I have a peculiar relationship with music.
When I was a teenager, my mom and I lived in an apartment on Chestnut Hill over in Morgantown. Beautiful place, especially in the early summer. There was a basketball court not too far from our balcony. Whenever I wasn’t playing bootleg MP3s in my room, I was out on the court.
But my most vivid memory of that place was of our upstairs neighbor, Milla. She worked as a waitress but aspired to be a professional violinist. She had this curly mocha-colored hair that naturally framed her face, like a spotlight highlighting her cheeks. She had talked to all neighbors, and they’d all agreed to let her practice her violin at certain hours of the day. Incidentally, I happened to be playing outside every day at that time. I had a perfect view of her from the court. I must’ve missed thousands of shots because of her.
God, how I envied that violin.
I had a huge crush on Milla. I used to come by every now and then to check if she wanted something from the store. I’d talk to her about her job, her violin, or whatever was happening around the neighborhood. One of the memories that really stand out was the first time she showed me her violin.
“It’s real expensive,” she said. “See this?”
She pointed at the mark on the inside.
“G.F. Pressenda. They don’t make them like this anymore.”
20 years later, and that name still stuck with me. Pressenda.
So when I found a violin with that same name at a yard sale in rural Minnesota, I had to get it. It just sparked something in me. For a moment I was a teenager again, feeling my heart beat out of my chest. My skin tingling with excitement, like it’d done every time I’d knocked on Milla’s door.
I got it for about 800 bucks. It was a steal.
Nowadays I live and work in the small town of Juniper, back home in West Virginia. I didn’t get that far from Morgantown, but I can’t complain. I can afford my own space, and I got a lot of friends that live nearby. I’ve dated on and off over the past couple of years, I’m good friends with my neighbors, and life is rolling on at a steady pace. And with this gorgeous Pressenda violin, it felt like I’d found the last piece of the puzzle. That little tingle of youth. Perfect for someone not too far from a mid-life crisis. Let’s be real, I’m getting there.
I got it back home and cleaned it up. It had little balls of Styrofoam stuck inside that seemed to have a life of their own. Every attempt at vacuuming it up just spread them out further. Annoying.
But the violin was genuine. Hell, the thing was still perfectly tuned. A quick search revealed that this particular model was valued (depending on the estimated condition) somewhere around the $50,000 mark. If it was verified, of course. I’d have to get a certificate of authenticity from a collector or expert, which was a project in and of itself.
Milla hadn’t been kidding. These things really were expensive.
That night was the first night in decades where I dreamt about Milla. I’d met many women over the years, but that boyhood obsession with Milla was imprinted in my very DNA. I dreamt about her sitting on the edge of the bed, getting ready to make her violin sing for me. I could smell the morning coffee on her breath. Her silhouette moved carefully, as to not wake me.
“You’re gonna love this,” she whispered and positioned the violin on her shoulder.
She pushed a stubborn curl out of her face, raised the bow, and slowly turned to me.
But no. I woke up with a sneeze. One of those little Styrofoam balls had found its way into my nose. I was still clutching the violin like a teddy bear. Seconds later, my morning alarm went off.
Great timing.
It was the first day of the weekend, so I spent some time doing chores and talking to my friends online. A friend called another friend, and a friend of a friend called someone else. Somewhere down the chain of numbers and names, I ended up talking to a music teacher from Wichita. I sent them a few pictures of the violin, and they started laughing. Indeed, this was a genuine Pressenda. And from what they could tell, it was in great condition.
“I’ll put you in touch with my brother-in-law,” she chuckled. “He’d love to get a look at that. Might even take it off your hands.”
But that planted an important question in the back of my head; could I sell this? Had I bought it to make money, or because I truly wanted to keep it around?
Either way, I needed to have the option. So before anything else, it had to be verified and estimated.
As the call ended, I stayed on the couch for a while. The violin was nice just to hold. Push it against my chest, feel the texture of the strings against my cheek.
And as a bonus, it reminded me of her. I imagined her sitting next to me on the couch. An impossibly warm hand stroking my cheek.
“You turned out great,” I could hear Milla whisper. “I’m glad to be here.”
