Like the round of a 12-gauge shotgun ripping its way through the sensitive tissue of ones skull, that false musician had died instantly in that moment.

“I can't,” voice listless, fingers clenched to hide the fact that they're shaking, what's happening to me?

“Aw, why not?” dark brows furrowed, lips pushed outwards in a pout like manner. I am hesitant to answer, is it because I do not know why myself? No, I know, I know all too well. All too well...

“Because I can't,” defeated, my own semi-slanted black gaze falls down to stare at my feet. A bitter laugh fills the room, making my nails dig deeper, causing the room to shudder. I'm my own worst enemy, aren't I?

“Pathetic,” the room becomes cold, lifeless as even my own mocking voice decides to take it's leave. Where has the music gone? It died. When? You figure it out. But why?

Why? Why did it die? Because you killed it. Oh yeah, I did, didn't I? Yeah you did. How sad. How sad indeed.

I was raised on Mozart, Bach, The Phantom of the Opera, Vivaldi, Johann Pachelbel, etcetera, etcetera . Music was my upbringing, I was fed it as inspiration, and was pushed in that direction for my future. My calculating young mind had a different plan though.

“Mama,” big eyes bright with exhilaration, I hold up my first masterpiece in excitement, oh what the discovery of the almighty pencil hath wrought. It was a dragon, or my toddler version of what one looked like, but it was a dragon none the less, and I drew it. I created something, and unlike music, it didn't disappear once it was finished. Forever there, for everyone to see.

“I want to be an artist when I grow up,” I proclaimed proudly one day when I finally was able to speak words rather than sounds. Toothy smile widespread, those words felt so natural when they left my chapped lips. But I remember at that time there was a look, or lack there of excitement as I told my mother this.

“What about music?” Those words, have never--will never leave me. What about music, she said, yet, I never stopped drawing.

“Draw my project for me!” words so often spoken once I arrived in Kindergarten, yet the pride never left, no matter how many times I drew for them, my heart beat wildly with pride at the fact that they liked my art and that I drew better than all of them. I was going to be an artist, no matter what, no matter what, I was going to be one.

It’s funny how I once thought it would be so easy.

“What instrument would you want to play Hon?” I avoid her blue eyes at all cost, for I can't bare to see the disappointment, for I can't bare the fact that she prefers her music over my art. Why Mom?

Silence.

Attempts at avoiding the question are diminished as she repeats herself firmly this time. I look up, a fire is raging in the back of my throat, rising up to scorch my nose. She repeats herself once more, I think back, back to the singing voices of the instruments that had become my lullabies. Which did I find most beautiful?

“The piano.”

Self-doubt.

What had I gotten myself into?

“So a pianist then, you'll be a pianist,” it stung, those words hurt, but what could I do at the time? I was far from reaching the rebellious stage of adolescence, and her smile, she looked so-- happy? I'll make you proud of me Mom, because you're my everything.

“I'm sick,” it was in the third grade when she told me the news, I had already started playing the piano before that, and I had become quite good to be honest, yet deep down, my aspirations to become an artist still lingered, no, not linger, became stronger rather.

My stomach felt as though it had collapsed into itself when she spoke those two words. At that age when someone is sick, we usually associate it as something simple, like a cold, something that would go away with that grape flavored medicine we took. This was different, how she said it was different, the sound of each syllable rolling off of her tongue was different, everything about it was different. How I knew this, I'm not sure. Was it mother daughter telepathy? Hell, if I never believed in God than why would I believe in something like that? I'm guessing it was pure instinct.

Things started drastically changing afterwards. After being diagnosed with RSD my loving mother started changing, completely, entirely. What is RSD exactly? Good question, I had no idea. No idea what it was, no idea what it did, no idea what happened to the people diagnosed with it, but most importantly, I had absolutely no idea, NO comprehension whatsoever of what a drastic toll it would take on MY seemingly unchanging life. My daily life which focused on waking up in the morning, going to school, getting laughed at for being “different” at school, coming home from school to do homework, practicing the piano, becoming silent once my father came home so I would not have to explain another bruise to the teachers, and then drawing before bed time. That was my life, and for the most part, I was comfortable with it, comfortable with that repetitive routine that I could always count on.

That still doesn't answer the question though, does it? What is RSD? Like I said, I never knew, never had an idea of what it was while I was still with my mother. Yet once that changed, I was overcome with a morbid curiosity. What was it? What the hell was it?! Was it really that bad?! Was it so horrible to point where you had to leave me behind mother? Leave me behind for that world of sweet releases, narcotics to remove the pain, narcotics to get a new high? Oxycotton had become her newest love affair, and it wanted nothing to do with me. But yes, back to RSD, right? Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy, otherwise known as Type I of Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS). The patient diagnosed with the disease goes through constant, abnormal, intense pain often located in their hands, or injuries mostly located on the upper body. And there's even a loss of function with the nervous system, or even more commonly, a dysfunction with the nervous system. She dealt with both cases.

