my way to the vehicle without encountering Death by Pothole. As I'm turning the key in the lock, I notice something odd. The unused bar next door has a golden glow coming from the front window.
"Strange," I mutter, jerking open my door and throwing my bag over the driver's seat to the passenger one. That bar has been empty for as long as I can remember. I asked Mum about it once, but she said she didn't know if it had ever been opened either.
Made sense.
She's really only been drinking for eighteen months.
I settle in the seat that sags beneath my weight, and I'm just about to turn the key over in the engine when I see it. A folded up piece of paper, no bigger than a Post-it note, underneath the wiper.
Frowning, I open the car door again and reach around to grab it, settling myself back inside and this time locking the door behind me. I dart my gaze around the parking lot, searching for any sign of life, but there's nothing.
The hairs on my arms rise as I open the folded piece of paper. It's white, A4, and quite thick in texture.
Messily scrawled across it, in thick black marker, are the words:
I AM ANGRY. I AM UNSURE.
I AM LOST
THAT’S HOW YOUR MUSIC MAKES ME FEEL.
CHAPTER THREE
It's always the same kind of dream.
"Sweetie, you're going to be fine." Mum places a cool hand against my forehead, then jerks it back. "Once we get you some ibuprofen."
My eyelids are heavy and my limbs weak. It happened out of nowhere. One moment I was in class, answering a question on the second concerto in Vivaldi's The Four Seasons —the next, a wave of dizziness washed over me, and I woke up in sick bay, a washcloth on my forehead.
"Bring it back." I grab Mum's cool hand again and place it against my forehead, let it try and soothe the burning fire raging inside my skull. "S'hot."
"I know, sweetheart." Mum strokes my sweat-dampened hair back from my forehead, letting me hold that first arm hostage as it cools my face.
"And she's had some Panadol?" Mum asks the nurse. Nurse Taylor nods sagely, and utters off a list of the drugs they’ve given me, motioning to the cold washcloth on my head as further indication of her display of care.
"I'm sorry to call you out of work, Mrs Stanton," Nurse Taylor says.
Mum shakes her head and takes my arm, looping it over her shoulder. "It's fine." She smiles. She always smiles, my mum. She's always so ... smiley. "Lia's the most important thing to me."
"They all say that." The nurse nods, and opens the door so we can hobble through.
The whole walk to the car Mum smiles, telling me about the first time she'd fainted. I might have a fever, too, Mum says, and once we get to the car, we book an appointment with our doctor this afternoon using Mum's cell.
We drive home, and the houses and
Readers choose
Grae McTavish
Linda Howard
Venessa Kimball
Martina Cole
Karina Halle
Debbie Mazzuca
Nick Wilgus
Ethan Jones