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The door slammed shut with a loud crack that seemed to shake the very walls of the bedroom. An angry shout from downstairs fell on deaf ears, unheard by the running boy.
He abandoned the accursed violin and its bow on his bed, tossing them with little care onto the unmade sheets. He didn’t even want to look at the thing, let alone touch it.
He shut his eyes tightly, sitting on the edge of his bed. He felt his hands clutch tightly to his knees, his knuckles practically white under the stress. He felt his heart pumping in his chest.
Blood boiled in his veins, leaving him feeling light-headed and dizzy. His calloused fingers ached, practically burning with pain.
A thousand questions flitted through his mind as he tried to forget the answers.
How many hours had it been? How long since they began at the crack of dawn, only stopping briefly for meals? How long had his only escape been the ignorant bliss of sleep?
How many days had it been, now? How long since he’d allowed himself to leave the house for anything other than school? How long had it been since he’d been able to talk freely to his friends, not worrying about what she would think, or having to think about the torture he was putting himself through.
It was easier to forget, to pretend it wasn’t happening. It was easier to forget the pain that slowly grew over the hours and hours of non-stop repetition. It was easier to pretend he was okay, that nothing was wrong, and that he was looking forward to the recital.
The worst days were the ones he woke up already sore from yesterday’s practice, maximizing the torture from beginning to end. He had grown to hate weekends because he had no excuse not to practice. It didn’t matter how he felt, or whether or not he wanted to practice, he simply didn’t have a choice. It was as constant as the sun rising.
He wanted to do this. He really did, he desperately wanted to do this, for so many reasons. He wanted to be a part of her perfect design, to play beautifully alongside his sister in a glorious triumph. The desire to show everyone that he could be as talented and as melodic as his perfect sister.
Most of all, though, he wanted to prove that he was worthy of their love. His friends who bought him his violin, they so desperately wanted to hear him play. He couldn’t let them down. He couldn’t bear to fail them, and see their disappointed faces. They deserved better than that.
He had begged his sister for so long to let him play by her side… he had done so much work to get where he was…
Why would he ever want to throw it all away? Over a little pain? Over nothing?
There was a brief urge to cry. It passed quickly, like all of his emotions did now. He let the pain of his neck and fingers consume him again. He deserved it.
It was a Sunday evening, he realized. School had been called off that Friday for some administrative reason, leaving three whole days of weekend open for practice.
And practice they did. Hours after hours of practice. If Mari grew tired of it, she certainly didn’t show it. She played nearly perfectly every time. He was the problem, and he knew it.
She wouldn’t tell him that he was the problem, of course. It was all left unsaid. She was too nice to be blunt like that. But he could tell how much it bothered her. He could tell by the ceaseless wincing, by the short, pained gasps she would make after each of his mistakes. She was a shining virtuoso forced to watch her brilliant melody ruthlessly violated by his mediocrity, over and over again.
Why? Why couldn’t he just be like her? Why did it have to come so hard for him?
He opened his eyes and gazed at the open bedroom window. It was a beautiful day, with clear cloudless skies.
He hadn’t been outside today, he suddenly realized. He hadn’t seen or talked to anyone but Mari since Thursday. Now he didn’t even have her. He abandoned her at the piano in a fit of anger after making another annoying, stupid mistake. His anger had bubbled up after what felt like an eternity of repression, and he lashed out.
He felt ashamed. Mari deserved better than that. He knew was better than that, this was nothing new to him. He was used to suppressing his emotions, smothering them until they withered away into nothing. And yet…
A drop of blood trickled out of the pad of his left index finger, the one that kept pressing the wrong string at the wrong time. He idly watched it pool at the tip of his finger, and drip onto the floor.
He was so lonely now, without his sister or his friends. He hated being alone. He wished so desperately for someone to talk to, or just to comfort him, but he had cast all of them aside. No one was left for him.
Or so he thought.
“Sunny?” a meek voice asked, alien but nostalgic to the boy’s ears.
He looked up, alarmed. Someone he never thought he’d see again sat across from him, on the other bed. An upright body, writhing with peculiar features…
…and dark, purple tentacles. A single white eye greeted his gaze.
A name drew itself from the deepest recesses of the boy’s mind, one that could only belong to the person in front of him:
“…Abbi?” the boy whispered.