I smiled. Even though it was my imagination, a phantom of the mind, I wept a little. I could feel her warmth radiating to my left. I didn’t care that I was sitting there on my own; she felt real to me.
It was decided. There was no goddamn way I was gonna sell that violin.
But even so, I was put in touch with a man called Waylon who lived up in Mt Morris. He’d gotten the pictures of my Pressenda and reached out about an evaluation. I couldn’t bring myself to answer him, so I left him on read. Instead I spent the day preparing the perfect wall space; placing the violin as the centerpiece of the living room.
That night, after a long shower, I went to bed with a smile. I knew I’d be dreaming of her again. I hadn’t been able to get her out of my mind. It gave me so much energy and left this warm glow in my chest just thinking about her. The kind of emotion I hadn’t felt for years.
I closed my eyes, and there she was.
“Rest it right here,” she said, gently touching my shoulder. “Your head needs to be laid backwards, relaxed, with half your cheek leaning in.”
I followed her instruction. I took the bow in my hand, drew a deep breath, and let myself relax.
It was about 10 seconds later that I realized I wasn’t dreaming.
I was really sitting there, at the edge of my bed, holding the violin in a perfect grip. There was no one else in the room, but Milla had been there. My knees were covered in those little Styrofoam balls.
I shot up out of bed and brushed off my knees. The violin had been in the living room, hanging on the wall. Had I gone to fetch it, subconsciously? I must’ve. But how?
I ended up walking back and forth to the living room three times, trying to make myself remember fetching the Pressenda. I couldn’t. It’s as if it had just appeared in my hand.
Maybe Milla fetched it for me.
The next day, Sunday, I was in a daze. It felt like I’d slept for days, and nothing at all. I felt disoriented and feverish, like I was coming down with something nasty. That, and I had to brush Styrofoam balls out of my bed that morning. Damn thing was like craft room glitter.
Had I put the violin back in the living room before I fell asleep? I couldn’t remember.
I had two more unanswered messages from Waylon. He was really interested in the Pressenda. Again, I left him on read.
Instead, I made myself a cup of coffee, took down the Pressenda, and listened. If I just relaxed enough and closed my eyes, I could hear Milla as if she was right there with me. Guiding my hands. Whispering in my ear. Making the hairs on my arms stand at attention.
“I’d love to play a little,” she whispered. “I’ll show you.”
She showed me how to press down on the strings. She guided my hand, showing me the correct angle of the bow. Together we played a little starter song, a sort of lullaby. You know, the one about the sunflowers?
I didn’t even question it. It was this strange, awakened state somewhere between dream and reality. I just went along with it. I started telling myself it was just inspiration, or a heightened sense of memory. Maybe I had a knack for music? I’d never felt particularly talented, so it was about time I found something.
Suddenly, it was past midnight. I’d been playing for 14 hours straight.
My fingers were red and raw, and someone was knocking on my door.
Abe was a bachelor in his early fifties living right next door. He’d leaned heavily into the hippie aesthetic for as long as I’d known him. Long hair, rough beard, round glasses, and an oversized tie dye hoodie.
“Hey man, loving the vibe,” he smiled. “Didn’t know you could play.”
“Sort of a new hobby.”
We looked at one another for a second before it clicked in my head. It was a workday tomorrow, and I was playing the violin. I hadn’t even realized I was still holding the Pressenda, so I put it down.
“I’m… I’m sorry, Abe. I didn’t-“
“No, no, it’s fine. Seriously. I’d love to hear more tomorrow, yeah?”
“Yeah, yeah, definitely.”
“I’m gonna hold you to that, you’ve spoiled me now, ya know.”
“I’ll keep at it, Abe. Thanks.”
“Alright, take care.”
He brushed some Styrofoam balls from my shoulder, smiled, and wandered off.
That night, as I went to bed, I could feel something warm pressing against me. Milla was right beside me, cuddling up against my back.
“I had fun today,” she whispered. “Can we play again tomorrow?”
“Yeah, absolutely.”
“You’re learning so fast, it’s incredible.”
“It’s a lot of fun. Makes me feel…”
“Everything?”
I thought about it. It was the exact word I’d use. Everything.
“Yeah,” I sighed. “All the good things.”
“Let’s call in sick,” she snickered. “Just spend the day together.”
