story fuck it

	The boy had played it since his father passed away. A tuba, the only memento he had. He cherished it more than anything else, and anyone who knew him might say that it felt the same way. Filled with youth and dedication, his first notes were flawless. Almost as if he were blessed in exchange for his father, he met with great success through music. And with a tuba, who knew? With every passing recital, concert, appearance, he breathed life into the audience. They came back for more and more, and he would give more and more. But who’s to say it wasn’t too much? With each blow he was giving away his life. He had never really known his father; the tuba was his first, last, and only connection to him. “This is who he was. He loved playing. He loved me,” was the force carrying him to each performance. He ignored the stress, the anxieties, and regrets, as long as he could play. He could only run for so long, these thoughts would resound in his head, night after night. A ladle scooping out his soul, his memento shackled him to this life. He played, and played, and played, and played. He couldn’t stop, not because of contracts or sponsorships, but because he signed one of the soul so long ago. His notes drowned out the sounds. On his deathbed, he could not breathe, and it all came crashing down. Fatigue, hatred, self-loathing, despair, loneliness, emptiness, an escape… These were the things that plagued him when he passed away.
But who’s to say he wasn’t dead from the start?