them were bolded words that set Vincent's heart racing and turned his steps nearly into a stagger. I. Know. What. You. Lost. Vincent. He'd have dismissed them, but one was from a classmate who had no way to know.
He thought he'd just misheard his mother. He'd managed to convince himself that Dr. Thomas hadn't said the same thing. Until that horrifying message inside the messages. Now he thought he might be going crazy. Wasn't that one of those clinical symptoms: seeing patterns where none really existed?
Vincent heard the sound of a distant violin and his heart spasmed in his chest. The player was good, but not as good as he'd been. And never would be again. The sprightly music danced toward him from somewhere ahead. He knew he couldn't face the player, or even listen to the song anymore.
Vincent changed direction abruptly. A Sikh skipped backward, startling a woman in a long dress carrying a tiny puffball of an eye-searing pink. Which was apparently alive, as it set up a raucous yapping when she gasped. The street-goers swirled for a moment from the chaos of Vincent's motion, and a man in a rumpled suit cursed at him when Vincent stepped on his toes. Then he was into the street.
Playing dodge-em in rush hour traffic on the downtown streets didn't take much more than quick reflexes. He'd gotten lucky in his timing, and the closest light was still red as he slipped between the stationary vehicles. The biggest danger was the city's normal mob of taxis, but even they did no more than honk as he ran past.
Vincent skipped up onto the sidewalk on the far side, and lost himself in the press of humanity for long enough to get out of even the possibility of earshot of the unseen violinist. Several blocks later, when he slipped to the edge of the sidewalk near a streetlamp to pause for breath, he realized he'd somehow gotten all the way to Carnegie Hall.
Which was strange, as he'd have sworn he wasn't anywhere near it when he got off the subway at 23rd Street. He looked around, hunching his shoulders. He felt odd. Not just the unending agony in his soul that came from a shattered identity. He felt physically strange.
"I know what you've lost, Vincent."
The rough voice behind him made Vincent leap nearly out of his skin. He turned slightly to see a cab driver staring out of his taxi. Vincent's blood ran cold as the words registered. The cabbie stared at him with dead, black eyes that reminded Vincent of a shark he'd seen at the aquarium.
Vincent stood rooted to the spot, staring back at the driver - an otherwise unprepossessing man in worn clothing - mind blank with horror. A distant part of him saw the passenger in the back of the cab pounding on the plexiglass divider with one hand, while the vehicles behind the taxi set up a furious clamor.
"Why'd you run from your mother, Vincent?" The cabbie's face, lined from age and care stretched into an unnaturally wide grin that set Vincent's stomach to roiling. "And Dr. Thomas, who only wants to help you, Vincent. Why?"
A wave of despair and terror shrank Vincent's skin on his bones. He ached to run from the horrible thing in front of him, but he couldn't move. His muscled had seemingly turned to wax and wouldn't respond.
"I want to help you, too, Vincent."
The cabbie's face twitched, the horrid rictus-smile sliding off his pouchy features. His eyes blinked rapidly, and in a moment between blinks, changed from soulless pits into the eyes of a irritable, old man. One who took in Vincent, his angry fare and the even angrier drivers behind him and made an easy choice of targets.
"What're you staring at, punk?" The man's Brooklyn accent - along with the proffered middle digit - went ill at odds with the rest of the short exchange, doing nothing to ease Vincent's fear and growing paranoia. The cabbie finally responded to the press of traffic and sped off, and only then did Vincent's muscles unknot. He staggered back into crowd moving down the sidewalk, drawing irritated looks from
He thought he'd just misheard his mother. He'd managed to convince himself that Dr. Thomas hadn't said the same thing. Until that horrifying message inside the messages. Now he thought he might be going crazy. Wasn't that one of those clinical symptoms: seeing patterns where none really existed?
Vincent heard the sound of a distant violin and his heart spasmed in his chest. The player was good, but not as good as he'd been. And never would be again. The sprightly music danced toward him from somewhere ahead. He knew he couldn't face the player, or even listen to the song anymore.
Vincent changed direction abruptly. A Sikh skipped backward, startling a woman in a long dress carrying a tiny puffball of an eye-searing pink. Which was apparently alive, as it set up a raucous yapping when she gasped. The street-goers swirled for a moment from the chaos of Vincent's motion, and a man in a rumpled suit cursed at him when Vincent stepped on his toes. Then he was into the street.
Playing dodge-em in rush hour traffic on the downtown streets didn't take much more than quick reflexes. He'd gotten lucky in his timing, and the closest light was still red as he slipped between the stationary vehicles. The biggest danger was the city's normal mob of taxis, but even they did no more than honk as he ran past.
Vincent skipped up onto the sidewalk on the far side, and lost himself in the press of humanity for long enough to get out of even the possibility of earshot of the unseen violinist. Several blocks later, when he slipped to the edge of the sidewalk near a streetlamp to pause for breath, he realized he'd somehow gotten all the way to Carnegie Hall.
Which was strange, as he'd have sworn he wasn't anywhere near it when he got off the subway at 23rd Street. He looked around, hunching his shoulders. He felt odd. Not just the unending agony in his soul that came from a shattered identity. He felt physically strange.
"I know what you've lost, Vincent."
The rough voice behind him made Vincent leap nearly out of his skin. He turned slightly to see a cab driver staring out of his taxi. Vincent's blood ran cold as the words registered. The cabbie stared at him with dead, black eyes that reminded Vincent of a shark he'd seen at the aquarium.
Vincent stood rooted to the spot, staring back at the driver - an otherwise unprepossessing man in worn clothing - mind blank with horror. A distant part of him saw the passenger in the back of the cab pounding on the plexiglass divider with one hand, while the vehicles behind the taxi set up a furious clamor.
"Why'd you run from your mother, Vincent?" The cabbie's face, lined from age and care stretched into an unnaturally wide grin that set Vincent's stomach to roiling. "And Dr. Thomas, who only wants to help you, Vincent. Why?"
A wave of despair and terror shrank Vincent's skin on his bones. He ached to run from the horrible thing in front of him, but he couldn't move. His muscled had seemingly turned to wax and wouldn't respond.
"I want to help you, too, Vincent."
The cabbie's face twitched, the horrid rictus-smile sliding off his pouchy features. His eyes blinked rapidly, and in a moment between blinks, changed from soulless pits into the eyes of a irritable, old man. One who took in Vincent, his angry fare and the even angrier drivers behind him and made an easy choice of targets.
"What're you staring at, punk?" The man's Brooklyn accent - along with the proffered middle digit - went ill at odds with the rest of the short exchange, doing nothing to ease Vincent's fear and growing paranoia. The cabbie finally responded to the press of traffic and sped off, and only then did Vincent's muscles unknot. He staggered back into crowd moving down the sidewalk, drawing irritated looks from
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