“I gotta work.”
“One day is no day. You never call in sick. It’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
“I wouldn’t lie to you.”
She gently kissed my neck. I turned to face her but woke up the moment my eyes met hers.
I was lying on my side, holding my phone. I’d already composed a text message for my boss, telling him I was stuck with a bad cough. All I had to do was press send.
The kiss on my neck still lingered.
I sent the text.
I spent my entire Monday with Milla. I played the violin and drank tea next to the kitchen window. I made myself a chicken salad for lunch, and listened to Chopin while taking a bath. Milla was there with me the entire time, giving suggestions and encouraging me. She held my hand, stroked my cheek, brushed away my hair. She playfully tickled my ear, whispering sweet nothings.
“You’re becoming your best you,” she teased. “I’m so glad we found each other again.”
That she wasn’t real never crossed my mind. To me, it was like falling in love for the first time all over again. I could only see the wonderful positives, and my thoughts were completely devoured by the warmth I felt for that woman. Rose-tinted glasses don’t begin to cover it.
I played long into the night. At one point, as I finished an exercise for the tenth time, Milla squealed with joy. She flung her arms around my neck, and threw herself at me for a kiss. Her soft lips brushed against mine.
Then she was gone.
There was a knock at the door.
I swung the door open.
“What?!”
Abe took a step back, holding his hands up.
“Whoa, I, uh… hey, man. Just checking in to see how you’re doing.”
“I’m fine.”
“Great. That’s… that’s great. I’m just… man, it’s two in the morning.”
I looked back at the kitchen clock. It was actually ten minutes past.
I was being a complete asshole.
“I’m… I’m sorry, Abe. I lost track of time.”
“Hey man, no sweat. Are you okay? You, uh… if you need anything, or just wanna talk, just come knocking. Least I can do.”
“No, really, I’m… I’m good. I’m sorry, I’m gonna… I’ll do better. I promise.”
“Anytime, man. Just… take it easy. Get some rest, alright? Don’t burn yourself out.”
He leaned in to brush some Styrofoam balls from my shoulder, but changed his mind. Instead, he just pointed.
“You got a little something, uh… there.”
As he walked away, I brushed the styrofoam from my shoulder.
Only then did I realize I was holding a kitchen knife in my left hand.
“Just in case,” Milla whispered. “I don’t trust him.”
The next morning I woke up just after 9, still with the kitchen knife on the floor next to the bed. My alarm hadn’t gone off, and I panicked. I’d barely buttoned my jeans before I was out the door. I’d never been late for work before.
The moment I plopped down in the driver’s seat and put my phone on charging, I noticed I had a text.
Turns out I’d sent a text message telling my boss I was gonna be gone for the rest of the week. I’d blamed it on a throat infection. He confirmed it, asking me to let him know as soon as I felt better.
“I didn’t send this,” I said out loud. “That wasn’t me.”
A pair of warm hands caressed my shoulders.
“I figured we could take some time off,” Milla whispered. “Get to know each other. Play a little.”
“You can’t… you can’t send texts,” I said. “That’s impossible.”
“And yet, there it is.”
She dug her fingers into my hair, massaging my scalp.
“Let’s go inside.”
I couldn’t say no. I just brushed the Styrofoam balls from my thighs and went back inside.
For the next few days, everything is a blur. We played, we talked, we cuddled. We watched a movie and random YouTube clips. And every step of the way, she was eager to let me know how appreciated I was. Her compliments were so warm and genuine. It wasn’t just about looking good, or being clever. She would make these deep, apt observations. Things I never considered before.
At one point I remember lying awake in bed, staring into the ceiling. The Pressenda rested on my chest, warm from use. Milla held my hand, stroking me with her thumb. I could smell her shampoo.
“Whenever I think of the future, I imagine myself facing a plain white door,” she whispered. “And beyond it, well… it’s the most beautiful place. We should go there sometime.”
“I’d love to,” I smiled. “You’ll come with me, right?”
“I’ll never leave you.”
I turned to her. She leaned in close. I put my hand on her cheek, leaning in.
“Never,” she repeated. “Never ever.”
I felt her breath on my lips.
And then there was a knock on the door.