“You remembered!” She exclaimed. The boy felt himself suddenly enveloped in a tight hug. It was a little slimy, but it was warm.
It felt… nice. He hadn’t noticed how much he missed being hugged. Mari used to dote on him all the time, but the combination of crushing schoolwork and the dreaded anticipation of the upcoming recital often left her in a sour mood.
“I didn’t think you’d remember me after all these years,” Abbi spoke softly into his ear. She was sitting next to him now, her body practically spooning his in a tight embrace. “You haven’t needed me for so long! I’m so proud of you, Sunny!”
“Of course I remember you… but…” the boy trailed off.
Abbi waited patiently for him to continue, still clinging to his side.
“I… I don’t understand,” he finished, tentatively. “Why are you here?”
“Well, you were just feeling lonely, weren’t you?” Abbi said, teasing. “I’m here to make it all better!”
His vision drooped to the floor, studying its intricacies. It was nice seeing Abbi again, but she couldn’t fix his problems. He still had to pick up the violin, apologize to his sister, and begin another round of agonizing rehearsal. Nothing she could do would change that.
He studied his calloused hands, his finger still dripping with blood.
“Oh!” Abbi cried. “You’re hurt!”
“It’s… it’s nothing.” The boy dismissed. He closed his eyes and listened to his heart beat.
“Here, let me see,” the girl took his hands, running the tip of a dark purple tentacle soothingly over his callouses. “Sunny… are you doing this to yourself?”
“I have to, Abbi,” he replied, trying to tug his hands away. “It’s the only way I’ll ever be any good.”
Abbi gripped his wrists firmly, refusing to let him leave. “Sunny, listen to me.” She made him look her in the eye. “You are, without a doubt, the greatest person I know. You don’t have anything to prove, so please don’t hurt yourself like this!”
“I made a promise,” he said, quietly. “I promised Mari I’d learn to play with her, and I can’t break a promise.”
Abbi shook her head. “I know Mari, and she loves you more than anything. If she only saw how much pain you’re putting yourself through for her…”
“I said it’s fine!” the boy said, forcefully. He pulled his hand free from Abbi’s grip as she recoiled from the volume. She looked at him with a mixture of worry and betrayal.
“Please, Sunny…” she whispered.
He felt a rise of anger well up inside him. He felt his face twist and contort as he rejected Abbi’s comfort. He began to shout:
“I’m not a failure! Mari believes in me, and so do my friends. They’re all counting on me to do well and I won’t let them down. I can’t!”
He stopped. Abbi appeared to be on the verge of tears.
“Sunny… you’re hurt…”
In a flash, the anger was gone, smothered like a candle flame under a glass cup. His expression resumed as its usual cliff-faced form.
“It’s nothing.” He stated plainly.
Abbi began to cry, her voice marred with thinly masked sobs.
“Please… just let me help…”
He stood up from the bed, disengaging himself from the girl completely. He quietly gathered the violin and bow from where they lay strewn.
“I have to practice, now. I shouldn’t have kept Mari waiting this long.”
“Sunny, wait-“
But there was nothing else to say.
“Goodbye, Abbi.”
The door slammed shut a second time.
He felt nothing as he listened to his old friend’s cries through the thick door. He hoped that meant he was making good progress.
As he descended the staircase, violin in hand, he thought about Mari. Specifically, he thought about her piano.
OMORI was the perfect partner for a duet. OMORI didn’t have feelings, but could easily use and evoke them in others. OMORI didn’t make mistakes, but if he did he certainly wouldn’t throw a tantrum and storm off.
OMORI would simply play his part until the ideal result was achieved: perfection.
Reaching the bottom of the staircase, the boy turned to the left and took a deep breath. He no longer felt pain in his fingers, or in his neck, or anything for that matter. All that matters is that he would continue to play his part until perfection was achieved.
Abbi was wrong. In this form, he was of no value to anyone. “Sunny” was nothing but an ungrateful liar who only cared about himself. “Sunny” would never accomplish anything.
No, instead he would become OMORI. OMORI would not be selfish or impulsive. OMORI had complete control over his every movement. OMORI would not make stupid mistakes because he could not make mistakes.
“Sunny” would have to starve and waste away to nothing. There could be nothing else but OMORI.
It was all for them. It was all for her.
And it would be perfect.