A never ending pain that I could never hope, or want to imagine. Constant. Never ending. As in, until she dies. Oh, and I forgot to mention; there's no cure for it. Which for the doctors she saw roughly translated as, “You're pretty much screwed, and we don't intend to study into it further, oh, but what flavor of lollipop would you like?”

Because of this lack of further study, lack of concern, and the disease itself, my mother had died. No, not literally, that is. But, I never stopped playing the piano for her, even though she never asked for it anymore, even though her sky blue eyes were never directed at me anymore, I never stopped.

“Go up to your room,” she drawled, lips turned thin as they were spread out into a dry smile. She never even looked at me when she said that, too focused on her guest, too focused on the party, too focused on the alcohol and cigarettes, too focused on finding an escape from her now never ending pain. In my room I remember crying to myself, but not completely about my mother and her changed self. I wanted to become an artist more than anything, but why was I keeping up this false identity? Because I wanted to make her proud, and now, because I wanted to bring her back.

“I'm going to be an artist and a musician,” bitterly, I spat at my mom lying lifeless in bed. The rebellious stage had finally come into affect. She just stared blankly ahead of her, eyes glazed over, unresponsive to anything I said. I remember at that time, being so ignorant and thinking that it was just the alcohol that caused her to get like this, but it wasn't, she had found a new release that was even more effective. But what were the costs? I have to ask out of total sarcasm, and bitterness.

Her self-destructive releases only grew worse as time passed by. I was in the seventh grade finally, and my art had only improved, I was in the 'advanced' classes now, and as I saw it, only six years away from my goal. Oh, but how I had forgotten that games sometimes take a turning point, oh how I had forgotten.

Where were we now? I can't remember, but I was thirteen, and no longer in school. But, where were we going? I don't know, wherever mom wanted to go? But what about your goal? Right now Mom needs me. But you're just her leverage, you know?

I was just her leverage, oh the irony. How hard I had tried, how hard I had tried to make her proud, to make her happy. Mom, why are you doing this? Why are you doing this to me? Did I do something bad? If you want, I won’t become an artist, I'll dedicate everything to music, because I just want you to be happy, I just want you to be my mom again. Oh the irony of it all... I was so stupid.

Just a hopeless idiot?

Yeah, just a hopeless idiot.

How about, a quick, recap on what just happened? Yes, I was removed from school, from the seventh grade. In fact, you could say I never actually was able to attend the seventh grade. Why? Good question. Let's just say, a mother who was on a crusade to travel across the state in search of any fixes she could get and a daughter who's naïve enough to blindly follow doesn't mix so well with a school schedule. I had no idea where we were, no idea where we were going, no idea what crime I might have to commit next to protect her from the monsters who lurked in the streets. I didn't know anything anymore.

Will I eat today? Who knows. Will I be able to sleep tonight? Who knows. Will I be alive in a week? Who knows. Then will I be able to protect her? I have to.

“Have to,” as in something urgent that had to do be done no matter what.

Where was that slightly comfortable, unchanging life now?

I. Don't. Know. Any. More.

My unstable grounds that I had been walking on for the past years had finally crumbled beneath me, and I was unable to do anything about it. Eyes wide, breath shallow and quick, my lungs felt like they had been dunked in the water beneath the ice that forms on top of those ponds you see in movies, “Mom?”

“She's gone,” common sense stated bluntly, “She abandoned you.”

“No, that's not true,” I stood there, shaking like those ugly Chihuahua dogs do, “She's coming back,” denial had become my last remnant of hope at that moment, “She's coming back, she has to, she's my mom.” And mothers don't abandon their children, it's the fathers, not the mothers, no, it couldn't be, it can't be.

It can't be.

“She's gone,” and with that, the musician in me died. Like the round of a 12-gauge shotgun ripping its way through the sensitive tissue of ones skull, that false musician had died instantly in that moment.

I learned that mothers can just as easily abandon their children as fathers for even more ridiculous reasons than having to take care of said child. I learned that doctors aren't as great as television series such as E.R, and House (yes, I went there House fanatics) portray them as. I learned that protecting someone is much harder than it seems, especially when they don't want said protection. I learned that real monsters aren't covered in fur, scales, and eat boys and girls, but are covered in jeans, clothes, and devour whatever they can to further benefit themselves. I learned that really, you have very little actual control of your life when you think about.

I learned that I was never a musician.

I loved art.

“I heard you can play the piano, play me a song!” a sarcastic smile, eyes narrowed, a snort escapes.

“You got you're facts wrong, I'm an artist, not a pianist,” with the turn of my heel I walk away, leaving behind that unfamiliar face, leaving behind that all too familiar past. For I'm an artist, not a musician, and never will I be a musician, for I want my creations to never die when they are finished, for I want my passion to be seen, than rather heard.

For I want my life to be mine alone, and nobody else's.