This time I was enraged. I threw the door open and stepped out in the same motion. Abe fell backwards, landing straight on his tailbone on the asphalt. The anger just ran out of me like a popped water balloon.
“I-I’m sorry!” I said. “Abe, are you okay?”
“Come on, man…”
I helped him up. He gave me an apologetic look.
“Look, you’re… you’re obviously going through something,” he said. “I’m trying to be a friend here. But I got work too, you know?”
“I know, I know.”
“I worry about you, man. Are you taking something?”
“No, nothing.”
“You sure? You… you, like, never sleep.”
Thinking back on it, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gotten a full night’s sleep. And I knew for a fact I hadn’t made the bed. It’d been unused for at least two days. Speaking of days, what day was it? Thursday?
“It’s not like that,” I said. “It’s more like… I’m seeing someone.”
“Oh?” Abe raised an eyebrow. “Oh! Oh, yeah, that… uh, congratulations.”
“Thanks, it’s… it’s been good.”
“I’d love to meet them sometime. What’s their name?”
“Milla.”
“Well, tell Milla she’s a keeper,” smiled Abe. “I don’t know a lot of women who’d stand these little fuckers.”
“The what?”
He brushed the Styrofoam balls from my shoulder.
“You got, uh… termites.”
As Abe wandered off, I looked down.
The little Styrofoam balls were moving.
How hadn’t I noticed that before?
Little white beetles, skittering along with their many legs.
I hurried back inside.
They were everywhere.
They walked in lines across the floor, making the entire living room look like it was covered in long strands of thick webbing. They were in the cupboards. They were lining every inch of the floor molding.
And they were all over me.
I tried to brush them off. They were in my scalp, my clothes, my underwear. I plucked one out of my eyebrow, and I could feel one trying to climb into my ear.
I tore my shirt off, and suddenly they were gone. All I could see was Milla, standing a few feet ahead of me. She took a step forward, and my body twitched. I could still feel them. I could feel them moving across my body. I just couldn’t see them; all I saw was her.
She put her hand on my cheek.
“It doesn’t matter what is real,” she said. “You and I? That’s what matters.”
I didn’t have anything to say. I tried to find the words, but I wanted to jump out of my own skin. I still felt them.
Then she kissed me.
For a moment, all was bliss. Warm lips pressed against me. Careful, but wanting. Her arms wrapped around my neck.
But this wasn’t right. It couldn’t be.
I forced my eyes open.
I was standing on all fours, lapping up insects from the floor like a thirsty dog. They were crawling up my legs, my arms, my face.
I screamed, but felt something get stuck in my throat. Coughing, I forced myself into the shower. I had to get some of them off. I had to do something.
I stepped into the shower, fully clothed, and put my hand on the faucet. Just as I was about to turn it, the light flickered. Milla was standing in the doorway, looking heartbroken.
“Get out of there,” she said. “Let’s go for a walk. Let’s talk.”
“What the fuck are you?”
“Nothing has changed. I love you.”
“No. No, no, no.”
I was just about to turn the faucet when I felt her hands resting on my shoulders. She’d been several feet away a heartbeat ago.
“Don’t,” she said. “Please don’t”.
I pushed her off and turned the faucet.
Except I couldn’t. My hand refused.
I could see them moving under my skin. Pulse after pulse of squirming creatures acting as an impromptu blood vessel. My hand slowly turned upwards, on its own. My index finger contracted and released, over and over.
“Look, honey,” Milla whispered. “I’m waving at you.”
I couldn’t turn the faucet. Not with my hands, not with anything. I didn’t even see Milla anymore, just the insects. And there were thousands of them.
I hurried into the bedroom. Maybe I could just get rid of the Pressenda.
Maybe I could set a fire.
How hadn’t I seen this?
My bedroom was covered in them. They lined the walls, clumping into piles of squirming white. My pillows were so full of them, I could swear they were moving. And there, in the middle of the bed, was the Pressenda.
Untouched.
I felt a weight lean against my shoulder.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Milla whispered. “Just relax. Let me fix this.”
“What the fuck are you doing to me?”
“Whatever you want.”
I saw the insects evaporate from my vision; leaving the bedroom clean, warm, and inviting. There was this physical relief settling in my chest, and I could feel my breath slowing.
