They call you up one by one, slowly letting you stew for when your time arrives. They say it's a demonstration, preforming for your peers to see how far you've come since the summer. But everyone knows what it really is: public humiliation.

As if singing in front of a single class isn't enough torture, they have to bring in the tech students as well. We go to their robotics shows, they come to see us crack at that climatic high note.

At least that's how it is for me. Time speeds along as singer after singer stands up to face their doom. They sing, promptly mess up, and sit back down, Mr. Burness in the far back taking notes.

Ben looks over at me, eyes heavy, probably bored out of his mind. His hand runs through his thick hair, closing his eyes for a long moment. Most of the other tech students have already fallen asleep, but Ben seems firm in trying to stay awake. Why? I have no idea.

I glance over at the poster on the wall, closing my eyes and trying to imagine me in the opera singer's stead. Roran Mancini stands glorious in front of the crowd, taking the thunderous applause as confirmation that he is truly the best tenor in history. He brought New York to opera. He changed the whole music world of opera, stirring a great revival to modernize the ancient art of opera. Another picture of him sits behind the girl currently singing, but I know every detail from the frame to the words: The Marriage of Figaro (it's an opera to all those ignorant people out there who either don't know what opera is or don't care).

Sure, the girl's annoyingly frilly T-shirt and obnoxiously long hair blocks him from view, but the picture waits for me, ingrained in my imagination. I don't only have to prove myself to Mr. Burness and everyone else quietly judging me in the classroom, but also to him, watching from above. So one day I can stand where Roran Mancini stood, singing where he sang, wearing what he wore (a glittery suit) with an audience he sang to, and finally take that applause to confirm that I am the best tenor/countertenor in history. I sigh at the thought, knowing I'll probably end up teaching music to a bunch of ignorant children, but I can still dream even though my father says it's stupid.

Everything I do is stupid in my father's eyes...

The girl finally finishes her rendition of a German classic and takes far too long a bow. I stand, the last in line. They give me five minutes to sing a five-minute song. My hands suddenly grow cold as I step up front, giving the little photo of my hero a tap. A good luck tap.

What seems like a million pairs of eyes focus on me, waiting. The pianist at the baby grand looks over through his pretty long lashes and I nod, heart racing as he begins the introduction. My fingers go numb, fidgeting despite my head yelling at them to stop. My lungs contract as I inhale from my abdomen, looking up at the top of the far wall and singing the first note.

Just pretend no one is there, keep breathing, they all think you sound great. Those who don't are already asleep.

No one will remember this after about twenty minutes.

My attempts to reassure myself fail. Because what if they don't think I sound great? What if all those who fell asleep wake up because they hear my atrocious singing? They say that people always remember the beginning and the end of concerts. I'm at the end. This is the end. They're all going to run to their next class after this and tell all their friends how freak Ivanov fucked up his preliminary cross-class performance (which is just a fancy way of saying they jump out at you the second month of school, invite a bunch of bored techies, and make you sing for them as if you had something prepared, which you don't).

It already sounds terrible at this point, despite starting out alright. My runs had several out of tune notes and I forgot to breathe in one section and crocked at a sustained phrase. I might as well just stop and leave. Overall, my lungs have held up and my hands haven't fidgeted too badly. I've done okay. Passable even. Not nearly close to Roran Mancini's ground-breaking standards. Compared to that I'm the gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

How stupid am I to think so highly of something right before the end?

Everyone in the room hasn't said a word. Not a single sound. Yet, in the far background, I can hear someone screaming. Her piercing wail rings through my ears alone. No one else is damned to listen to her cries, damned the image of her lifeless body every time they walk past her door.

Damned to forever wonder why she would leave me.

Tears have already started falling down my cheeks as I reach the cadenza (pretty much the actual end after people thought it ended two minutes ago). Now they'll think I'm a freak that breaks into tears when singing French.

A flicker of movement catches my eye and I see Ben jerk backwards. His narrow eyes widen as he stares at something to my left...

There's nothing there but the pianist, whose deep eyes lift up to meet mine, his lips enclosed in a sexy three-day-beard forming a tiny smile. Oh, a tiny smile. A kind of smile that is supposed to go unnoticed but to one person. I would smile back but my mouth has to segue into the final notes about the composer's undying love for some woman even though she has since past on. The death of love.

