Spines

E flat. D. C Minor. G.

Practicing piano is a hassle. Between chores, studying, and getting enough sleep, it can be hard to fit an entire hour of practice in my day. When the time comes, I inwardly groan and complain. The hour drags on, and on. Five minutes. Ten minutes. At first, it seems like the hour will never end.

C Minor. G. A flat. F Minor.

However, once I get into it, the rest of the hour goes by twice as fast. I cannot lie, on some level I enjoy it, especially with how relaxing it can be. As I play the keys on the piano, my mind dissolves into the task. I don't worry about my school studies. Nor do I think about my non-existent social life. Not even the secret Nintendo 3DS I keep under my mattress, the one I turn to when my studies have me frustrated and that my parents can never know about, brings me any anxiety. Just an empty mind, moving fingers, and the tune of Beethoven's Fifth filling the room.

F. G Minor. C minor. G7.

Another hour of practice complete. I play the last few notes, and finish, leaving the tick-tock of a grandfather clock as the only noise in the room. I gather the sheet music, align it into a stack to return it to its place, as I always do. I've finished just in time, dinner is served. We eat, my parents once again tell me they are proud of my progress, I return to my room, change into pajamas, and hide under the cover with Pokemon at the ready. An hour of secret gaming later, and my day is complete. I drift to sleep to the piano's melody, still playing in my mind.

C minor. B flat. E flat. Dissonance.

I knew something was wrong immediately when I woke up. The skin along my back felt immensely itchy. I ran my fingers along it, and could feel the bump of every vertebrae on my fingers. Very unusual. Had I been losing weight? It had probably been as such for a while, and perhaps I developed a rash in response to something. There was no other possibility, no other reason why one's spine would be so pronounced. Ockham's Razor dictated it must be so, and I had faith in a rational existence. I made a note to eat more at dinner, and began my day as I always do. I eat a healthy breakfast, grab the school supplies I leave by the door for myself, and it's off to school I go.

Being the youngest in one's class can be hard. I've given up forming camaraderie with my peers. In the past I asked about what they've done on homework assignments, but they respond as if doing so was a chore. I've tried conversing on their terms, but their banter, for as inane as it can be, is so hard to follow and find a place in. So, I sit in silence. The day passes. I write notes. I eat lunch, and sit with a book. Jurassic Park takes so many liberties with science, but I ignore the inaccuracies in favor of the thrill.

School ends. I return home. I study. The sequence of events that make up my school day remains in a consistent order. Then, of course, comes playing piano. For as much as I remember how relaxing playing piano can be, my lizard brain reacts in dread and complaint once again.

Pause. B flat. E flat. B flat. E flat.

I feel it is important to have such an obligation, one that must not be broken no matter what, even if there are no consequences for doing so. A daily ritual becomes a keystone of your life, an anchor point to plan around. So I play piano. Would a different ritual serve me just as well? If I one day bought a tank of sea monkeys, and made a point to feed them daily, would that task have the same calming effect? Or cause the same sense of satisfaction? I make another mental note to myself, that it was worth a try.

C7. F minor. E flat 7. A flat.

I finish again. I eat my supper. I return to my room and prepare for bed, before betraying those intentions in favor of Pokemon. My Quilava reaches level 68. I drift off to sleep, and have a strange dream. I am a Pokemon Trainer with six sea monkeys. My opponent has a single, scientifically inaccurate dinosaur. My team is defeated with ease, and as my dreamself blacks out, I wake up. My back is still itchy. My day begins. School. Study. Piano. Supper. Pokemon. Sleep. Wake. Check Back. School. Study. Piano. Supper. Pokemon. Sleep. Wake. Check Back. School. Study. Piano. Supper. Pokemon. Sleep.

F. E flat minor. B. F7.

Saturday begins. The weekend always throws a wrench in my rhythm. While I would not trade the reduced expectations for anything, I always fear growing complacent, lest my Monday be too difficult to bear. This weekend would be no different, it seems. I perform my new daily ritual of running my fingers down my back, and a dreadful thought occurs to me. Was it getting more pronounced? I had no way of knowing, I hadn't thought to keep any sort of journal to track my progress. I suppose now would be as good as time as any.

My parents trusted me to do well at school, and despite skipping a grade I remained at the top of my class. With that trust, a modicum of freedom was earned for use on weekends. To be able to choose not to change out of pajamas, to eat waffles for breakfast, and spend the day without even touching a textbook, the exhilaration was worth any price! I even bought a sea monkey starter kit on amazon, completely on impulse! Of course, there was one responsibility I would never waver on.

B flat. E flat. D. C minor.

The day was getting late and I was still in pajamas. It almost felt scandalous, and playing the piano did little to dissuade me of that notion. It was odd, I could not seem to achieve the same flow I normally find when I practice. My mind wasn't into it today, it seemed. Perhaps my hours of playing Pokemon late into the night was catching up to me... but I realized, it wasn't that. My back was far too itchy, it was distracting!