“See?” she said. “It’s nothing.”
Something moved in my ear.
In a moment of clarity, I clawed at it. I felt something scrambling to escape my fingers, and pulled out the largest white beetle I’d ever seen. At least as large as the nail on my little finger.
I heard a scream. This awful, blood-curdling scream.
Milla appeared before me.
Blood pouring out of her eyes, like she was crying her life out. Teeth falling out of her mouth like leaves from a dying tree. Her fingers curled into insectoid claws. Her ribcage pushing forward, like an exoskeleton trying to overtake her.
In a heartbeat, she grabbed my hand. The little white beetle dangled helplessly between my fingers.
“Put me back,” she growled. “Put me back. Let me fucking love you.”
She wasn’t there. She wasn’t really there, but she was still grabbing my arm; forcing me to lift the beetle back up to my ear. Little hair-thin legs squirming back and forth, trying to get away from my fingertips.
“It just takes a few seconds,” she cried. “Please, just… it’s all I ask. Seconds.”
I couldn’t stop her. She was far stronger than me, in so many ways.
But I spotted something. A chance.
In one swift motion, I grabbed the kitchen knife lying next to the bed. It’d been there for days. With one thrust, I stuck it straight into my arm.
Blood and white grain-sized beetles exploded onto the bedroom carpet. The big white beetle dangling from my fingers landed on the floor, turning pink from the bloodshed.
I looked up at Milla, covered in blood. Her curly hair fighting to keep the volume against the viscous horror.
“I’ll kill you,” she snarled. “If I can’t love you, I’ll fucking kill you.”
But her eyes betrayed her. She was scared.
And I squashed her.
I couldn’t look. I heard bones break. Skin tearing like snapping rubber bands. An involuntary death gargle, as if to get one last word in.
The beetles were furious.
Blood poured out of my cut, and I could feel my entire body itch from stings and bites. I couldn’t see. There was a screeching in my ear. Something moving behind my teeth.
It was a fight to survive, but it wasn’t just a single thing. They were all around me. On me. Inside me. I slashed at them. Clawed, crushed, twisted, and turned.
“Abe!” I screamed. “Abe, please!”
I remember lying on the floor, scraping them from my thigh, but having the knife slip from my bleeding hands over and over. Everything was stained with bloody handprints, and I’d lost all control of my fingers. My body seemed to be fighting itself. Everything looked red, but it was just the blood. I couldn’t tell if it was in my eyes, or just… everywhere.
I remember Abe breaking in the front door, looking down at me, and screaming at the top of his lungs.
I pointed at the knife.
“A-Abe. Help… help me scrape them. Help… help me scrape.”
So yeah, he called the police. The ambulance. Anything with lights.
I remember being covered in plastic and brought to the hospital. Someone shining a light in my eyes, putting pressure on my arm.
“Hold him down!” they yelled. “Hold him the fuck down!”
I blacked out as we rushed past the first set of traffic lights.
They had to amputate two fingers; the index finger and middle finger of my left hand. The nerves were too damaged. Incidentally, these are the fingers I’d most used when playing the violin.
I was put on three different kinds of medication. They shaved all my hair, including my eyebrows, and slathered me in some kind of cream. They had to stitch my arms in six different places.
The place was fumigated. They told me it was a combination of lice and mites, and there was no option but to chemically kill everything. Hell, they fumigated Abe’s place too, just in case it’d spread. Abe didn’t seem to mind.
He gave me a ride back from the hospital once I was back on my feet. He brought me a fresh pair of clothes and helped me get back home. As he held the door open, I was afraid to step back in. I felt so fragile. I imagined myself seeing little beetles in the gravel leading up to the door. Of course, it was all just pebbles, but everything small and white made my skin crawl.
But the place has been clean. Obsessively clean. I’ve kept it as such ever since.
Yes, I’m currently seeing a therapist. A remote specialist, Jane Bogan. Some kind of phobia bigshot.
Fun fact; someone in the cleaning crew stole my Pressenda. It feels like I should say something, but I don’t even know where to begin. I haven’t gotten anyone to admit to the crime yet anyway.
I’ll get past this, somehow. I know I will.
But honestly? Despite it all, I miss Milla; and her curly, mocha-colored hair.