My gaze travels back to Ben who's still staring at... Well something. But there's nothing that could make someone like Ben startled. Ben is usually an unmovable mountain of emotionless animatronics. So why does he look as if he just saw a ghost?

Her renewed scream makes me jump, causing my voice to crack on the last word, translating to "gone." Because she's gone. She left the composer on his own. He has to sing about her for eternity, cursed with sadness for the rest of his life until he too, passes on into the next world from grief.

My hands, which have spread out on their own like in the Roran Mancini poster, fall to my sides as the lyrics hit my brain. Hit my chest. Hit my lungs.

I stand there unable to move, shaking, her shrieks consuming the entire room. How can they not hear it? Why must it haunt me and only me?

"Why are you crying?" some kid calls out from the back, snickering.

The bell rings as she says this and I shut down. My lungs squeeze my throat. My heart drums in my ears in a pattern that says only one thing. Run. Run as fast as I can.

And I do.

Charging out of the room, already consumed by keels of laughter, I dash away. I don't know where I'll go but my feet seem to have a mind of their own.

I hear Ben call after me but keep running, wondering if I'll ever stop. Wonder if my lungs can supply enough air to keep me going. Wonder if I'll ever feel safe. If my chest will ever stop burning. And if I'll ever stop hearing her scream.

I charge outside and into the empty courtyard. I find myself squeezed between a fence and the bricks of the school. The wire fence sags against the building it's supposedly protecting, only giving me a few feet of space. Still, I keep going, pushing past the brambles growing through the cracks.

A little square of solitude reveals itself as I truck forward. Tucked between two sections of the school, the dank and musty space is the perfect place to hide. The sun hangs above me as I dig myself into the shadowed corner. People have obviously found this place before me, with the discarded condom and food wrappers laying on the hard ground. But those times seem long in the past. Those who once sat here have abandoned this space. I give the wall a little pat, "Just me and you," I sigh, "alone."

If I close my eyes, I can hear students practicing far above me. Those little practice rooms must surround this place; the ones with no windows and a way too large piano for a way too small a space. So many unheard songs have wafted through the still air over the years, making it magical somehow. Stupid, I know, but right now I need a little magic corner to call my own.

On the other side of the dilapidated fence is a wall. A wall that guards nothing and houses no one. Yellowish in color, the old bricks almost look like someone poured a bunch of mustard on it and left it to marinate. The wall seems almost protective, hiding me from the loud street just a few yards away.

Pulling my legs up to my chest, I bury my face in my knees, barely peeking out to watch the mustard wall; a bird hops from the top all the way to the bottom, and I swear it looks at me, straight into my core.

I try to listen for a voice but don't hear it, even the sounds of traffic have dimmed. Instead, silence has consumed the place, other than the distant music and my rapid breathing, growing faster and faster. I'm  alone. No one can yell at me here. No one can say I'm not good enough. No one can ruin my silence.

Except me.

All too soon, a patch of clouds covers the sun, sending darkness over my solitude. The voices start ringing through my head, whispering and snarling like prowling wolves. Over them all I can hear the piercing scream. A scream that shatters any silence this place has built up. The sound comes from far away but I can never escape it.

I close my eyes, tightening my hold on myself. I might be alone, but I can never hide from myself. Because my life is a constant reminder of all that I've lost. No matter how fast I run, I'm always there, like a pack of rabid wolves, to tear myself apart:

My panic grows and I squeeze my knees, begging my breathing to slow down. Just take a deep breath and calm down!

Then footsteps ring through my tormented silence. The ethereal screaming evaporates at the pounding of shoes against hard earth. Is it Ben? Could he be coming to save me?

Griffin turns around the corner, blinking in surprise when he sees me. "Wow, I didn't expect to actually find you back here."

I deflate with disappointment. Still, I try to look pleased to see him and plaster a smile on my face. "You were looking for me?"

A plastered smile is one of the least real smiles that one can have. It usually happens when you are in the exact opposite of a smiling mood; when everything is so wrong you can't possibly smile, that when someone shows up and you have to smile, you have to glue it on there.

I tug at a piece of my hair, but it doesn't help ease the daggers in my throat, constricting my lungs. I tug harder when Griffin sits next to me, hand sliding down my thigh as if it belongs there. "Yeah, Fulton told me where you were."

"Did he?"

"Said you ran out of class for some reason and because I'm your most dutiful boyfriend, I came searching for you."