G. G minor. C minor. Silence.

I stopped, mid-song, to reach my hand down and scratch my back. Instead of relieving an itch, I only felt dampness inside. Sweat? It wasn't that hot... Slowly, I removed my hand, and saw blood. I was struck by severe dizziness. My heart raced, and the corners of my vision blurred. I abandoned the piano, and rushed to the bathroom. Was I dying? No. I had to calm down. The blood must be an injury, and all else are signs of panic. I lifted my pajama off, to assess my back, and to my horror, there indeed was a trickle of blood running down from my neck, all the way down my spine to the base. My hands trembled, but I managed to open the drawer and find a cloth to wipe it away. Soon, the blood was gone, but what was left was even more worrisome. Where previously there was a trickle, numerous visible lumps trailed down my back, and in the center of each lump, a small brown dot. I rubbed it with my hand, and found each dot hard as rock with just the slightest pointed tip.

I slid down the bathroom wall until I was seated. I lifted my knees and wrapped my arms around them, then closed my eyes. In my head, I began to play the piano score once more, but they did not come in order. The haphazard mental melody did little to calm me down, so I remained for some time. Slowly, and after much deliberation, I stood up once again to assess my situation. For as unusual as my newfound condition was, there was something more important to deal with first.

I hid the signs of my breakdown. I brushed my hair, cleaned and adjusted my glasses, and wiped the counter clean. Continuing my day as normal was essential to prevent future conflict with my parents. Thankfully, they were both out for a while, so they did not need to know I hadn't finished my hour of practice. With that thought, I was shaken. This would be the first day I missed piano practice in a very long time.

Eventually, they did return. Dinner was served, I ate a hearty portion, and the day concluded. For once, I did not touch my 3DS. Tomorrow was Sunday, and I vowed that I would not lose my footing going forward. Once again, I dreamed of chords in orderly progression.

A flat. G. A flat. F minor.

I woke the next day. The spots on my back were every slightly longer. Just a small, pointed tip, not unlike a sharpened pencil. Today, Sunday, I studied. I read my textbook. I studied flash cards. I took notes. I focused as hard as I could on my studies. I managed to last nearly a whole day, right up until my piano practice.

I hadn't even started. I threw my sheet music to the floor.

A nagging thought broke through... The journal I was supposed to begin, to keep track of my condition: I hadn't started it! It was unlike me to drop a mental note. I gritted my teeth... this was too important! Why would I forget? Every muscle in my body was tensed in anger, and I drove my hand onto the keys of the keyboard, a cacophony of dissonant notes.

I stormed off to my room and threw myself onto my bed. Holding my breath, I threw fist after fist into my mattress until I tired out, my breathing ragged. I barely had a moment, certainly not enough to collect my thoughts, before I heard the footsteps of concerned parents. I couldn't let them see me like this, but I had no response. I simply froze.

My bedroom door opened, and I let myself fall onto my back, and simply cried.

They weren't here to console me, but to confront me on my "irrational overreactions." I simply lay there, and let them talk at me. The stern voices of my mom and my dad alternated, but none of their words reached me. Eventually their tone changed for the lighter. My mom told me to get some rest for school tomorrow, and to be ready for it, before giving me a kiss on my cheek.

After they left, I rolled over onto my side; my new spines were digging into my bed. Numb and exhausted, I realized where my problem was... For as much as I thought about my condition, I was in denial over it. I was allowing the condition to exist, but to do anything about it was to make it real. There was no way I would have seen a doctor over it, and the idea that I would document it was laughable. People simply do not grow spines from their back, and to believe otherwise would be to spit in the face of logic and reasoning.

And yet, I had the proof right in front of me... or behind me, rather. I had to accept these spines. Embrace them, even. To understand the condition is unnecessary. I simply had to react to this new burden, and adapt to it, and then I could regain my rhythm. So long, Ockham's Razor. Good riddance, biology. Hello, Michael Crichton, and your lackadaisical portrayal of dinosaur biology.

I slept through a dreamless night, and woke to an overwhelming feeling of calm. With no hesitation, I reached over, and grabbed a notepad from my desk. I wrote the dates of the previous week, and a sentence for each, up until today. I went to the bathroom, and checked my back. "No blood. Spines are approx. 1 cm each. Still itchy, but less so. However, there is now a small, concerning lump at the base of my spine "

Holding the notepad, I paused for a deep breath. I felt ready, whether my spines would remain the length they are, or if I would one day transform into a porcupine. Anything can happen. Perhaps that small, concerning lump would transform into a tail? It didn't matter. At this point, I was hardly sure what did.

The sound of my parents waking up snapped me out of temporary nihilism. The consequences I experience when I let my rhythm be broken were known to me. If my grades slip, or my piano playing ceases, or worst of all, they learn of my mutation... any freedom I have would surely be lost. I would have to continue through the motions, one way or another.

Time to take it from the top.

E flat. D. C Minor. G.