His lips brush my neck, hand sliding lower. "B-boyfriend?"

"Mmhm," he kisses my neck harder, "that's what we are right? Unless you don't want to..."

"No, I do?" why did that sound like a question?

I press my head against his shoulder, his body half on mine. His green T-shirt consumes my vision, the mustard wall disappearing as he kisses my neck, fingers finding my inseam. My stomach begins to boil, lungs struggling to keep up as his other hand wonders down my shirt and under it. I know he can feel the cuts, the scars, but he doesn't say anything as he works his way down my neck and to my collar.

"Please stop," I whisper, croaking like a frog.

Griffin pulls back, the musty enclosure of wall appearing once more. In a blink of an eye, he lifts me off from the ground. My knees buckle but he shoves me into the wall before I can topple, kissing me deeply. I try to pull back, but he has me trapped. Eventually I give in and kiss back, hands flying to his shoulders.

"You still want me to stop?" he says dangerously, mouth against mine.

"Nn...no."

Come on Ivanov, use your words.

My stomach rebels against me as Griffin's hand slides up my stomach and to my chest. My whole body screams to run again but I stand my ground. All I have to do is let him have his way, stop running from every little thing. Griffin wouldn't be here if he didn't care. Stop hiding all the time and put yourself out there. You have to face yourself eventually. Stop telling yourself to breathe and do it.

My mental pep talk works and I wrap my arms around him, deepening our kiss. Our kiss. Not just him. I should be enjoying this. Head falling back as Griffin begins kissing my neck again, I stare up at the sky, wincing at the light. Or maybe it's his mouth against my collar bone or his hand rubbing my chest. My stomach turns into boiling water, burning my throat. I start to struggle despite myself.

Griffin growls, pushing me harder against the wall. Bricks dig into my back, sending little tendrils through my shoulder and spine. No escape. I can't move. "Such a good little slut for me."

Something snaps at that word. That ugly word. Slut. Or whore or faggot. Faggot sounds like maggot, like a greasy little worm that everyone hates and squishes underneath their shoe. I don't want to be scum stuck to the bottom of Griffin's shoe, getting dragged along wherever he goes.

Without thinking, my arms act, pushing Griffin off of me. For a moment before my knees give out, the world seems still, Griffin frozen from shock.

Then, as my ass hits the ground, he recovers. "What was that for?"

"I just needed a minute," I try to smile at him, an obviously fake smile, but a smile all the same.

It doesn't appease him. He squats down and looks into my eyes with a hawklike gaze. "A minute. A minute? What about me? You don't just need a get to do that!"

"Do what? Not want to have sex?"

What the hell?

He puts a hand on my chest, and I watch as his fingers run down my chest and to my jeans. He looks back at me, frowning. "You want to be with me?"

"Yes," I say miserably.

"Then you don't get to just 'have a minute,' trust me baby, this will make you feel so much better. I don't just pick my boyfriends off the street."

There's that word again. The ugly word. Boyfriend. For some reason it sends shivers down my spine as Griffin cups my face with his hand, pressing his lips to mine. I pull back after a few moments, trying for a smile. It turns into a weak one, and Griffin can see it.

He frowns at me and I just smile wider, which probably makes me look insane. Maybe I am a bit insane. At least a little crazy. He sits down next to me, lacing his fingers with mine. My chest tightens at the sight, but I give his hand a squeeze anyway, resting my head on his shoulder. If I close my eyes I can feel the darkness of that night, a breeze blowing through the thin fabric of my shirt. A bench rests underneath me, not the cold hard ground. And Ben is there. I have my head on his shoulder as he tells me that it's all okay, that everything is okay.

But reality calls me as Griffin opens his mouth again. Ben, the chilly evening, the bench, they all disappear with his next words. "You're mine now," he kisses my cheek, peppering my face down to my lips.

Only his words sound almost vicious, like a death sentence. I don't have a choice now, he claimed me. Maybe it will make the stabbing in my chest disappear if I follow along. I tug on a piece of my hair and kiss him for a brief moment. "Yours."

I only cause as much pain to myself as I feel.

Tugging at my hair a little harder, I stand up and look up at the mustard wall.

Maybe Griffin will lift a little bit off my shoulders.

He wraps an arm around me as I walk through the gnarled path of dirt and brambles. The moment his skin touches mine, I don't feel the need to pull at my hair anymore.